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[raisindave]

[Chapter 74] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: Mentions of drug abuse & addiction.

The main knots came undone easily enough, they weren’t very well done to begin with. Once loosened you left him to his own devices. He’s a big boy, he can fucking figure it out– he probably learned how to untie himself from a chair it in that stupid SAS Handbook of his. You gave him grace to shrug out of your not-so-handiwork while you made your way back to the bare pillow that was so deliciously cool against your cheek. For a second you swore you heard him scoff, and from the anonymity of the pillow you smiled a girlish grin. He should know you well enough by now that you won’t be charitable to him just because he’s convenient, though he never seems to mind your cruelty.  

After about a minute of enjoying the stiff, slightly uneven mattress, you glanced to see his progress just in time for him to set himself at the foot of the bed. His weight heartily dragged down the shoddy bedframe, but he turned to lay on his back near your feet. Like the good little soldier he is, he was methodically recoiling his survival rope you’d hijacked. Dark tattoos on pale skin stood out against the white sheets that covered his lower half. A sense of embarrassment washed over you, now acutely aware of the context you’d found yourself sitting in. Around an hour ago, you’d been a hysterical weeping mess in the shower, now facing sobering clarity.

“Sorry for... All that earlier. It’s just-” the logic behind your meltdown, or lack thereof, slipped from your mind as it rapidly shifted gears. “I used to love my birthdays, but now they’re getting harder every year.” 

He let you continue, clearly listening but not turning his gaze from the coiling rope. Your voice echoed off the cracked wallpaper, but the following silence let you hear distant helicopters and barking dogs. It was eerily tranquil, even if you were still technically on an active mission involving violent terrorists—the perfect setting for spilling your soul. 

“It’s not even about my age, well, that’s part of it… it’s mostly just that every passing year is another year I’ve outlived my big sister,” you found yourself picking at your cuticles as a consequence of the self-induced anxiety. “I feel bad for feeling bad, like I’m not supposed to be unhappy or unsatisfied because I get to be alive right now. I don’t feel alive, though.”

“I know that feeling better than I’d like to admit,” sighed deeply, bordering on a yawn.  

“What was your big brother like?”

Are you allowed to ask that? Is that top secret, or will you be interrogated for knowing something like that? You already have Ghost’s first and last name and where he likely grew up, given his accent. Is that already too much? Time and time again, he indulges in your curiosities when he has no reason to humour you. 

“He was a fucking wreck,” he propped himself up on his elbow, lounging like a fresco of Adam. 

“More of a wreck than you?” you gestured to his skull mask. 

“Different kind of wreck,” he scoffed, but still couldn’t seem to raise his eyes. “He was into drugs bad. I’d deploy, and he’s fine. When I’d get back, he’s right back into the same habits. It'd be all I'd think about when I was away, how long he'd last before my mom would start to worry about 'im again. We had a pretty steady cycle for a while there.”

It was your turn to let him in silence, daring him to continue. Bait he didn’t seem to bite. 

“What was your sister like?” his voice came out like a grumble. 

“She was the opposite of me in nearly every way,” you met his eyes finally. “She hated the outdoors, hated learning anything new, and was always boy crazy.” 

“Are you sure she’s the opposite of you?”

You furrowed your gaze into a glare just in time for him to shake his head and continue weaving the black cord back into a tidy column. It seems that you both have ways of keeping your hands occupied while you think, an odd nervous habit you both have in common. 

“My dad would take us hiking to get away from our mom. She hated the woods and couldn’t go ten minutes in the snow without whining to go inside again. I only ever remember bickering with her over books or toys or clothes or boys. Just typical sister stuff,” a smile danced on your lips at the nostalgia. “I don’t know if it’d be more or less painful if we had a shit relationship.” 

“It hurts just the same.” 

“You’re probably right,” you lamented weakly. “But I think it’s our responsibility to live the life that they never got to have.”

There’s that sadness again. Not as hopeless and isolated, but still a heavy stone in your gut that crushes your appetite and swallows your joy. It’s more annoying than anything, like you’re supposed to be fine right now. Fed, socially sated, rested and with a successful workday behind you. So what’s this empty feeling in your chest?

“I just- I want to see the sunrise from my bedroom window,” your voice started to creak, tightening with another onslaught of emotions. “I want to sit in scented baths until my skin gets raw. I want to get stuck in traffic and wake up whenever I feel like it. I want to tend to a sprawling garden so fat chickadees can get drunk off the berries.”

Tears formed in your eyes again, blurring floral yellow wallpaper into a haze of muddy colours. A life of excitement and danger left you craving the simple things. The mundane, the predictable. So much action has left you void of a personality, of your wit and wonder that you once had. It’s not even fair to say ‘you’ll always crave what you don’t have’ because you’d never really liked this nomadic lifestyle with this task force to begin with. Exciting as it might be, it’s not what you signed up for. Every mission takes a chunk out of your soul, sapping you of your willpower.

“I miss worrying about shoddy phone chargers and running out of laundry detergent,” a weak laugh erupting from your throat shook loose tears free to stream down your cheeks. “I just want to feel normal and safe, somewhere I can explore my career without worrying about being in an enemy sniper's line of sight. I miss having something that looks at me like it loves me, depends on me. Even if it’s a fucking goldfish.”

Before you could make any sense of the movements, he was crawling on top of you. Time skipped and his hot mouth collided with yours, drawing you into a searing kiss. It felt like two galaxies colliding, your body heat hotter than ever, mixing and swirling as you desperately pulled one another closer. Hiccuping sobs and lapping tongues left you suddenly falling out of breath, too stubborn to relent despite your searing lungs. You just couldn’t get enough of one another’s skin, like every inch of yours needed to be wrapped up in his. Tears that streamed down your cheeks faded into obscurity. There wasn’t even a second of hesitation in lifting his mask either, a death sentence that could see you turned to stone like Medusa for all you know. Even if your eyelids fluttered open, you could only glimpse the side of his pale jaw, before he would hungrily lay claim to your attention. Meanwhile your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his mask. Soft short hair from where he’d lifted the mask, sliding your fingertips across his scalp. 

His hand cradled the back of your head, almost begging you not to go, and you clung to him like a branch in a windstorm. For all the bitter jabs and cold stares, he’s always felt safe. Not like you don’t feel safe around Soap or Gaz, but this is somehow a different kind of safe. A different kind of comfort from that which comes from a brotherly pep talk and a punch to the shoulder. He pries sinister thoughts from your mind with ease and stands patient vigil, no matter what jabs and insults you hurl his way. He feels like someone you wished you’d met years ago. The logic of why this was wrong was lost on you. Those rules said something along the lines of no kissing, but why? It didn’t click. There were other rules, but they too had been overwritten by carnal desire. How can something that feels so right be wrong—it’s a crime against nature. Hands that were once harsh and uncaring were gentle and warm, a sensation that had been entirely forgotten from decades of deprivation. 

“We shouldn’t,” you gasp, fluttering neurons straining to recall your rules. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled into your mouth, pulling your lips back against his. 

Being told to shut up never sounded so sweet. A sudden advent of heart-racing movement and crashing kisses left your searing lungs heaving for oxygen. Your head kicked back to gasp for fresh air, yet his kisses only trailed down your neck, pecking and sucking at sensitive skin. The sensation of his mouth on you sent goosebumps across your skin. A different kind of munition fuelled this encounter, something more than lust. When breath finally returned, you invited him from where he was kissing your collarbone to meet you again. For a second, you caught a glimpse of pink lips and hazy brown eyes before he was on you; butterflies fluttered in your stomach. 

In the heat of the exchange, it was only natural for him to reach to angle his stiffened self to your entrance, your bodies yearned for one another in a way that’s only akin to starvation and fresh bounty. Even the bedframe groaned from the strain. His palm slides to yours, and your fingers intertwine, slick heat between your palms creating a welding bond that binds you to him. This time was different from any other. You put your whole body into every motion, bucking and grinding your hips into his and meeting yearning resistance. 

It took your whole body weight to plant your knee beside him, lifting to sit astride him without daring to part from tasting his lips. Gravity urged you closer where his hands weren’t, though that wasn’t much. You could cup his face in your hands as he lay below you, trapped under your spell with his heaving chest, lifting you off the bed with every breath. Part of you was so terribly tempted to rip the mask off entirely, suddenly questioning its existence entirely. His chest is so warm, his hands leave sparks on your skin as they trail down your spine, across your shoulders, caressing your rump. The soft warmth could make you sob, your captured Nemean lion that you couldn't dare let out of your sight. Every passing millisecond you were over him like this felt like a gift of power that emboldened your spirit, resting on his chest feeling ragged breaths and every one of his muscles shift to touch you more.

Your dominance was short-lived, he wasn’t playing around. He quickly pivoted back over you and planted his palms on either upturned wrist, wrapping your legs around him to anchor him near. It was worth a shot. You both tend to fight for control, thirsty for power but seemingly delighting in giving it up. He, however, tends to have a more commanding presence. He’ll let you have your fun so long as he’s still in control; you’d be a fool to think your shoddy knots could actually bind him to that chair. Splintering that chair and fraying thick cords would be as easy to him as swatting a wasp off fruit. The thought spurred you to bite down on his tongue, only lightly, but enough to ignite a soft laugh from his chest. Even the corners of his lips bent into a smile against yours, dragging you closer with a calloused palm on your spine. 

“You unman me, Lua,” he choked out in a bassy grumble. 

That made your eyelids flutter and stomach churn, now more alight than ever. Only you could have this control over him, only you make him shudder and whimper and groan and howl. And he makes you feel so alive. So safe and paradoxically dangerous in a sick and twisted cocktail that swirls in your soul. He’s always had a grip on you, no matter how much you might try to bury it. Rules slip into obscurity, finding yourself drunk on body heat and the scent of his skin. 

“Come on, Daddy,” the words poured from your throat. They surprised you yet felt so natural. 

Part of you cringed at the use of that word, something you’d seen in one of those $2 erotic novels in thrift stores. There was always this part of you that worried that you’d never hold up to his dangerous lifestyle or any of the other sexual encounters he mentioned, facing some sort of impostor syndrome. But his reaction was only comparable to explosive. Every motion, more intense, heavier breaths gasping at your breath, his grapple over you constricted, even his fingernails dug into the sides of your neck. It’s like you’d struck a nerve. Or the jackpot. He parted your kiss briefly, only to glance down to align himself with your entrance. More butterflies, another glimpse of pink lips through your hazy eyes, slick and parted. 

“Say that again,” he panted.

Fingernails you’d gnawed down to the nub from stress rake uselessly at his shoulder blades like a declawed cat. You couldn’t help but yelp when he pushed himself into you, and his hovering lips only hesitated to connect with yours to listen to your mewling. Something in you felt like this was something more than sex. 

“Please, Daddy,“ your voice squeaked under the strain. “I want you, Simon.”

Where you were at first skeptical of his response, that word has had such a profound impact on him, like you’d just unlatched some spring-loaded desire that he’d withheld for decades. You could feel him in your chest as his thrusts grew more intense, rattling your insides. Better yet, you could even hear the sweet sounds of your sloppy coupling over your shared gasps. It’s like for a second he forgot about his mask, seemingly drunk on lust, lucky that your eyes rolled up when his passion grew. Where you’d come to expect brash and often harsh sex, this felt so much more gentle and forgiving. Part of you was wistful of that brutality, finding it exciting, but a more prominent part of your psyche was uniquely parched of this kind of affection. Together, you made a knot of limbs and fingertips, two lovers intertwined in a void between space and time found to be precisely located within a shitty German motel. 

“You’re mine, only mine… mine… mine,” he trailed off as if in a trance. “Hmm? ” He hummed, requesting your agreement to the proposition. 

“Yes- yes, sir,” the voice in your throat came out like a whimper. 

Your lips connected again, only briefly, weakly linked as the majority of your brain’s computing power went into grinding into his pace. He let out a deeply held sigh, more dishevelled than you’d ever seen him before. It lit your soul alight. You could never get tired of the feeling of his cock within you. So warm and hard and necessary, the other puzzle piece that fits into yours. The rhythm was a slow and searing thing, a steady tempo at which he stoked the growing fire within you. Your back arched to take more of him; he couldn’t seem to stop himself from biting the side of your neck, marks be damned. 

There were moments where the primary goal wasn’t to find sexual gratification from each other’s body; it’d become more about finding emotional security in the entanglement with another living, breathing person. Sometimes the slowing pace reflected that, even when your chest burned just as hot. He smells like chocolate icing and the sweet pistachio lotion you’d swept over his skin. It’s a marvel that you could orgasm again, crying out his name as he took you hard. You knew these athletes had superhuman cardio capabilities, but you’d assumed it wouldn’t apply to this context. His warm palm slid over your cheek as he spilled himself within you, groaning into your mouth as he flinched, rigid and potent motions demanding control over you for a few brilliant moments where the stars aligned. He’d become your lifeline, your lighthouse that commands you back to shore when you’re lost at sea. 

Relaxed muscles lay heavy and warm, emanating a lingering ember of heat from your chest that mingled with his body heat. Spent and weary, he didn’t retract, neither did you. An overused sex drive left your muscles flinching, fingers twitching as they intertwined with his. After gasping kisses eventually graduated to tender pecks, he fell to rest beside you, but you were still unwilling to release your grip on him. Your temple rested on his collarbone just in time for you to catch his mask being pulled below his chin. His heart still held a steady rhythm in his broad chest, surprisingly slow and calm. That’s not fair. Sheets dragged over exposed skin made you shudder at the tender act, finding tranquillity in broad arms holding you fast at his side. Everything felt so in tune, the same tempo, same melody. Two different instruments, often battered and bruised, make a beautiful song when you’re together. Time slipped by like warm honey, you wouldn’t be surprised if you fell asleep against his shoulder. So this is what it feels like to be held. 

In an instant, he shot up from his position; it would’ve made you flinch if you weren’t so relaxed. Your eyes strained against the light, having been closed in sleepy bliss. He was a blur of movement and fabric, before you could even blink you heard that familiar sound of his buckle. The best you could do was lay placid in the sheets as your lifeline receded, blankly following him flick the door’s lock open with a click just in time for him to swipe that cracked phone into his pocket. 

The door didn’t slam, there was no stomping. He had too much emotional control for that. But it didn’t mean you couldn’t see a look of bitter spite and, of all things, panic in his eyes. He was gone. Not a word or anything of the sort. A kind of coldness you’d come to know all too well. It’s expected, really. This is the path you’ve created for yourself. You have to walk it. He was gone so quickly that the only proof of the entire encounter being real was that stupid yellow gift box he’d left, a birthday present that felt more bitter than bittersweet. 

You’d made the mistake of fixating on an unavailable man. And look where it’s got you. It’s not even worth dwelling on what you’d done wrong because you’re already well aware. It’s obvious. The ground rules you’d established were set up for a reason, rules that you’d broken. When you strained to find that dinky flip phone in your pack, you found that you'd hemorrhaged valuable body heat trapped within the sheets, now painfully alone and chilled. Apparently Laswell had you on some flight in the early morning— a text that interrupted your blank stare at the ceiling summoned you to the tarmac in a few short hours. Off to the races once again.

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Master List

[raisindave]

Hi! I really love your fic ❤️ could you put a link to your Ao3 in your description or like a pinned post? No worries if not. Thank you!

Hey! Absolutely! The title of my master list is actually a link to my Ao3 fic, but I think you’re right. It’s kinda hard to spot if you don’t specifically notice the underline. I’ll add a part that says “Link Here” instead! Thanks for the feedback ❤️❤️❤️

[raisindave]

[Chapter 73] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

This is just an entire chapter of unhinged, depraved smut, idk what to tell you. Come get y’all juice I guess. Enjoy <3

There's something so exciting about pushing someone's buttons. It's no fun when it's someone who doesn't want to be fucked with; it's also no fun when there's no reaction. But Ghost always has a reaction. You just have to push the right buttons. He might play stoic at first, feign ambivalence like he always does, or flex his authority if you happen to forget his exalted rank. There's something so exciting about tipping water droplets onto the surface of an overfilled glass of water, testing how far you can push the surface tension. And push things you have. What's he gonna do, tell Price that you were mean to him with a quivering lower lip? 

You weren't expecting him to withdraw entirely, but he lifted himself from over you leaving you shockingly empty and cold both metaphorically and literally. Maybe it wasn't wise to spit in his face when he has your arms tied in a way that you definitely wouldn't be able to free yourself from if he happened to up and leave. Fuck. What's scarier is that he doesn't even look mad, just dark. Like his chin is tilted slightly downward and the whites of his eyes glint just above his waterline. The thought of apologizing never necessarily crossed your mind, but it did for a moment as his hand flashed toward you, harshly swiping the pillow from under your head and making you flump back into the mattress. 

In your daze, you didn't even connect what he was doing with his neatly folded clothes until he pried free a grey rectangle from the pocket of his jeans, wiry headphones dangling in tow. He almost instinctively measured the chords against his forearm like he does for all other ropes, an act that even made him blink in confusion; what you wouldn't do to know what was going on in his head right now. His phone, headphones, and a pillowcase he shucked from the pillow you'd been robbed of. At least you got a glimpse of a heavily cracked screen- a well-loved piece of technology, to put it lightly. Cleanliness and durability don't always go hand in hand. An odd glimpse into his personal life makes you wonder whose numbers he might have saved in there. While he was occupied by tapping away at his small, bulky personal cell, you thought to clear the unsteady silence. 

"Listen, it's not that serio-"

"Shut the fuck up," he barked. 

A chill ripped through your body; that's his this is serious tone. You held strong to your belief, owning what you'd done rather than submit like he's expecting. If he has the gall to step into your field of view again, you'll happily grace him with another spatter of saliva across his face. Fuck, his arms look so good. He stepped forward again, seemingly satisfied with whatever he was up to, an utterly unreadable expression in his eyes. 

There was a tenderness to how he placed the sheet over your eyes, and it all clicked into place. He made the pillowcase into a blindfold, tying it carefully behind your head in a thick knot. For some reason you could feel air flashing past your face. Seconds later, it connected with you that he was probably drawing punches to see if you could see past the blindfold. You couldn't, and now you'd lost access to two of your major faculties, your arms and eyes. For a second, you could hear him let out a low chuckle, and a sudden wash of eager anticipation crashed into your system. Your wrists writhed under your spine. He still wasn't touching you. Even worse, you've been stripped of the privilege of gawking at his form. The more time passed, the more you craved his touch, any touch in this void you're now floating in, and he finally caved. Of all the places on your body you were anticipating his hands, your ears were the last. Carefully, he was tucking your hair behind your ear to clear the way to place those earbuds in either of your ears. As much as you might baffle him with your so-called unprofessional attitude, he too baffles you with these wily schemes he gets up to. 

Just as you were about to say something snarky, the sound of deafening noise came through the flimsy speakers, startling you enough to make you flinch. It took you a second to recognize the noise as blasting metal music, and suddenly his hands were all over you. Pinching taut skin and ropes over your chest, cool air flooded over your tongue as you gasped. To say his touch was ravenous would be an understatement. Much-needed contact on your skin that made you crazy, and the feeling of his teeth over your collarbone made it worse. Teeth? He's taken his mask off, or pulled it up at least. An excuse to bite and nip at your skin while you're particularly susceptible, stripped of sight and sound, expertly crafted torture. He slipped himself back within your folds without any effort, another gasp torn from your throat that you couldn't hear past the squealing guitar and thundering drums. 

You did it to yourself, really. It's probably pretty not the best idea to piss him off when he has you in a state like this. Though, maybe that's the best part of it. Inciting his wrath to be taken out by fucking your brains out. That sounds like a win-win, except you are winning both times. His trusts weren't kind, even if they felt like a gift. They left your body shaking after every push against your cervix. Out of nowhere, his two fingers hook under your lower teeth, prying your jaw open. You do as you're bade, only because you have no other option. His other hand closing around your throat made you flinch at the additional unexpected touch. If you could hear what he was up to it would make all the difference, but unfortunately every action came as a shock to you. Heat grew over your face, more than what's already there. What came next was once again confusing at first, but it was a sensation you were all too familiar with. He'd spat in your mouth he pried open, spattering his own hot saliva over your tongue, returning your insubordination. All while he continued to punish you with his pace, fuck, the friction he created was divine. Worse yet, his hand tightened around your throat, disavowing you from swallowing the act. This was an act he'd done on your last birthday, an act that set your blood on fire all the same. Hopefully this won't end like that night did. 

He really is cruel to no end. You could only hear him whenever the music would pause between songs; once the screaming guitars and vocals withdrew, his rhythmic panting and gasps made your heart flutter, just as another crashing drum riff returns to command control over your senses again. All these sensations and lack thereof were all too much. The elevation to your senses from the denial of others made heat quickly grow in your core, and his palm finally withdrew from your throat, permitting you to swallow his spit. Once again, those fingers hooked under your teeth, and for a moment you rejected the second lashing of punishment, but he persisted. After considering biting down on his fingertips, he pried your mouth open again, and that free hand returned to the side of your head with an unanticipated air of clemency. It seems your expectations might never match reality because you swore you could feel his nose touch your cheek for an instant. Something hard touched your teeth, and you instinctively recoiled. Hot breath swept over your damp lips. Breath? Reluctantly, you opened your mouth fully, and shuddered as he placed some small item in your mouth from his own. A million thoughts and more surged through your neurons, and the taste of blackberries swept over your tongue. A candy? He'd placed a hard candy in your mouth, one of those German fruit-shaped sweets Laswell gifted you with the candle. It tasted so sweet, so sweet from his mouth; it felt like lightning had struck your body and left your skin electrified. 

That familiar tense energy between your thighs built, and his mouth closed around the side of your neck as you came undone around him. The sensation was slow to fade, leaving you twitching and trembling as he continued. For a few beats, he carried on, only to withdraw entirely. Spatters of hot seed spilled over your stomach, not nearly as hot as candle wax, and you could only imagine the look on his face right now. You were so used to him spilling himself within you that the thought of him withdrawing almost came as a shock, but it's no matter. You crunched the hard candy you'd lapped at with your tongue, a satisfying crack across your molars and smiled at the sweet candy. 

Heat had been sapped from your body, and the energy receded, he seemed to have stepped away. Blasting metal music continued, allowing you to catch on to what must be lyrics once your attention was free. Just as you started to grasp the actual rhythm of the tune, a hot fibrous cloth on your belly made you flinch as he swiped away his sin. A few more seconds of oblivion, and he lifted the blindfold, so too removing the headphones from your ears. The world spun for a short while, brighter than ever before. Blinding light from the lamp at your side made your pupils strain to catch up to the world around you. Your ears were ringing, and his mask had been pulled back over his face, he was neatly wrapping the headphone wires around his cell phone. It hadn't even occurred to you how out of breath you were until the music wasn't blaring in your ears anymore. 

He looked more exhausted than you'd ever seen him, a thin sheen of sweat over broad shoulders that challenged your unwinding hormones. He, too, was gathering his breath, but after another pause he rose to hook an arm under your spine. Your eyelids were heavy, but he was unravelling the ropes that bound your arms behind your back, suddenly acutely aware of the strain they'd left along your shoulders. That tenderness had faded, and he roughly twisted and tugged at loose chords, one by one unravelling his masterwork. Finally, your arms were free. He sat himself at the edge of the bed, and the discarded sheets felt more heavenly than before once you wrapped them around yourself. Warm, sated, with the taste of sweet blackberries lingering on your tongue. You even spotted the torn candy bag beside you on the table, assorted candies splayed over the wood. The relief you'd felt from the orgasm that ravaged your entire system let you easily consider this one of your top-ten birthdays of all time. Even if it's otherwise miserable. At least a minute was spent in blissful silence, catching up on your breath and peace before a series of sinister thoughts clicked into place. Your voice finally caught up, and you put your pieces on the board. 

"Are you satisfied now?" you croaked. 

"Quite."

"Well, I'm not," you sighed, rolling on your side. 

"No? You sounded pretty satisfied," he boasted in that gravelly accent you knew all too well. 

For a beat the thought occurred to you that his spit and the candy might have been an attempt to silence you, that these thin walls might invite some privy voyeurs. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe that's part of his psyop, and he wants you to be doubting yourself right now. There's this thought that's lingered in your conscience since you had a taste of it with your first encounter with him. It's both within grasp and entirely out of reach, a pipe dream that you'll have finess from him. This man won't comply of his own volition. You can't overpower him physically, that one time you did was a fluke. 

"If you want to make this birthday extra special, I was think-"

"Not happening," he grumbled. 

"You don't even know what I was gonna say," you raised your head from your now bare pillow in outrage. 

"I know what you want," he shifted to face you from the end of the bed. "You're not tying me up."

"Why not?" you pout. 

"Security."

"Security? What, you don't trust me?"

"Don't trust anybody," he shrugged, "life's easier that way."

"How righteous of you," you scoff. "How about this, if you let me do this, I'll give you one I-Owe-You. And If I-"

"Deal."

"That was fast," you shook your head in confusion. 

"The mask stays on," he held steadfast, making sure you caught the gravity in his tone. 

"Deal."

He probably thinks he can easily break free of whatever scheme you have in mind for him. He's probably right. But that doesn't mean you don't have a few tricks up your sleeve to keep him compliant. There's no reason this can't also be beneficial for him. Your knots might not be as pretty and neat as his, but they'll get the job done. It's your turn to turn the tables, but you won't forget the kindness he offered you while you were under his control. And you won't forget his brutality either. 

You stood uneasily at first, but the pads of your feet eventually landed on the grainy carpet. Even your shoulders ache, and your ears are still ringing. He eyed you cautiously as you rose, even more cautiously as you gathered his clothing from the wooden chair in the corner and tossed it to the floor. That one looked like it stung, and his eyes lingered on his jeans and shirt, now splayed on the ground. You also made sure to grab the black survival rope he'd neatly ravelled into a tidy loop, cocking your head to the side as he, too, watched you with skepticism. He seemed more bold and challenging than you were, though. The tables have turned. With the chair within reach, you repositioned it to sit at the foot of the bed, right next to him. 

"Sit," you order sweetly. 

"Am I going to regret this?" 

"It's likely."

He rose from his position and for a snapshot in time you stood face to face. All this time, you'd encountered him from the context of you being on your back or something of the sort, but he lazily met your stance. Even standing at your tallest, you couldn't even clear his shoulder, and his bare skin in your peripheral made your heart skip at the size of him. You swallowed hard. For a moment, it looked like he recognized your internal struggle, satisfied by his evident effect on your heart rate. Brown eyes met yours, and you swore his pupils dilated. He leaned forward and it made your stomach lurch, but instead he sat down in the creaky wooden chair, tilting his head back to easily meet your eyes. 

"Don't break the chair now," you manifested your sweetest voice as you aligned his wrists to align with the chair's wooden arms. 

"Why should I care about an old chair at a run-down motel?" 

"It's a charge on Laswell's credit card that will require an explanation." 

"Chairs break all the time," he watched your hands move with a smug expression. "Just say you sat on it and it fell apart."

"You think I want to take responsibility for your mistake?" you frowned sadistically, drawing a black rope around his wrist. 

He doesn't really have a choice to argue back since you're already tightening the cord that secures his wrists to the chair, haphazardly looping twice, thrice around his wrist to make sure it's extra tight. If you're honest with yourself, you're not entirely clear on what you're doing, but basic logic suggests you fasten his wrists and forearms and loop around the back of the chair to secure the other side. Unfortunately there isn't enough rope to secure every limb, but you'll have to settle with this with your limited resources. It's becoming clear that it'd be a miracle if you can secure him at all with how quickly this rope is being used. 

Around his back, and now it's time to secure his tattooed arm. Swirling inky imagery of skulls and weapons, how sinister. No match to your gruff ties along the curves of his bicep. His muscles are so warm under your fingertips. Focus, he's watching you actively stoke his ego, his chest even flexed as he laughed at your lingering eyes. Asshole. Both arms were secure, held fast by black ropes hard as iron, looped half a dozen times each over his arms to ensure he wouldn't break free without at least some breakage. A new heat in your core sparked. He looked heavenly, even if he didn't have the same shock he did that first time. Not to worry though, you have a plan. 

There's a certain arrogance in his look, like he thinks you can't outdo his previous act. While that was one for the history books, you have every intention to test the ego in his level gaze. 

At first you felt a twang of guilt at the thought of defacing the chocolate birthday cake your comrades had supposedly been up at the crack of dawn for, but at the same time, it's not their business how you want to consume it. Still, you couldn't help but cringe as you swipe your fingers across the delicate icing, scooping exquisite chocolate frosting on your two fingers. Without a moment of hesitation you transferred the treat onto his molten skin; heat from tight muscles radiating under your tongue as you lapped up the sugar. You'd always had a sweet tooth. He cocked his head to the side as he watched you glide your tongue over his shoulder, his pectoral, even haphazardly spreading a palm of the sticky treat across his abs. At least you avoided the gauze, an obstacle you were considerate enough to steer clear of. Your enjoyment of this birthday treat was made extra sweat by the rippling surface, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off you. Sitting back upright, you spared a glance to consider his expression, still arrogant and brash. It made your breath hitch, stepping further to rest your shins on either side of his thighs, straddling his lap. 

"How's this for too sweet?" you purr, slipping the decadent fingers under his mask, despite some resistance, and past his lips. 

He should consider himself lucky that you're loyal enough to respect his wishes, not lifting the mask above what's necessary to slip your fingers into his mouth, concealing his jaw with your palm. His tongue was warm over your fingers. Once he detected that you wouldn't betray his trust, he leaned in, lapping at your fingers with sultry eyelids, a foreign sensation that felt so unbelievably erotic around your fingertips. But he, too, wasn't so quick to forgive. He bit down on your fingers hard. Pain shot through your fingers and up your arm and your jaw tightened in agony. It seems you're each taking turns trading blows, and soon you won't even know who made the first slight. 

You'll return the courtesy if he wants to toy with the unexpected. If he wants to bite down on your fingers in protest, coy as he might think he is, you won't tolerate the insult. Shifting your posture to rest on one shin, and lifted your other leg while his gaze remained transfixed on yours. Candlewax would have a negligible effect on someone like him, so you'd have to up the ante. You had the wisdom to withdraw your fingers from his mouth before you slammed your knee into his groin, sending an explosion of anguish to wrack his body. 

He gulps in a gasp, holds shakily, and lets out a low, creaky whine. There's something so thrilling about it, though, so invigorating. You'd never thought of yourself as a sadist, but something about how he whimpers and groans when you hurt him like this makes you feel alive. More alive than ever. You'd seen needles get drawn through his skin just hours ago, gauze on his stomach that only slightly softens your heart, but only you can rip this reaction from his lips. Transfixed, you can't take your eyes off how his Adam's apple flexes on the column of his pale throat as he whines. For some reason, the thought occurred of hovering your mouth over his as a distraction. Through the cloth, you can feel the void of his open mouth, gasping hot air as you can only imagine the level of pain he's in right now. Your lips only technically making contact with his through the cloth of his mask, you breathed with him as he heaved for air. It feels so good. You'd never heard him groan or show any signs of distress until now, even if by a normal man's standards he's still remarkably tame. 

Your glory gained a twang of pity as he gasped. You barely saw eyebrows knit together in agony as he strained to tilt his head back. Gentle fingers caressed the side of his face, along the cloth on his jaw, around the skull-shaped plate across his nose. No reaction other than agony, except for when you softly took his cock in your palm. For a moment, his eyelids fluttered in recognition, but he only sucked air between his teeth and flexed his shoulders. Still in agony, you felt an odd twinge of pity for betraying him, even if it was all in the name of particularly sadistic sex. It still lit a fire in your core, and your own ache became clear as his muscles buckled against your restraints, you lifted yourself to straddle his lap again. Without even thinking, you did it again. Slamming your knee into his sensitive balls, he doubled over despite his arms being securely fastened. Not even for any particular reason, just call that one preemptive.  

Another cry tore from his throat, gruff and low. The pain threatened to make him go soft, but you still sat down gently on his cock with a sigh, taking him within you once again. He winced, and gulped, and his fleeting gaze finally focused to meet yours. His shoulders were tense when you wrapped your forearms around his neck as you had to wrangle this mechanical bull. The entire encounter started to feel like a song, slow and rhythmic, as you worked electric muscles to sow pleasure back into his body. He slowly gave in, letting his head fall back again and exposing his neck. And his neck tasted delicious along your tongue, even if he didn't have chocolate frosting along his skin that made it extra sweet. His agony was delicious, it just made you want to ride him harder. His voice was creaking in his throat, whining words like 'oh fuck’ and 'shit,' music to your ears as you took him deeper within you. 

You found yourself grinding down into his orgasm as your own found your system in turn. He poured himself into you, straining and bucking against you to dig himself further. For a brief instance, you were connected, no matter how briefly, thanks in part to what some might call guilt. It's definitely something he won't forget, and it's easy fodder for dialogue if he ever wants to get petty in the future. 

You furthered your makeshift apology by palming a circular container of sweet-smelling lotion, pistachio and salted caramel, and swiped it over his broad chest. Something you'd picked up in Italy at one of those boutiques before the gala. You eventually lifted yourself from his lap, watching his eyes as you took your fingers to re-administer his dripping succour back within you. If anything, he looked like he blushed at the action, a reaction that you’d never expect from the likes of him. Carefully and tenderly, you worked the balm over his skin; his breath finally started to steady after a few minutes of your kindness. It's only fair. You did just technically brutalize him with cruel torture that even Narcos debt-collectors might not consider. Not that you have any guilt, though. He smelled so sweet, sweeter than the usual musk and grime and sweat and gunpowder. He was even such a good boy when you loosened your dodgy ropework around his wrists. 

"Are you satisfied now?" you repeated your question from earlier.

"Fuck you," he groaned weakly.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 72] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Ghost

Simon’s perspective; mirrors the previous chapter.

No setting is unequipped so long as you know where to look. Whether you’re finding yourself in a desert or tundra or dropped in the middle of a frigid ocean. Most bathrooms in these dodgy motels don't bother carting around cleaning supplies; it's easier to clean at the staff's wavering discretion. As luck would have it, the cabinet with ramshackle hinges houses a small patch of rusty steel wool. This will do. Luck also favoured the battery being in the alarm altogether. Using a lens as a firestarter would take far too long. She'd pack up and leave by the time you can fulfill your plot. Lua sat patiently enough, physically, that is, but she's never been good at concealing her true feelings behind those expressive eyes. 

"You remember our word, right?" you ask loud enough that she has no choice but to answer, carefully clearing rust from the steely pad. 

Her humming vocalization grants you the go-ahead to resume. You should command her to use her words and that hums aren't appropriate confirmations. She doesn't look like she's in a state to receive more corrective reprimands. The extent of whatever's got her so upset is beyond you, and there's no Italian bloke you can wring the truth from. Gaz and Price are so far oblivious to your tussles with Lua. That much you can say with certainty. Johnny, on the other hand, you're not too sure. He's always had a way of reading you; it's annoying. She's not exactly subtle, though, gawking at you slackjawed for days after you fuck her brains out. You'd think someone with that level of intelligence would have the mental wherewithal to recognize her lack of discretion. 

When connected with the live end of a battery, steel wool completes the circuit through conductive metal; the fragility of the wiry fibres makes them spark into an ember, an easy chemical fire. 9-volt batteries, easily sourced in most smoke detectors and stove lights, having a two-terminal array on one side is necessary or the wool won't spark. The fire is weak but fast-moving, leaving you precious seconds to transfer the infant flame to the wick. It crackles to life with a pause, and the embering metal is easily smothered with your thumb. Raised eyebrows say she's amazed, but her eyes are still haunted. 

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Her voice cracked when she spoke. 

"SAS Handbook," you grumble, setting the candle aside to focus on more pressing matters. 

Soy wax has a lower melting point, it won't leave any lingering pain beyond what's required. She's lucky Laswell didn't gift her paraffin wax, as that would've changed things. You'd never have expected that you'd use your quick-deploy paracord rope like this, but it'd been sitting idle on your keychain for years. With only seven feet of chord, you'd have to calculate the necessary rope to fasten her, a skill you'd been taught when tying skiffs and lean-to's in your training. It's a shame to unravel the paracord, it'll take hours to re-bind it. But now it's time to reposition your tango. Her ankle flinches when you grip it, but you still yank her into the center of the boxspring canvas. 

Her eyes lit up when you climbed over her, planting your knees beside her hips to better control your work, it almost made you laugh. Not yet, little Cricket. So eager. Right now, you'll need to create a stem that will connect the loop on her lower chest to the pairing one across her collarbone. Performing a figure eight knot backwards and blind is not something you'd done in this specific setting before, but it'll make a good anchor along her shoulder blades. It's hard to focus when you can feel her eyes lusting at the base of your mask. 

A half hitch on the stem and another half hitch bring the ropes back through the loop. This will make the hardpoint to fasten her wrists to. Now again, to the front, crossing a V through the two loops makes an anchor in the middle pull her breasts together just right; it's a true test of your self-control not to tear off your mask and hear what sounds she'll make when you bite those eager nipples. The effort is rewarded when you pull the figure-eight weave taut, and the soft, plump skin is utterly addictive. 

"This isn't revenge for that lil ol' thing in the bunker, right?" she squeaked, poorly shielding her apprehension.

"What thing is that?" you turn the question back to her, a scare tactic you'd used on countless warmongers. 

A taut-line hitch around her wrists will keel those grabbing hands out of reach, one of the first knots Lofty teaches. The knot is reliable and allows for flexible lengths, and it is easily tightened if a certain sergeant continues writhing. She's grinding that pretty pussy against your groin as if you won't notice. She's a fly in your web now. It's starting to make more sense in your mind why so many people enjoy this kind of thing so much, colleagues bantering about getting kinky with their wives in the workroom when they assume you aren't in earshot. She's entirely surrendered herself to your whims, and this power is fantastic, you can't help but feel pretty chuffed. 

"That time I had you on your back, lieutenant, begging for me to touch you," her words snapped you from your trance like a splash of cold water. "Don't you remember that time you were a snivelling, grovelling mess, apologizing so I might let you come?"

"Don't give me any new ideas," you smirk, sucking your teeth in thought. 

"It's not a new idea if you're stealing it outright." 

"You want a gag?" you hiss, considering the image of your fingers silencing her words. 

"But how will you hear me apologize then, lieutenant?"

She doesn't know that the way she says your rank always makes you harder than ever before, even when she thinks it's a jab. It seems she's not entirely surrendered like you'd expected. It doesn't matter. She can think she's won this petty squabble, but the truth is you let her win. You'll permit her this victory only because you've already choreographed the brutal punishments you want to inflict on her. The idea that it could mean not being able to hear her safe word was also a sobering thought. That, and that the songs she sings are just too sweet. All enough to strip the sentiment from your mind entirely.  

"You seem like you've done this stuff before," she said, stealing your attention from your work again. 

That didn't require an answer. Letting her simmer with the possibilities she's proposed is more fun. The root of your scare tactics revolves around the target creating their imaginary mythos about how horrifying you must be when you wear this executioner's hood. It's worked exceptionally well. But you weren't always violent during sex, if anything you were the opposite. You don't really do play fighting. You do scrimmage or actual combat—little else. Learning to be gentle and playful in a combat situation feels like using your left hand; familiar movements but not the same certainty. Lua seems to have pinned you as some sort of expert rigger, and maybe she'll believe your masque of certainty. The knots are known, and her breath quickens when you touch her soft skin to draw them tight. 

"Take off your clothes," she commanded, it made you grin. 

"You should've thought about trying to give me orders before you got tied up like a smoked ham."

"You weren't fucking the smoked hams when you were a butcher, were you?" she mused sweetly. 

Funny. There she is again, catching you by surprise with serrated banter. A sharp tongue that challenges your own where few people have matched this level of raillery. Johnny comes close, but he's not bitter like she is. It takes a high level of intelligence to be that witty, a trait more attractive than squealing giggles or batting eyelashes. That won't earn her the upper hand, and pinching one of those eager nipples between your fingers makes her writhe in the way you were hoping she would. 

"You're deflecting," she tried to look like she wasn't enjoying your manipulation. "What's the matter? Bashful?" 

"No." 

She's grossly mischaracterized you if she thinks you're some precious meek thing, that you'll cry and shudder if she saw your body under your equipment. Your shirt lifted over your back easily, cool air breathing across your bare shoulders. While wearing heavy clothing can offer protection in more ways than one, you'd never been described as shy by anyone who knew you. The thought of security gave you pause. You'd bet your life she didn't lock the door. If she'd locked the door as you requested, you'd go easier on her, but reignited agitation at her lack of vigilance permitted you to give her your worst. You made sure she'd hear the click of the deadbolt, she always folds when you glare at her. Hopefully, she'll commit this act to memory. The way she's panting like a dog says that she's mentally preoccupied, it's hard not to let it stoke your ego. 

Lua couldn't take her eyes off your chest for the longest time, but she managed to pry them away when she heard the clasp of your belt. That sound is evolving into a Pavlovian response to her. It could be fun to tease her or blindfold her here and now and deprive her of the pleasure. But it feels cruel to turn to punishment this early on. Leaning down wouldn't be good husbandry for a fresh injury, you'd have to lean rather than bend. That's a lesson you'd learned the hard way before. You folded your jeans, it'd be a shame to get them dirty on this dubiously stained carpet and set them aside in the chair's safety. Grinning under your mask, she followed your thumbs as they dragged your briefs below your thighs with unblinking eyes. 

By now, every other woman you've brought to bed would've asked about your scars. 'What's this one? ' 'What's that one? ' the questions become an expected tax on your psyche as soon as you undress, a predictable conversation that takes away from time you'd soon spend alone. It's a consequence of your long-lived lifestyle. Lua doesn't ask about them, though her eyes still hungrily explore your body nonetheless, but that's typical. A quick shag for convenience is great for morale, but this is more time than you've ever spent with a single person. Sometimes when you're off tour you'd find someone at a bar, but those encounters have become more and more rare through the years. At the thought of it, the last time you remembered bedding another woman was half a decade ago. Partners aren't conducive to a lifestyle where you're on the road for months at a time, not to mention the looming threat of death.

"What a good little soldier," her voice stings your heart. 

"You sound nervous," you challenge her knowingly. 

She sings so sweetly when you enter her, it inspires an unsettling instinct of aggression within you. At how vulnerable she's made herself. Like when you see a duckling or baby; something makes you want to crush her under your weight. Instead, you pull the ropes tighter, creating a deep strain that presses the swell of her breasts higher above her heaving chest. You couldn't help your wandering hands that slither over her skin, searching for what they've already found. Her lips hang open, glistening with saliva as she gasps when you thrust into her. The thought of smothering her craning mouth with yours makes sweat gather along your spine, you're already pushing your boundaries enough as is. Self-control, Simon. It would be inappropriate. What's the point? It's already inappropriate. You can't. You'd have to blindfold her if you did. But you can't, it's prohibited. You'd already intimidated her into obeying the established rules just moments ago. 

Removing your mask entirely flickered in your psyche as a possibility. Lua's position being outside of 141 makes it a complication, though. Her affiliation with the task force isn't like Las Almas, where showing your face was a necessary show of trust during a particularly dubious operation. Not only is she an impermanent foreign IA unit, but she's also alarmingly oblivious to the dangers around her. Lua’s genius in her craft comes at with the consequence of not seeing threats that are otherwise obvious to honed eyes. If she got captured, which is more likely than she realizes, having seen your face could make it possible to describe it if she's under enough manufactured stress. Farah was right to warn you; she'll never be aware of the danger she's exposed to until it's too late. She'd stop to fawn over a yellow scorpion, delighted by its lovely tail, heedless to its heart-stopping venom. You owe it to Farah to steer her from harm she'd be blind to, even if that harm is herself lately. You've taken on that responsibility because that's what you've always learned to do. Take on every burden, regardless of the cost. It’s a worthy trade for someone who takes you so well, groaning so sweetly when you punish her with your cock.

In the haze of lust, those thoughts return. Times like this make you vulnerable to slithering fantasies you'd learned to bury. Thoughts of a swollen belly, of fatherhood, of a family and domestic bliss. It's all so possible, a pipe dream that need not be. It's a terrible idea on all fronts, yet the deeply rooted cravings pry at your wit. Her eyes staring at yours whisper that she wants it, she wants to bear that burden. You try to swallow, but your throat is dry, and a twang of panic snakes through your sinews. You creep. These thoughts can't continue. Full stop. Composure. Your hand found the candle as you found yourself quickly approaching your orgasm sooner than anticipated. Finally, enough heat had created a pool under the wick. Dribbling candle wax spatters on her chest and the way her mouth warps as she cries out makes you crazy. More, more. Enough to wrench those thoughts from your mind with brute force, melting away your sin. Please do it again.  

"F-fuck you," she stammered when you were particularly cruel. 

Moments like this make you wonder if she's connecting with the irony of the situation right now. At least you're not prying an apology from her for things she scarcely even remembers, emasculating her with her own equipment. Though it's not strictly true to say there's no ulterior motive. You just have to keep drowning these creeping fantasies at all costs. Daydreams that keep you awake through restless nights. There's just something so darling to your conscience that it's been your beacon in the darkest times, imaging a hand-whittled wooden spoons degraded to an angle over years of labouring over homemade meals. A tool that's been there for ages, stable. Reliable and worn. Honed and loved. An odd mental image that keeps a spark in your cold chest that keeps a fire in your will to live. Another drop of hot wax along her belly makes you shudder, how pathetic. 

"You've always been an asshole, y'know that?" Another attempt to chastise you as if you're not immune to cheap beratement. 

That can't go unanswered. You leaned in closer, lowering to hover over her. The act tightened your abdomen, reminding you of fresh stitches, but the feeling of her clenching around you made it worth it. Pushing her to her limits came with the consequence of testing your control over her own body. Harsh staccato movements of your thumb across her clitoris seemed to bring forward the most intense reaction, only for you to withdraw it without warning. 

"Unoriginal son of a bitch," Lua made her opinion known. 

She can talk all she wants. She feels so fucking good. You have to get a hold of yourself. Her breast feels so warm and soft in your palm that you had to drown creeping excitement with bitter memories to stop yourself from succumbing. However, she can't keep up with your pace, and you now have the power to decide her fate. She gets this look on her face when she's close, unbeknownst to her, signalling you to relax your pace. The sheen of sweat over her wrought body made pinched skin shimmer, glowing in the light of the candle. 

"That's no way to talk about my mother," you whisper against her neck. She smells so good. 

"Fuck you," her voice was sharp but still smooth like silk. 

"I should make you apologize for that." 

Insolent, but a captivating challenge. During your time as a sergeant, you'd also held a certain skepticism toward your insipid commanders. It must be so freeing to be able to tell your superior to go fuck themselves, even if in private. She brings a certain unity to this team, you'd fiercely challenge any administrator or senior officer who considered changing her position. Especially if it comes to the bonus of keeping her in a position like this. Every time you're around her, you say more in ten minutes than you have in over twenty years. It's becoming harder and harder to admit that-... she recoils, gathering her lips to spit at your face above hers. Warm saliva spattering across your eyes, your mind works fast to find a process of reciprocation. Conflicting emotions and pouring outrage propose a dozen disciplinary actions to take. One in particular clicks into place in your mind. She has no idea what she's just done.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 71] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Cricket

Lua’s perspective; mirrors the following chapter.

What you wouldn't do to see what's going on in that mind of his. The keychain made sense, and the usage of survival rope in this context is easy to understand. But the smoke detector's battery still didn't ring a bell, though he clearly had a plan behind those busy eyes. That woven keychain unclasped from the ring, an angled pull and slip on one end helped the rope unravel, but he quickly rediverted his attention. Your head fell heavy on the pillow beneath you, intrigue being the only thing holding you back from a post-cry nap. The consequence of your relaxed posture is that you had to strain to follow his movements, watching him disappear into the bathroom for a time, returning to the sound of a shutting cabinet with a fistful of what looked like metal. As he grew nearer, your heartrate paused altogether. 

"You remember our word, right?" he didn't take his eyes off his work. 

You hum in approval, nodding but not taking your eyes off his pale digits. To your surprise, when held to the small piece of steel wool, the rectangular battery almost immediately ignited into an amber ember. Fire. Calloused hands seemed to make him immune to the heat, and he immediately tipped the building heat into the candle bed, catching the wick after a few uncertain seconds. Like Prometheus, he'd brought fire into the world with no expression of wonder or confusion to match yours. 

"Where'd you learn to do that?" 

"SAS Handbook," he grumbled, placing a now lit candle on the uninspired wooden bedside table. 

Wonder was drowned out by fluttering anticipation as he further unravelled his tools. That small pillar of coiled rope must be more tightly wound than you expected as it unravelled into six, maybe eight feet of rope. He met your gaze for a second with those same scathing brown eyes, nearly making your heart stop in terror. It was a terror rooted in excitement though, and for a moment you forgot what had you crying in the first place. Just in time for a wave of dread to hit you in recollection, a simple flick stripped you from the comfort of warm sheets, now bare to the elements once again. There wasn't any kindness in the way he grabbed your ankle and yanked you into the middle of the bed, even though his haughtiness was betrayed by the pacifying warmth of his palm. 

Either of his knees planted beside your hips on the rickety boxspring, measuring the black ties across his forearm as your heart thundered. His fingertips along your ribcage made you flinch at the ticklish location, and he slipped the double-backing rope behind your back, the smooth rope sliding across your spine. Another pass to measure, and he hooked the tie around your back, making a matching loop that circles your torso, this time crossing across your collarbone. You'd lost track of his movements, surrendering to the truth that you'd never be able to follow or understand the complex knots and hitches he was making. Instead, you made do with watching his movements, how dark eyes darted across your body. Cool and collected as ever, a master of his craft. Whatever this craft is.

Just a little bit of DIY BDSM with your SAS LT that happens to be DTF. He's really got a way of making do with what he has at his disposal, you'll give him that. Of all your co-workers, why did you have to be attracted to the one with the most dodgy background? He really is a terrifying presence, where meeting his eyes makes you feel like ice, even under the best conditions. Even if he weren't such an objectively large man, his specific gloomy, lurking presence makes your hair stand on end. It makes you wonder how often he's been in your presence where you haven't noticed. Isn't he supposed to intimidate the enemies? Once ropes were mathematically measured, your wandering mind recognized his motions. His hands brought the rope to glide below your breasts, connecting the two loops across your back, your body shuddered. A star-shaped anchor in the middle of your chest was pulled taut with a flick of his wrist that made you gasp. 

"This isn't revenge for that lil ol' thing in the bunker, right?" You gulped, forcing a nervous smile. 

"What thing is that?" He asked with an eerie innocence to his voice. Terrifying.

Fuck. He's going to take out his humiliation on you after patiently hiding his outrage. It made your blood pressure spike in an eager kind of way, only vaguely tipping into trepidation as he roughly wrangled each wrist to align your forearms to lay parallel behind your back. But then, a mischievous thought inspired you to change your tune. Don't show fear; don't cower when he bares his teeth. You knew he caught your reference right away, and he knew you'd play into it. No, you won't feed him the expected response. Even if he makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end just by being in his presence. Nature says to stand your ground when a predator is sizing you up as a meal. Stand tall and roar back like you would with a black bear… or is it a brown bear? 

"That time I had you on your back, lieutenant, begging for me to touch you," the words danced past a wide smile. "Don't you remember that time you were a snivelling, grovelling mess, apologizing so I might let you come?"

"Don't give me any new ideas," the lilt of a laugh caught in his voice. 

"It's not a new idea if you're stealing it outright," you countered, reaffirming your conviction.

"You want a gag?"

"But how will you hear me apologize then, lieutenant?"

More silence. Stillness in the air made your head spin, you could hear every coil in the mattress when he leaned over you like this. Hopefully this rusty bedframe will hold, it's hard to say. That would be a hard one to explain to Price, the thought pings in your swimming thoughts with terror and humour. His movements are so certain, his expression unwavering, not that you can see his expression anyway. Rope straining against rope, sliding under your forearms and around again. No hesitation or guesswork, does he ever waver?

"You seem like you've done this stuff before," you posited, smothering the barbed curiosity in your words.

He didn't even reply, just shaking his head and laughing softly as if to scoff at the thought of having kept count. Being that good doesn't come without practice. You don't just wing this kind of full-body tying, and he definitely wouldn't be using these bonds on criminals and terrorists. He's kinkier than you thought, though it's hard to say what you were expecting. Definitely not a BSDM prodigy. Your mind flickers to those girlfriends he'd mentioned having and the hundreds of women he's probably had. How many times has he done this? Are you just another body? Are you putting in enough effort, or does he think you're a pillow princess? A strange onset of jealousy was cut short when it occurred to you to question why you give a fuck. He's another body for you too, even if by his standards you're probably woefully inexperienced. So fucking what. He can choke. 

"Take off your clothes," that confidence returned to your voice, and you built up enough of it to bark a command his way. 

"You should've thought about trying to give me orders before you got tied up like a smoked ham," from the way he said it, it didn't even sound like a jab. 

"You weren't fucking the smoked hams when you were a butcher, were you?" you clicked your tongue mockingly, matching his tune.

In a swift movement, he placed his forearm beside your head, hovering over you like the Grim Reaper. He'd settled himself between your unbound legs with a certain hubris to the way he glared down at you. More than anything, you wanted to explore his bare skin, but his presence commanded your attention. Scratchy denim from his jeans ground against your so-far-ignored entrance, making you flinch against the sensitivity. And you were helpless to his act of retribution as he'd taken your nipple between the fingers of his spare hand, rolling the sensitive nub in a way that made you shudder and gasp. 

"You're deflecting," you conjured an unimpressed look despite the creeping urge to whine. "What's the matter? Bashful?" 

"No," he spoke arrogantly. 

In one swift motion he hooked his thumbs under his shirt and lifted it over his shoulders, reintroducing you to the view you'd spied on earlier. That was easier than you were expecting. Your eyes instinctively fluttered to the gauze on his lower abdomen, landing on the small patch of white before your exploration was cut short abruptly. He turned and walked away, baffling your foggy mind at first until you recognized his path. A heavy metal click signified the door deadbolt being flicked, locking the door while making sure you saw his unimpressed expression through his mask. The truth is your body was screaming for him to touch you from the moment you saw him eat those strawberries.

It's hard to read his expression, as it always is, but he holds your eye contact as he unclasps his jingling belt from across the room. You couldn't take your eyes off him, and he knew it. Cocky. Even the way lowered his jeans to the ground and stepped out of them was cocky, especially when he folded them thoughtfully while you ever-so-patiently waited. Not that you had a choice. His silvery round dog tag caught your eye, and the smell of lavender and vanilla from Laswell's candle caught up to your senses. It's just another transaction between you two, no more. Fuck, he looks glorious. And he's coming closer. Kneeling on the bed to remove the rest of his undergarments, probably purposely avoiding kneeling down with his fresh wound and all. 

His skin was less pale than expected for someone you'd thought didn't go near sunlight. You’d assumed he’d burst into flames if he stepped into the direct sunshine—like a vampire. If you squint you could barely make out vague tan-lines along his thigh. Shorts? The thought of Ghost wearing shorts made you recoil, like trying to imagine the Babadook in capris. At least he wasn't lying about enjoying spending time outdoors. Pale scars dotted across his body, including one more reddish one on his shoulder, fresher than the others. That one you recognized from his injury in Verdansk. There were too many to count, but it didn't impress you much. There wasn't enough willpower in your system to drag your eyes from the thick pink cock that hung between his legs. 

"What a good little soldier," the breath in your throat only barely caught up to your words, and you praised his obedience coyly. 

"You sound nervous," his voice was gravelly and low, it made your breath deepen. 

Not nervous, anticipatory. Ravenous hands dine on pinched skin, making you writhe against the restraints as he settled himself back between your thighs and the heat of his body met yours. He had you on your back, and poor planning left you entirely susceptible to his will. Sweat gathered in your palms under your chest as he dragged a finger along your entrance, clearly pleased with your eagerness. Every atom of your body radiated with anticipation for his touch. Neither of you had it in you to wait any longer, and he slipped his cock into you with a heavy breath. You never quite got used to the size. The ropes around your chest tightened when you groaned, and he made sport out of pulling the cords tighter as he worked himself farther. 

Times like this make you susceptible to consideration of an amendment to the second clause in your Geneva Conventions. Kissing isn't strictly romantic; actors do it all the time and don't fall in love. They can separate the act from their personal affections and remain professional. The thought of sharing gasps between your mouths made your skin heat and fingertips tingle. Wearing a blindfold to do so would be at the cost of the rare view of his skin, but it's an equitable trade worth considering. He'd probably cut this evening short if he heard you propose the idea with another spiel about remaining professional. 

He leaned over and your heavy eyelids fluttered to follow his movement. Slender fingers wrapped around the flickering candle, and finally, reason clicked into place. His pace within you resumed with more vigour, making your jaw hang open and your face crinkle. Even though you knew what was coming, it still shocked you. Ghost tipped the candle, and an explosion of pain between your breasts made you cry out in alarm. The pain of searing heat and the pleasure of your churning insides made a sinful cocktail of sensations that made your back arch and wrists flex. Another drop, and he had to place a warm hand on your stomach to stop you from squirming, wrangling you into submission with a cruel glint in his eye. 

"F-fuck you," you cried.

No response. He pushed himself into you agonizingly slowly, drawing back out just in time to drop more wax and making you wince. 

"You've always been an asshole, y'know that?"

No response. He continued to bring himself against that sweet spot within you. Setting the candle aside, he made sport of toying with the possibility of your oncoming orgasm. A calloused palm kneaded at your breast while he breathed against your neck. Your core burned for friction he deliberately failed to provide.

"Unoriginal son of a bitch," your mind was foggy, but your words remained sharp. 

No response. The pace quickened, and that heat in your core gathered quickly as he knew it would. Your eyelids fluttered closed, but you lusted for the orgasm that sorrowfully receeded. That fucker. 

"That's no way to talk about my mother," his voice was sweet and sinister in equal measure. 

"Fuck you," you gasped. 

"I should make you apologize for that," his words were just above a whisper, growled into your ear. 

But he made the mistake of lifting that stupid mask to hover above you as he patiently awaited your response. Time and time again, he's misjudged you, styled you as some demure little thing that'll simper and heed his every word. Another opportunity to put him in his place; you were giddy at the thought as precious milliseconds passed. Saliva gathered on your tongue, and you spat with force against the skull-shaped banner he raised in your face. The flicker of shock in his face felt more relieving than a thousand orgasms.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 70] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

He caught your shambling limbs, guiding you on a softer trajectory as you crumpled to the floor. Agony of a half dozen different varieties left you crushed under the colossal weight, coming to a crescendo on a forgotten birthday. Ghost had become a rock for you to cling to, both metaphorically and physically, where the thought of floating into nothingness made you cling to another breathing human like driftwood at sea. Part of you was embarrassed by being such a hysterical, sobbing mess in his presence, but another part of you knew he'd probably seen you in a worse state. His opinions aren't a concern right now. Damp legs and an open shower curtain left you fighting for traction on smooth linoleum floors, clawing at the fabric of his black tee. Here you are again, your own worst enemy. Shadow-boxing concepts and phony expectations that have no meaningful presence in the real world. 

Years ago, you were a regular linguistics specialist unit. Dull, routine, but you'd never be far from base. Now, you can't even scrape together a memory of the last time you were on your home continent, let alone familiar sheets. You're supposed to feel honoured; you're clearly seen as an expert in your craft if you're on such an elite team. Hand-picked for being among the best in your field, and you've worked damn hard to do so. But this placement with this small crew turns your life into a time-sink, shredding precious years off your life with only a minor amount of fame and prestige in exchange. Worse of all, you've consistently misdiagnosed the root of your despair, time and time again finding scapegoats to save you from facing greater discomfort. It's exhausting to be expended at work like this and not find comfort in expected downtime. It's worse when you realize that you have little claim to sympathy when your company took a garden tool to the abdomen during the same operation. The thought made you more upset, and your heaving sobs only deepened. 

He raked his fingers through your dripping hair in an attempt to comb it, poorly, mind you, an odd kind of tenderness nonetheless. The skill of soothing someone is clearly pretty foreign to him, a similar condition Gaz had back in Italy. It makes sense for these living weapons to be able to will away their emotions and become the killers they need to be to stop missiles from hitting civilians. It's harder to will their emotions back into existence after burying them in the name of duty, especially when they're only further cemented by years of service and horror. But it doesn't stop him from trying, even if he glances at your face every few seconds as if you'll suddenly have a drastic change of heart. Occasionally bubbling into subtle frustration when a knot in your hair doesn't immediately come undone around his fingers. 

The thought of making use of government-mandated therapy sessions finally clicked into place, implementing self-soothing strategies from a therapist who probably wouldn't recognize you now. Observe your surroundings and ground yourself, words spoken past wiry glasses carefully placed on the nose of an unenthused psychologist. The floor is cold on your legs, but his chest is warm on your shoulder. He smells like rubbing alcohol and that plasticy smell of fresh bandages, and that same standard bar soap you have in your shower. The shower is still on, and you can see a small puddle creep against your shin from the mishap and the flickering lighting above. Inky tattoos along his macabre sleeve were a view of barbed wire and guns were inked across his forearm, gingerly placed so as to not embrace you, merely stop you from colliding with the floor. Damp air tastes like mildew whenever you stop to heave another gasp, likely years of black mould in this shitty motel.

Silence, save for your occasional spasming gasp, makes you consider your company further, watching his behaviour like the vicious creature that he is. Simon is a perfectionist. He's a slave to finding the most efficient ways of doing things, the most rigorous training, obsessive maintenance of his tools and a philosophical mind that's quick as a fox. None of those skills, however, equip him with the ability to be tender; he's not your first thought when you need a shoulder to cry on. Strategically, you never know when that could be useful on a mission. The thing is, he's so keen to master this new skill that he seems almost glad to scrimmage it with a willing participant. This encounter seems to be a win-win for both of you. 

"You're upset," Ghost sighed, stilling his movements. 

"Astute observation," you mocked, eyes raw and scathing. 

He let the silence simmer, forcing you to fill the void with words he knew you'd come to. Despair or not, he knows you're wise enough to infer that that wasn't his meaning, coldly refusing to contribute. No wonder no one cries on his shoulder. 

"I just don't know what I want," you sniffled, sinking your temple against his collarbone. "I think I'm just homesick."

"Your record said you've been on tour off and on for years. It doesn't sound like it was a problem then," his brows furrowed behind his mask above you. 

"When I was on tour, I'd be stationed at a single base for months. Surrounded by the same crews, the same teams, there was a routine to things. You got to build friendships with people that actually wanted to be around you," the words slipped past your twitching frown. 

"Don't you get along well with Soap and Gaz?"

"I do, I care about them a lot. But… It's different when they're only present because they're contractually obligated to be in your proximity," you spoke as he leaned to pull a towel off a railing, probably noticing the goosebumps over your thighs. 

"Do you think I'm contractually obligated to be here right now?"

"Only physically."

"Only physically," he repeated like he was tasting the words on his forked tongue. 

"I miss my uncle back home, I miss my friends. The strain of constant action is making me miss that emotional connection." 

"Sergeant, you know the outline of our contract," his voice was cold and severe, commanding the air from the room and his posture grew stiff. "I can't be in a relationship with someone I work with. It's out of the question."

"I know. I'm not asking you to change that," you bit back, insulted by his insinuation. "I just- I hate feeling… replaceable."

"I know how you feel."

"I doubt that very much," your brow tightened. 

"You're right. I guess I have no fucking clue how you feel," a smile lit up in his eyes for a moment, and he raised his palms in a shrug. 

He took it upon himself to reposition this dialogue, bowing his head under your shoulder and hooking an arm beneath your knees. There's something so odd about seeing your room move around you without feeling your feet planted on the floor, like you're hovering around the space like a phantom. No strain from him though, even while your hip was pressed against the fresh wound on his abdomen. It was an opportunity for him to think on his words though, and he set your head in the general area of your pillow. The second his arm slipped from under you, he rose to perch himself at the end of the springy bed, dragging down the mustard-coloured sheets with his colossal weight. As you were now free from the comfort of his body heat and exposed to the chill of damp hair on your shoulders, he spoke. 

"If I can't shake off any injury I suffer, I'll be benched. My career is my body, and if my body isn't a weapon for the higher-ups to use, I'm dead weight. Price chose me from a pool of hundreds and wouldn't think twice about replacing me. It's just the way things are, Cricket." 

What a horrible truth, it made you unconsciously winge in disgust. While your mind initially saw the grander scheme, with your uncle and home back across the globe, you share a certain soullessness about your field. Maybe he does understand how you feel, at least in this sector. You with your mind and him with his body, only one slip-up away from being sent to the B-team. It's a horrible feeling, a hollow feeling. All sensation in your face numbed, and your fist swiped your face dry. 

"I just wish we had more downtime," you lamented, exhaustion settling in once your hiccuping tears halted. 

"We usually do," he spoke, calm as ever. "But it's in the nature of our career, innit'. It's hard for a government to send its top counter-terrorism squad on vacation when there are still terrorists."

He was such a way of arguing away your unrest, a solid rock in your path to ease your crashing current of emotions. Tight muscles gradually relaxed and you kicked the musty blanket over yourself, suddenly acutely aware of your nudity. This is another opportunity to peek under the mask in a more metaphorical sense. Who even is this guy? You've slept with him a few times- well, sleep with isn't the best choice of words, but you've had sex with him even though you have no idea who he actually is. He's rude, pragmatic, curious, and a man of few words. There's got to be more to him than that. For some reason, it made a smile creep across your lips, and tension in your throat loosened. 

"What would you be doing if you were home right now?" You propped yourself up on your elbow to address him. "What do you like to do when you're not Ghost."

"There is no one when I'm not Ghost," that coldness manifested in his tone again. 

"I don't believe that. I mean when you're off duty, back home in the UK. You don't just power down like a fucking computer," your laugh came out like a snort thanks to your clogged sinuses. 

He stopped to think for a moment, crossing his arms over his chest as he faced you only halfway. It makes you wonder if he's ever been asked a question like this before. He's clearly unprepared, with no scripted answer to default back to. This is untrodden territory, information no living soul has ever heard before. Maybe he's a singer or a cowboy. Maybe he loves watching those cheap romance competition shows and eating ice cream, or maybe he has a profound passion for Lithuanian folk music. 

"Well, I like going to the firing range," he started, knitting his pale fingers together in thought. "I like running on sand, it takes a lot more energy than running on a solid surface. It's a less strain on your joints while strengthening yo-"

"Holy shit, you're boring. What else do you like? No fitness or guns," you bark back at him, slumping back against the pillow dramatically. 

That made him laugh harder than you were expecting, despite your feigned outrage being somewhat genuine. He's more than just a government-regulated killing machine. There's a human being in there. He rolled his shoulder to stretch as he thought, but it only reminded you of the constant aching strain in your neck thanks to days of poor posture. 

"I like cooking, and I like the science behind mixology. Hunting too, I like the woods," his eyes squinted as he recounted the words. "I've always wanted to fix up an old car or motorcycle and drive around the country," his eyes drifted to the ceiling as he thought further. 

He has a scientific mind—mathematical. It's like he sees the world in algorithms and formulas, and it's what fuels his lust for perfection. He's got a thirst for knowledge of a different sort from your own, but still a shared passion nonetheless. 

"What do you like to hunt?" the first question you could think of manifested on your lips. 

"Wolf hunting is interesting. Pheasants are good game back home," he said, turning to meet your eyes for a split second. "They taste good, too."

"You seem to miss your home a lot," you pried further. 

"I do. The weather is better, I like the food too."

"You miss the food in England? You must love pain."

"I inflict pain," he spoke menacingly, oddly serious. 

"Is there a difference?"

The fucker didn't even respond. Maybe the answer is obvious, and he's giving you the silent treatment like he always does. Or perhaps you genuinely stumped him. It's hard to say. Stillness in the air made you chilled, and you curled your bare legs against your chest as the same dingy sheets in which you'd spent precious few hours didn't offer much warmth. He still stood vigil at the end of the bed, hopefully identifying your exhausted context clues when you yawned. 

"Soap, Price, and Gaz were up at the crack of dawn to get you that cake," he sighed, rising to gesture at the cake you'd left atop the television, folded arms warping grim tattoos along his sleeve. 

"Why don't you have some too since you want me to feel guilty," you countered apathetically. 

"Too sweet."

"You miss the food from a country that's renowned for its shitty food, but you won't eat a chocolate cake from a country that's literally legendary for its excellence," you matched his cold sarcasm.

"You'll live, sergeant," he shot back, stark and bitter. 

"Fuck off," a smile pulled at your lips, reading right through his facade. "When's your birthday, anyway?"

"You want my social security too?" He scathed, prying the plastic cover off the dessert. 

He plucked a strawberry off the cake while he was turned away, glancing back with a lowered mask to catch your irritated glare, chuckling with a strawberry packed in his cheek. He's so casual with the fruits that sent you into this despair, inadvertently recontextualizing something you would've otherwise thrown from the rusty walkway out front. He can have the strawberries. Though that's not worth stating aloud since he's already made himself welcome to them. 

"It's in May," he spoke past a mouthful of fruit, "May 17th… 'Pretty sure."

"You're a Taurus," for some reason that made you laugh. 

He hummed in approval, or disinterest; it could be either, or both. Zodiacs were never really a factor on your radar, but from the foundational knowledge you'd gathered from your friends back home, Ghost is the definition of a Taurus. Stubborn, cynical, and organized. It's funny to watch him eat, carefully popping another berry under his mask, how the fabric warped with his chewing after he lowered it again. Tendons in his pale neck moved when he turned his head, you followed how they connected to his collarbone. The thought of lust had essentially dissipated off the menu, replaced by your existential crisis. If anything, this was just an attempt at co-op self-soothing, and he's just player two. He did the friendly thing any co-worker would do, comforting you on a particularly pathetic birthday celebration. But something about his slender waist when he stood to the side for a moment ignited a familiar spark. Lingering chemicals in your mind were challenged by the thought of sleeping with someone immediately after a mental breakdown, but another part of your conscience screamed for another human's touch. Desperately clawing against the rage of the void, resisting the whisper that begs you to give up. Here's an opportunity to experience life again. 

"There isn't any cutlery," he spoke the obvious aloud in that grumbly voice that sang through your system like a song. 

He lifted the cake's container in his open palm, arching his neck to glance around the room, the outline of his jaw through the mask working on another strawberry. 

"-or plates," he scoffed with his mouth full once again, exasperated. 

You just couldn't help yourself but stare at his body. Dragging your gaze up and down that long, slender torso with muscular thighs under his jeans. You're no better than a man. He's so tall, and even the way the tendons in his hands flex when he fiddles with the cake's container makes your mouth water. Every deeply rooted instinct as a human is screaming for you to wrap your thighs around him. By the time he turned around after a long enough silence, he slightly flinched when he noticed your sultry eyes. 

"You say you inflict pain," you challenged him with your jaded tone. "Show me."

"You can't solve everything with sex," he sighed, slipping his hands in his pockets. 

"It's worked so far."

Even with his ambivalence, posturing like he's indifferent, there was a certain shift in his expression somehow. He paused to think, resting his shins against the edge of the bed, and then lingering eyes darted around the room. It's like he's surveying the space in that same way you've seen him clear rooms during raids. Lightheadedness panged your system, or maybe some other unrecognizable anticipatory emotion. He was plotting something behind those dark brown eyes, flashing to palm that scented candle Laswell got you that was still sitting in the box. He weighed it in his hand and swiped a finger over the label.  

"A candle? How romantic," you chimed sarcastically, filling the sudden silence. 

"It's not romantic."

"But you don't have a lighter," your face crumpled in confusion as he crossed the room. 

"Affirmative," Ghost noted blankly. 

He strained to raise his arms to the ceiling, craning with his height to unscrew the smoke detector from the ceiling, kindly allowing you a glimpse under his shirt. It's like you weren't in the room anymore, and he was crafting usable tools from a gutted fire alarm. Jingling keys were silenced as they plopped down on the duvet, fished from his back pocket: some silver, some brassy, a woven survival rope keychain, and a glass-breaker keyring. What's he doing? Maybe your heart is just fluttering because you're excitable, or it could be your odd fascination with whatever he's plotting. Maybe you're just relieved to feel life in your bones again.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 69] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content warning: Descriptions of injuries that could make some readers uncomfortable.

Is it wrong to feel relief right now? On one hand, your job is complete, and there are no more expectations from the linguistics team. On the other hand, there are still hostages trapped in the theatre, and the riskiest part of this entire operation is yet to begin. You're still expected to be on call, and it's entirely a possibility that you'll be expected to quickly resolve some other unforeseen mystery. It seems your two peers don't know what to do with themselves either, as the three of you stand in uncomfortably still air in the dark void of the vacated restaurant. It felt like you no longer had the authority to draw a breath, like any stray atom might hinder the raid that's moments away from starting, just past those long curtains. 

The commotion behind you nearly made you jump out of your skin, and you and your peers turned to gawk at the opening door like a pack of meerkats. An unknown man and woman entered, barely making eye contact as they surged into your space. Your fingers instinctively slid over a cloth-wrapped bundle of cutlery from one of the dining sets to defend yourself, but the lettering on their matching coats loosened your tension. Thick navy coats with orange shoulders marked with blocky text reading "sanitäter," they're just paramedics. A tall female medic with blocky glasses and a lanky man with faint yellow hair, making brisk eye-contact as she knelt to reveal a trunk of equipment. 

The male paramedic said something in German directed toward you, but you were too stunned to churn the words into thoughts. Your eyes were out of focus, but the KKpt spoke an affirmation in return that satisfied his statement. You watched as he shoved what's essentially your life's work onto the wood floor, a cascade of papers and pens, clearing space on one of the larger tables. The female paramedic clicked a silvery metal staff into a pillar, hooking a sack onto the device. They worked fast, hijacking your now redundant workstation to fashion one of their own. Just as your mind started to consider that this might be a med bay for evacuated hostages, familiar voices broke through the glass barrier of the front door. 

You'd be easily forgiven for not recognizing them at first. For a moment, your muscles considered raising the alarm that two civilians had just wandered into this top-secret facility until your brow softened at the sight of familiar faces. Blue latex gloves guided the two soldiers to recline on the cloth tables, immediately examining the wounds in a flurry of triage. They muttered to one another, functioning like a well-oiled machine to ferry tools and vials into upturned palms. 

Soap having his bicep exposed, thanks to his tacky sleeveless shirt, made it easy for the male paramedic to point and pinch at a jagged slash just below his shoulder. Unfortunately for Soap's unsightly wardrobe, a second gash along his chin dripped fresh blood across his chest as he was forced to lie on one of your tables. All while carrying on with Ghost about a similar encounter in Thailand. The paramedics pointed wooden sticks at every seeping slash across his body, even probed at pink dots along Soap's wrist, battle scars from a kerfuffle with a pigeon. Ghost on the other hand looked worse for wear, on paper that is, just in time for Gaz to push through the doors. He took no time to make his presence known, catching a nod from his abed comrades with a bold grin pulling at his cheeks. 

"Nice jumper, LT. Does it come in men's?" Gaz boldly snarked at Ghost's eccentric red and blue sweatshirt as he approached. 

"Can't say, Garrick, but I think you come in men enough to be the expert," Ghost cut back cruelly, making Soap holler in laughter and immediately crushing Gaz's onslaught.  

The female paramedic lifted the fated jumper over his shoulders, revealing a tight beige vest underneath, now blooming with red on his right side. Meanwhile, her partner prepared a small tray of equipment, one of which was a long hooked needle that made your skin grow numb. 

"Cheeky cunt," Gaz rocked on his heels after striding to stand at the table Ghost was being treated at, rolling his jaw in agitation as he grinned. 

Soap's expression, however, told the story of a sweatshirt he wished he hadn't leant to Ghost for this mission. Now for more reasons than one, the poor piece was shovelled into a biohazard bag, spattered with your lieutenant's blood and likely that of a few of his attackers as well. Just then did you notice Soap's tattoo along the top of his forearm as he punches Ghost in the shoulder, a circular shape resembling some emblem. It's hard to say for sure. 

"Where is Cricket, anyway?" Soap chimed as one of the paramedics temporarily pinched his shoulder injury shut with a wound closure strip.

The mention of your name made you snap out of your blank, eavesdropping stare at the floor. By the time they had spotted you, an awkward silence had taken hold. Your jaw opened to speak while your tongue fell heavy.

"Hello," you spoke, immediately questioning the eeriness of just standing in the corner silently watching them. 

Luckily, that train of thought was brought to an end as Price entered, and the spotlight was redirected. An odd sense of relief washed over you as he struck up a conversation. 

"You did a good job stopping a trowel from embedding itself into a wall, Simon," Price noted sarcastically as latex gloves pried the piece free from Ghost's chest, not even winging as what looked like alcohol was swiped over the slash. 

"Another brag rag," Soap sneered. 

"I'm starting to run out of room on my uniform," he sighed as the medic applied fibrous tape to temporarily seal the gash. 

"Maybe they'll start sticking them to the back like pin the tail on the donkey," Price huffed, eliciting a snort from Gaz. 

They banter like they both don't have hooked needles prying closed weeping gashes on their skin, reclining in their positions like it's a day at the beach. Skilled gloves hooking under pale, flayed skin, heaving to pull dark threads through the other end along Ghost's abdomen. Your eyes darted across every movement of her hands, her firm grip and tedious stitching, imagery that would otherwise make you winge. It's a 50/50; either the paramedics don't speak English, or they're simply used to hearing whatever unhinged banter tends to go on in a military hospital. You can't help but be weirdly hopeful it's the former as your eyes absently wander over more of the scene. This is more of Ghost's body than you've ever seen before. While you got to see some exposed shoulders and the whole of his tattoo sleeve back in that Polish hospital, your exploration was cut short by sprawling bandages just under his pectorals thanks to broken ribs. Now, he lay significantly more exposed, forced to expose his soft underbelly by an insistent medical team. But his underbelly was anything but soft. It took every fibre of your being to stop yourself from sweeping over every curve and divot of his lower abdomen, angular lines along the sides of his pelvis and a soft trail of hair leading down to the buckle of his jeans.

"I heard you had to put a guy to sleep out there," Soap nodded to Gaz, resting his free hand behind his head. 

"A little sloppy, not my best work. Captain's guy didn't wake up though," he retorted, tilting his gaze. 

"It was either me or him," Price sniffed. "Like takin' out the trash," a cheeky and arguably cringeworthy reference to his manner of disposal of the assailant. 

"Sick bastard," Soap chuckled, having his jaw wrangled by the male paramedic's grip on his wound. 

"Glad to see we're all in good spirits then," the captain ordered.

At the angle Price was standing, you couldn't help but see some of the printed images on the pages under his crossed arms. Printout stills of the photos Soap took in the oracle's apartment. As he rocked on his hips, occupied by a lively discussion with Soap and Ghost, you managed to spy images you hadn't been sent. Different angles from around the apartment, some blurs of colour and what looks like a cork pinboard, a flash of blue and black, and a grey backpack. Your attention must've been so laser-focused on the cipher that you missed something notable right under your nose, and the building tension in your forehead dissipated when he made his way over to your position. 

"Good work out there, all of you," Price stood before the three of you. 

"These two were a treat to work with," you smiled, nodding at the professor and Korvettenkapitän.

KKpt tapped her forearm on your bicep, looking like she was considering the formality of pulling you into a relieving hug, opting instead to frown and nod sternly. The professor, however, seemed entirely distracted by the view across the room, not even registering Price's presence. What an odd pair. 

"-Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got' to talk to Miss Laswell," Price swaggered toward Laswell as she held the door open for him to follow. 

He left after bumping his fist on Ghost's shoulder, though Ghost looked like he was considering snapping and biting the man like a poorly trained dog. As hilarious as that may have been, your lieutenant's self-discipline prevailed. Ghost's eyes flashed to meet your vacant stare, and you blinked away the blankness. There was an agitation in his eyes that startled you, and for whatever reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to match his challenge. You were just so tired. Days of minimal sleep and exhausted mental faculties were catching up to you, not to mention the early phases of starvation blighting your system. As much as you might want to, you can't return to your dingy motel boxspring until at least a few hours have passed, or as long as it's socially acceptable. The boys are packing up anyway, and Laswell or whoever will be expecting a debrief. 

Your next task was remarkably unremarkable compared to the past few days, noting every strategy and conclusion and wrapping it up in a tidy package that will align with official reports. KKpt was the champion of the idea, though; you initially had every intention to sit and rest your head on your forearms for a few hours, spying through the heavy curtain whenever you heard the commotion. She pushed you to write, and it was a blessing in disguise. Your pen worked to expand on crude bullet points you'd laid out, forcing you to make sense of the chaotic few days. Shouting and uproar outside caught your attention. From your angle across the street, an entry team of what looked like ten German SEK officers stood crouched under the front door of the Kino Der Toten theatre, ducking in synchronicity for a soldier swing a battering ram to crash through the wooden barricade. A flash of silver caught the corner of your eye, and your heart softened as rows of frail schoolkids were ushered in aluminum blankets into ambulances, safe at last. The peace of mind made the remaining hours pass easier, like the elephant in the room had vanished.

It didn't even cross your mind that that may have been the last time you'd see those two, but you were already halfway up the stairs to your motel room with your cake across your forearms before you realized. You'll probably catch up with them in the morning before you head out to whatever shitshow mission they have you on next. That wasn't a concern right now. You fought with gravity to find the key in your back pocket and shuffled into the motel room without a second thought. There's that same mustard yellow floral pattern you'd come to recognize, haphazardly applied to nearly every surface. The boxy TV in the corner will have to serve as a temporary counter, as it just now occurred to you that you have no form of refrigeration for this cake. This birthday cake. Happy fucking birthday. Alone in a run-down motel in Germany, the only friendly faces are people who are paid to be there, allies in a technical sense. Not a word from the friends you'd last seen on your previous birthday; they've not even bothered to take note of the date since your absence.

The plump strawberries on the chocolate cake were what got you. Recognition softened the muscles in your face, and it took less than a second for tears to sting in your eyes. Those were your sister's favourite fruit. She'd fight you for them with tooth and nail at the breakfast table as little girls, the treats you'd left for her months ago on that mountaintop in your hometown. What would Carolyn think of what you've done with your life? The thoughts were all too much to try to withhold. Tears prickled along your waterline. Your vision had already blurred the yellow florals into a haze that your fingertips couldn't even swipe away. They just kept coming. Heaving breaths crashed into your chest in hiccuping spasms, and aching muscles made instinctive pacing a painful labour. 

Before you could consider burying yourself in those musty sheets, you were already shedding the shell jacket Laswell gave you, shucking layers free as you made your way to the shower. In one way, showering has always brought you comfort, in another, a thorough shower is a luxury you've been deprived of in your days of brutal studies. It also comes with the benefit of washing away streams of hot tears that sting in your throat and crinkle your brow. Water gradually grew in temperature as your impatience forced you to immediately step under the faucet, streaming cold water down your face and hair. You hadn't even fully undressed, haphazardly slinging soggy socks onto the floor of the yellow fibreglass shower unit. Panic and dread wracked your system, and you didn't even bother stifling weeping sobs. Lukewarm water spilled over your senses, forcing you to squeeze your raw eyes shut and fight harder for breath. Electric muscles compelled you to wash yourself and rid yourself of whatever metaphorical and literal filth you've accumulated, not that this hard water stained shower would leave you much cleaner. 

When you glanced over your shoulder to swipe a handful of bar soap over the limb, your heart stopped entirely. You weren't alone in the tiny bathroom, as a dark figure was in the corner of your vision. He stood cross-armed across from you, leaned against a wall-mounted sink, visible in the crack you'd left in the shower curtain when you haphazardly drew it. He didn't look pleased, but it's hard to say when he's wearing that dumb skull plate stitched over his mask every day. 

"What do you want?" you spat, easily translating your despair into aggression. "Did you come to chew me out?"

"I'm thinking about it," he stood, cold and level. 

"Well fucking get on with it," you jabbed calmly, splashing water over your face to drown lingering tears. "Make yourself comfortable."

Ghost took the time to pause, considering his words carefully while you hotly wanted him to spit out whatever you'd transgressed. While one side of your brain was entirely prepared to fight him with bared teeth, the other urged you to relent and surrender to your despair, curling into a helpless fetal position.  

"You can't back-talk to me in meetings, you know this," he sounded irritated. You caught a glimpse of pale gauze under his black tee when he lifted his arms to cross them. "I thought I was pretty clear that you won't be getting any special treatment because of our transactions."

He brought forward memories of you snapping at him for stating the obvious when you were in that restaurant with KKpt and Kraus. Your fuse was short, but you spoke with an attitude to your comrade, superior, in front of your captain and Laswell. That's the kind of shit that'll get you a written reprimand or, God forbid, an Article 15. Far from acceptable in the military, especially in your tenure. It'd long since slipped your mind in the shitstorm that's been the last few hours, though he still made sure to spare you a few scathing glares to make it clear that he hadn't forgotten. 

"I had a lot on my mind. I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry," your voice venomous and hateful. "Just show me where to sign already."

"'You wouldn't act like that to Soap or Gaz,'" he used your same words from back in the bunker against you, challenging you with your own logic. "If this situation is to continue, you have to learn to separate it from work and be professional."

"Fine," you sighed, still hot with agitation but stripped of munitions by his reasoning. "I can't help but remember you being pretty unprofessional with Gaz and Soap earlier when you were getting stitched up." 

"That was banter with my comrade," he tilted his head back. "It's not the same as disrespecting someone's authority in a strategy meeting." 

"So it's only okay when you do it?" 

"It's only okay when it's after the task is completed."

"And what, so you just let yourself into my room? That's also pretty unprofessional," your lip curled into a frown, loosely resembling a snarl. 

"I got you a birthday gift," he shrugged, tilting his head to a small yellow box he'd balanced on the porcelain sink he was leaning against. 

You turned to face away from him as an odd sense of shame made your face run cold. Warm water rained in hard streams against your skin. You couldn't bear the sight of another person right now. What's gotten into you? Why are you turning every situation into a self-flagellating pity party? You used to have so much more respect for yourself, be able to bark back and hold your ground if someone pressed you. You'd failed to uphold your end of the bargain, and he'd come to scold you for it. His work will always be a bigger priority to him than you, and you'll be discarded and forgotten the second you're no longer of immediate use to this travelling circus. 

A bootstep in your direction made you flinch and cringe, but it slid back to its original position over the tile. Tears made the sight of him blurry when you turned to see him again, a mass of black and white standing at the porcelain sink. 

"What if-" a knot in your constricted throat made you tremble. "What if I asked you to leave right now?"

Milliseconds felt like hours, and the steady thrum from a shambling shower head pelted you with water that progressively lost its temperature. It felt like the life was being sapped from you by this shitty water heating. Rejecting another man made your skin prickle with anxiety; the thought of him, too, slamming his fist across your cheek if you rejected his advances flashed into your mind. A flickering lightbulb overhead made your mind imagine the act too, just as said bruise had begun to fade into your cheekbone. 

"Then I'd ask you to lock the fucking door behind me," his voice was just above a whisper, tinted with humour but still bassy and clear. 

He didn't hesitate or even look your way, smoothly lifting himself from his leaning angle against the sink and ducking through the door with a click. It startled you how quickly he accepted your answer, like you were almost expecting some resistance. He's the one who deserves the pity card, he's the one who suffered a serious injury today, though you'd never guess by his disposition. A strange sense of panic swept over you, like you were scared of being alone, scared of pushing another person out. What else do you have now, if not a few government-mandated co-workers and a strictly physical relationship with the man you'd just kicked out. The closest thing you have to any sort of physical intimacy is a person you're strictly disallowed from holding. Despair in isolation never suited you, and your voice shot out as a lifeline in the sudden silence. 

"Si-" your foggy mind almost slipped to break another rule, another transgression for him to chastise you for. "Ghost."

But he'd already gone. The door had clicked behind him, and the sound of heavy water streaming from a squealing facet had drowned out your squeaking voice. He has every reason to leave. You've worked yourself into a hysteric mess. A burden to this elite task force that lacks the emotional control to be worth hanging onto, he's probably regretting laying a finger on you to begin with. 

Why did there have to be strawberries on that cake? A bitter reminder of the passage of time with the symbol of your sister's mortality represented in a nostalgic fruit. That bundle you'd left on the mountain as an offering is coming back to haunt you, scorn you for your inaction. At first, you thought it was a lack of agency, but that fell through. Maybe feeling like you have no control was the root of your dissatisfaction, but that only caused you to make out with your lieutenant and a handful of other ignorant choices. Then maybe it was your lack of mental stimulation, that reading and filling your mind with case studies would soothe your agitation, but that too fell through. Now, your hunch led you to think that a lack of recognition for your work is the downfall of your self-worth. While it was a factor, and one that Ghost has helped you remedy, ultimately, you shouldn't have joined a career like the military if you wanted to have your boots kissed every time you do what's expected of you. 

Here you are, another year of borrowed time lost, time you should've spent in the soil beside your father and sister. And what do you have to say for it? You've filled a role that would easily be substituted by the next bright-eyed linguist and obeyed your wise masters like the good dog you've become. Comfortable with your collar and willfully heeling as it constricts tighter around your windpipe. You're not cut out for this, you're just not. Your fingernails raked over slippery shoulders, trying to spark feeling back into skin that's slowly being sapped of warmth. Splashing water didn't help, trying to drown your melancholy and not spend your birthday as a weeping mess. Again. But there was a presence in the bathroom. You were too numb to flinch, but he was there, back at his post, leaning on the sink. Knees crumpled from under you, and your face twisted into an ugly frown. Your arms shot out for him, and his forearms caught you before the moisture accelerated your fall into his shoulder.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 68] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content warning: Descriptions of violence.

From a patchwork collection of various CCTV angles, you watched your four comrades make their way past the barricade. Context was given to a persistent rhythmic murmur as, to your shock, a crowd of protesters had gathered at the police's line. Painted signs decried the government's inaction in the weeks-long hostage crisis, gnashing teeth chanting for retribution for one of the dead hostages. Rows on rows of gathered civilians formed an uproar in protest of your presence, and a handful of signs even denounce the SAS' presence altogether. It's easy to lose said soldiers in the crowd, but you barely spotted the top of Ghost's cap as he stood over a head taller than the rest. To a lively crowd of agitated protesters, four foreign soldiers in kits and uniform attempting to blend in would've seen to them being drawn and quartered in record time. Price had the foresight to know as much, and their plainclothes let them slink through the sea of signs and fists without a passing glance, evaporating in the commotion.

Now on the other side, the four soldiers split, and you wrung your hands in anticipation. Two groups of two, weaving in branching paths toward the inner city. Another camera angle showed a grainy vista of ferries churning along stone canals, dashed with arching bridges with iron fences. Stalls occupied with bouquets of tulips and sunflowers in crinkling paper contrasted the undercover soldiers marching by, wolves in sheep's clothing. Even though the CCTV wouldn't pick up audio, you were forced to imagine the songs coming from that lively street busker Price and Gaz just passed. 

Blocky red brick and grey stone apartments heaved above streets lined with leafy trees. Your other colleagues' weaving path finally brought them to their point of interest. Another angle from outside a small corner store showed Soap glancing over his shoulder as Ghost slipped into the glass doors of a particularly run-down apartment building. They disappeared into the building, and your legs crossed at the ankle. Seconds turned to minutes, then it felt like hours. Each passing minute was illuminated on the bottom corner of nearly every LED screen, a nauseating reminder. Deafening silence. Eventually Gaz sparked a cigarette, using it as an opportunity to stand idle vigil, puffing clouds of white smoke as he rocked his heels. All of you were patiently waiting for an update from your colleagues in the apartment, and you couldn't help but glance at Laswell to gauge her sense of urgency. 

"Soap, what's your status," Laswell called after a click. 

No response. 

"Ghost, what's your status," after another click. 

No response. 

Utter silence. 

You gnawed on your thumbnail, not even daring to see if your present company matched your level of subtle discomfort. The collar of your shirt felt tight around your throat as the lack of feedback was mortifying. All eyes were glued to the screen, and your ears were desperate for any stimuli other than distant chanting and humming electricity. 

"Watcher, we have the oracle. I'm sending pictures your way," Soap's voice finally cracked through the speakers. 

"Nice work," she spoke into the mic, turning to you to meet your wide stare. "Standing by."

There was motion on one of the screens, and Laswell brought up an encrypted messenger from a censored cell number. After a few tense seconds, the empty inbox was suddenly flooded with waves of image files. Clicking them open with a heavy click of her mouse, half the empty screens along the van wall sparked alight, illuminating dozens of photos. All four of you leaned forward in sync, studying the stimuli with raking eyes. 

The keys looked almost like a calendar. A square block of characters, with a column and row highlighted in each, with a secondary line below highlighting the axis of the text in blue letters. Once a section of ciphertext is aligned with the adjoining keyword, the plaintext message that contains the orders comes unravelled. This was your initial scramble to gather context, analyzing every shape on the screen to make sense of the images. 

Laswell's clearing throat cut above the tapping of keys on laptops and whirling pens. The corner of a white page flickered in your focused vision; you blinked, meeting a piece of paper being thrust into your field of view. You were about to tap your comrade's shoulders to get their attention, but their eyes were already scanning the page. A simple block of text handwritten on ripped paper, the new orders. While it might be odd to wait this long to give you this critical info, it's wisest to hold the top-secret communications until the last possible moment, reducing the risk of a mole upending the scheme.

They will bring the hostages to the Dressing Room at the northeast of the building and rendezvous the tangos to the Lower Hall and await further instructions. In the case of detonation, the demolition experts assure us that the remote explosives won't penetrate the brick wall separating the Dressing Room from the main theatre. The first entry squad will use the ground-floor fire escape at the back of the Dressing Room to secure the hostages. A secondary and tertiary squad will enter through the foyer and the basement, cornering the tangos in the Lower Hall. Get them to unload their firearms.

The orders were clear and sensical. Not that you'd have much of a say if they didn't make sense. Now, your task is to make those orders come to fruition, and your mind starts to whirl with forming sentences. In an earlier life, you would've been expected to manually go into what's essentially a game of cryptogram and use up precious minutes breaking messages one by one. Luckily, you're in the digital age, and algorithms expedite the process to a supernatural level. After a collective ten seconds spent gathering information, Kraus immediately got started on his task. One of the batches of photos was pages from a book, keys to the ciphertext. The ciphertext, in a coffee-stained folder Soap's gloved fingers spread across a cluttered kitchen counter, was Kraus' task to unravel. While he gathered key context, you were still waiting on more, and just as the question manifested on your tongue, a new batch of photos came in. The birds. 

One of the pigeons in a wiry cage had what looked like a bandage around its leg, but after closer inspection was the message that was to order the execution of the hostages. A storyboard of images created a series of events that you were forced to stifle a laugh at. Image by image, it told the story of Soap identifying the pivotal pigeon. Another shot at a closer angle, a third with his glove gripping the startled bird with blurred wings, three accidental pictures taken during a frenzied scuffle, then Soap's hand tarred with white feathers presenting the small scroll. It's hard to say who was victorious, as when Soap's fingers spread the unravelled message, pink dots and nips along his wrist showed a tentative victory for the pigeon. 

That was the information that had you and the KKpt on the edge of your seats, and a deep breath felt foreign in your tight chest. While Kraus was tapping away at the text, already with half a dozen translated messages, KKpt's screen matched the key to the text. As you suspected, the text the computer algorithm spat out was a nauseating order. To bring one of the hostages to an upper-level window, within view of distant television crews, and terminate a preselected hostage, one of the chaperones. There's something about reading someone's execution order scrawled on a piece of parchment that makes you feel lightheaded. Termination of human life reduced to a handful of scrambled letters. In this case, the oracle decodes their messages into four lines of 15 characters each, a total of 60 characters to portray an entire message. The thing about one-time pads is that you're working with a strict character limit. Usually, a multiple of five and a certain number of characters must fit in a certain number of lines, so abbreviation is common. It comes to show a disturbing glimpse into the inner communications of a fanatic group, where these armed terrorists seemed to refer to themselves as 'apostles' and the hostages as 'disciples,' abbreviated to APTL and DCPL, respectively. An important note Kraus underscored is that the oracle always leaves OCL at the end of their message as a signoff from their leader, the oracle. That'll have to be incorporated in the limited text.

Meanwhile, Laswell didn't need to be told that this was everything you needed to get started as she took it upon herself to update the boys that the linguists were getting started. In your focus, you vaguely overheard Ghost's voice updating Laswell through the mic, but all your ears caught was the female voice in the background calling Ghost a wide variety of German insults and slurs. 

"We've got some company out here," Price's voice cut through the radio, and Laswell lept to flick between camera angles.

"Two big guys are trailing us," Gaz added, sounding like he was walking briskly. 

"Split them up and use the needle if you can," Laswell spoke calmly. "You know what to do."

It's hard to stay focused when the situation outside that apartment gets more intense by the second. Gaz and Price have been spotted by whatever guerilla militia is protecting this religious group, and they have neither the armour nor the cover to handle this like they usually do. You couldn't afford the mental bandwidth, but still snuck a glance at Gaz's silhouette on an angle from across a street, showing a hulking figure in a thick out-of-season jacket gaining on his heels. Another angle showed Price standing in an alley just across from the apartment building with one of those industrial green garbage bins at his side. The letters were falling into place after a few flustered seconds of panic, but Gaz's mic cutting through sapped your concentration. 

"Easy there, champ," Gaz chuckled in an unnervingly jolly tone loud enough for passing civilians to hear. "One too many drinks, eh?"

Your brows furrowed as suddenly the man slumped into Gaz's shoulder, softly lowered into a park bench. He lifted his hand from its placement on the jacketed man's stomach, folding a silvery needle back into his pocket. Just like that, Gaz's would-be assassin was reduced to a rowdy barhopper on his last stop of the evening. 

"D-did he just kill that man?" Kraus barked, his voice trembling. 

"A light sedative. He'll wake up with a mild headache in about twenty minutes," Laswell cooed, and you shot Kraus a glance that told him to shut it. 

And it's lucky that the professor dutifully ducked his head to divert his full attention back to the laptop just as Price was forced to take more drastic action. An overhead angle of Price in his tan bomber showed him being forced to drop his cigar as the second man, significantly bigger, cornered your captain. His explosion of movement was fast, but Price was faster. An extended silencer for a pistol surely would've ensured the pop would be essentially inaudible in the busy street, yet your heartbeat halted. Both men slumped into one another, and for a moment, you weren't sure who was struck. Price's knees buckled, and in an instant he was heaving the immense figure over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, dumping him into the trash bin at his side. Only after the lid was brought down to shield the body did you see the inky M-15 under his would-be killer's coat. Kraus definitely would've thrown a fit if he saw that unfold, and Price can't be pleased that he was forced to waste a perfectly good cigar.

The Korvettenkapitän passed you a note, the first draft of the text, that you scanned and flipped over to Kraus. He was to ensure the verbiage matches the language style prior notes, then back to KKpt and then to you to be a final pair of eyes on the transmission before it's given to Laswell. It has to be perfect, there's only one shot. The orders you're giving to the terrorists are inherently odd, not the kind of orders they will be expecting, so you're working on borrowed trust. A typo or failure to cohere to an established communication convention could spike suspicion. One failed queue or signoff could compromise the entire theatre of kids and your colleagues in the lion's den. 

"The seal-" you blurted.

"Boys, once we send you the message, you'll need to get her to comply and add the oracle's seal to the order." Laswell caught your implication instantly, meeting a chorus of acknowledgements in response. 

Whatever was going on from the other end of that radio was beyond you. Hopefully she's complying, even if it might be satisfying to get a few good smacks in on a person who orders the execution of schoolkids. It's not a matter of if Ghost and Soap will get her to comply, it's a matter of how much violence they have to promise until she does. At times like this, it becomes difficult to see yourselves as the good guys.

The three of you linguists moved as a trio, each playing a different but critical role. You each bow and bob out of the shift of staring at the collective screen before you, deferring to notes and comparing previous messages, murmuring corrections and sparing notes. It's relaxing to have teammates to catch any critical errors, but frankly, it makes you miss working alone. Fireman passing notes back and forth, taking the time to review slashing lines in blue and red pen strokes over previous work. Laswell's presence at your shoulder serves as an inherent reminder that you're working on a tight clock, if the rallying cries of distant protesters weren't reminder enough. 

As soon as you pass this note to Laswell, she transmits it to Soap, who delivers it to Ghost, who compels the oracle to mark it for approval, giving it to a pigeon to communicate to the terrorists while at the same time, Laswell tells a ground crew to await entry and save the hostages. It's safe to say there's a lot of weight on your shoulders, and walls upon walls of text offer a daunting task. But with the combined efforts of three experts in this craft, you nervously pinch your lower lip in thought as you read the final message, limited to a tight character limit.  After consideration from Kraus' experience in their use of code, a final version sprawled on paper was now clasped in your clammy fingers. 

MOVE-DCPL-DRSNG ROOM-LEAVE-WPNS FORTFY-LWR-HALL AWAT-INSTNS-OCL

Brutish but legible. Move the so-called 'disciples' to the dressing room and leave your weapons behind, then fortify the lower hall where they will keenly await further instructions, signed off by their beloved oracle. Most importantly, it aligns with the key that the terrorists would be expecting to use with the initial message, making it a perfect dupe. With Ghost's confident assertion that the oracle will assist in providing the seal and sending off the carrier, you tried to resist the bubbling thoughts of how he got such eager compliance. It's unfortunate that the German entry team will have to face a fortified group of terrorists, but their being unarmed will hopefully level the playing field. In the case that the explosives detonate, the lower hall is far enough from their location in the main theatre to make dust inhalation the extent of the possible injuries for the German soldiers, assuming they're making a rapid exit. A slow nod you shared with your colleagues made you astutely aware of a kink in your neck from constant tension, and you tentatively handed Kraus' paper to Laswell. 

She barely even passed her eyes over the paper before she slid it into a fax machine, occupying the messenger box to Soap with a digital rendition of your code, now encrypted into the appropriate ciphertext. They continued on over the radio about writing out the message, how to fasten it to the bird again, and adding a wax seal. Your role is done. You've passed the torch for the last time, and now your role is on the sidelines. Tidal waves of pride and deep breaths filled your chest, and the KKpt's fist gripping your damp palms tried to shake the shock out of you. Like little girls at a slumber party, the professor and Korvettenkapitän leaned in, sharing giddy whispers about the task. But for some reason, the tension won't dissipate for you just yet. Red dots on a street view map showed Ghost and Soap still well within the apartment block, and the Korvettenkapitän's grip halted when she heard what you heard. 

A scuffle. At first, Soap's radio clicked on, and muffled audio screamed into the van. Your eyes shot to the screens, frantically searching for something, anything, any indication as to what the fuck just happened. Price called through, commanding the infiltrating duo for an update. Another click through the radio, two more clicks, then someone gasping. Your own arms instinctively pulled yourself into a hug, making use of trembling hands and all heat drained from your face. Now, silence. 

"What happe-" 

"Shh," you hissed at the professor.  

They have to get out of there soon. The guy Gaz sedated will wake in a few minutes, and their trail is clearly hot. Who knows how many more waves of goons are out there, now acutely aware that two of their guards are suddenly silent.

"Conta-" Soap's Scottish accent filled the speakers. "We had contact, four tangos down."

"Is the oracle one of them?" Laswell's fingers whirled along the keyboard. 

"Negative. She's complying, but she had one last trick up her sleeve before she gave in," Soap panted. "I'm gonna need a few stitches, and Ghost took a bade to the gut, 'plate stopped the worst of it though." 

"Can't say I've ever been stabbed with a trowel before," Ghost spoke, eerily calm as the disgruntled oracle belted more German curses in the background. 

"There's a first for everything. Boys, you're officially hot. Send the message and exfil," Laswell commanded into the microphone at her lips. 

"Sending the message now, stand by," Soap added to a chorus of panicked cooing from one of the poor pigeons he was trying to wrangle. 

Relaxation was still a distant concept, and the single swig of coffee you'd swallowed was on the edge of coming back up. You've worked yourself up into an icy dread, all while Laswell was calm as ever at your shoulder. A skill you once knew, but mental exhaustion or perhaps being in tight quarters made you particularly on edge. Trained breathing practices and self-soothing kicked in, and you willed yourself to match the drilled calm you're expected to have in this field. What're you so worked up about anyways? It's not like these guys aren't specifically trained for and selected by their elevated ability to singlehandedly handle armed contact. The professor seemed greatly relieved, where for a second, you were sure he was about to hyperventilate and faint. 

"The message has been sent," Ghost affirmed flatly, and for a second you detected a faint creak in his voice.

"I'll tell the entry squad to get in position," Laswell spoke, clicking open a flip phone and pressing send on a pre-written text. "Now make your way back so we can enjoy the show."

The tension in your chest lifted, and Laswell rose from her seat. By the arrangement of the van, a domino effect compelled the rest of your peers to rise along with her, shuffling onto the warm pavement. Fresh air made you gape like a fish out of water, and a simple hand motion commanded you to return to the restaurant before those blond bangs hopped into a jog down the street. You didn't need to be told twice, even if the professor did. You palmed the sleeve of his blazer and whisked the three of you behind the glass doors of your restaurant-turned-cave. It's hard to say if you feel better or worse now that your role has been played. On one hand, you're no longer expected to pull a rabbit out of a hat and magically solve an unbreakable cipher. On the other, the reigns are no longer in your grip, and your participation is written in stone. Now, it's just up to the passage of time to determine the fate of your actions, and you can do nothing but wait, yet again. 

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[raisindave]

[Chapter 67] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

"I have an idea," you started, feeling the corner of your lip twitch into a smile at the absurdity. "What if we give the terrorists orders?"

Maybe your words had entirely stunned the room into silence, or maybe your buzzing thoughts drowned out the sound of the ensuing conversation. Ideas started to click into place in a way that they hadn't before; it felt like a breakthrough. After days of infuriating stagnation, your spinning mind gained traction at this crucial discovery.

"From how they have to be set up for this communication method to work, both sides are already working with a list of keys. They have to," you started pacing, making use of idle hands by hastily acting out your words. "The sender dispatches in a message, and the receiver aligns their existing keys to decode the message. It's the most secure way for them to use a one-time pad."

"They already have the keys… So, in a way, the message is the key as well," the Korvettenkapitän's face dropped as she caught onto your train of thought.

"If we get our hands on a message and the key before it reaches the terrorists, we can alter the text," your eureka moment must've made you look crazed, as Price, Soap, Gaz and Laswell all had stoney expressions. "It'll look entirely indistinguishable from orders that would be coming from the oracle!"

"We can use the seal from the stolen message to make our new message look official," Kraus added, pointing the tip of his pen at you.

"Why don't we just order them to release the hostages and surrender?" Gaz lifted himself from leaning on the side of a table, folding his arms.

"An outright order for unconditional surrender could come off as suspicious. We only have one shot at this," your hands cupped your face as you spoke, nearly tripping over Soap's extended legs.

"And there might be some kind of killswitch message for when the Oracle is compromised. We have to be strategic." KKpt's words could have been interpreted as a jab at Gaz, but he didn't seem phased.

"A-and if we happen to apprehend the right person and if this is the right trail, how can we convince her to send in a message that undoes everything they've been working towards?" Professor Kraus’ conviction faded, and pragmatism made him shudder.

"It'll be pretty hard to say no if Ghost is peeling your fingernails off," Soap shrugged, reclining and folding his hands behind his head.

After a few moments of your manic pacing, you recognized the awkward silence that had just filled the room at Soap's words, just in time for the man himself to walk in. Speak of the Devil. Ghost must've been called in my Price while your mind was spinning with possibilities; he ducked past the glass door, clearly just relieved from his overwatch duties. His presence and Soap's words made Kraus' face pale, and KKpt's tracking gaze honed on his menacing company. Kraus made a point of positioning himself with Soap as a barrier from Ghost's presence, hovering timidly by Soap's lounging in your hijacked seat.

"It's a joke. That was a joke," Laswell clarified with a polite chuckle, an outright lie.

The lie seemed to put Professor Kraus entirely at peace as all tension in his wrinkled expression immediately settled. If he only knew the half of it.

"Either way, 141 can be pretty persuasive when they need to be. We need to start thinking about how we'll craft the message," you posited to the other linguists, manifesting your most commanding tone.

"The hostages are the number one priority. Not some, not most, all of them," KKpt reaffirmed her assertive tone, commanding the humour out of the situation.

"We can't even approach the situation until we know it's safe. We have to start with the explosives," Laswell argued.

"On top of explosives, we can expect armed contact with five tangos," Gaz chimed in from beside you, looming over the dogeared blueprints. "They can make or break this whole mission."

"Five tangos? Piece a' cake," Soap quipped as his mouth twisted into a grin, Kraus bellowed a hearty laugh.

"141, this is capture, not kill. We've been given orders to bring these people to trial," Laswell barked. "But I can't speak for the German military."

With so many possibilities up in the air and so little time, it's a wonder that the room became silent. Every soul in that room was raking their mind for logic, seeking past experiences and wisdom to make sense of this change in tempo. You realized your hands were shaking, but you hid them under your folded arms as you paced further. That decadent chocolate cake the boys had bought you couldn't look less appealing right now, about as appetizing as a leather boot. Your nervous stomach couldn't handle the sight. Ghost's eyes in your direction caught your attention, his presence and intensity were apparent. When your eyes swam to dare to catch his gaze, he didn't relent. Brown eyes bored into you with a lingering agitation that made your gut feel like a canon ball had been dropped into it. What's his problem?

"There's too much press," Price sniffed, scratching at his beard. "We can't go in loud, it's too urban. Plainclothes, no armoured vehicles, no kits. Ghost and Soap will infiltrate the apartment and get this Oracle to comply. Gaz and I will be secondary clearance on the ground. Cricket, we'll get you what you need."

He nodded at you, sharing a glance with your colleagues as well. That's working on a hearty assumption that you'll know what to do with the intel they gather. It's also working with a hearty assumption that you're on the right trail to begin with.

"When can we begin?" Soap sat forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees.

"What time is it right now?" Price scoffed.

They all move as one. Not a word, no additional clarifications. Laswell gathered her intel in her arms again and slipped out, sparing a nod your way. Once again, just as quickly as they all manifested, they all shuffled out. Soap rose from your seat, Price and Gaz babbled ever so casually about a recent soccer match, and their distant voices trailed into oblivion. Price and co. were headed to the armoury or wherever, the barrel of Ghost's rifle disappearing last from view. Explosive commotion from behind you made the world blur, and suddenly you were being pulled into a giddy embrace. A wall of scratchy blue cotton with gold buttons pressed into your cheek, glancing over to padded shoulders to see the professor bounding over. Surrendering to the crashing relief, you joined your peers in a giddy group hug, squeezing out the deafening tension that's gripped you three for days. Korvettenkapitän Wolf was belting praises, and the explosion of movement sent the professor into a brief coughing fit.

For now, this mission is out of your hands. It's not your field. You're no strategist. Ideas you might bring to the table have probably been long since dissected by the experts, dismissed, as you'd expect. If someone came into your field of expertise and told you what to do, you’d feel pretty irritated too. Laswell will get back to you with the most carefully worded message you can deliver, curated by senior intelligence and coordinated with the ground crews. This feels like the inverse of the desperate hope they instilled in you. It's funny how the tables have turned, and the weight of the mission is now on their shoulders. It feels good. Looking down your nose at them, rolling your eyes if they don't immediately have a solution. The feeling won't last long, but it's worth savouring. Like a game of Red Light, Green Light, you'll be expected to act soon enough.

"We fucking did it," you cried, the words ringing as false in your reeling mind.

"The hard part's done, but there's still more to do," KKpt tempered the energy in the room, a message that was only partly received.

"What's the one with the," Kraus raised his hand to gesture to the top of his head, "hair."

The professor seemed eager to keep the electric atmosphere alight, an opposing energy to the Korvettenkapitän. He stood a lot closer than you were used to him too, pale cheeks alight with life, a flush you'd assumed had been drawn from the success. This aloof professor was now bouncing on his toes in his frumpy brown blazer.

"Oh, that's Soap," you answered casually, slowly catching onto his lingering smile. "Why?"

"I like him," he could barely contain his smile, tapping fidgeting fingers on his styrofoam cup of tea. He looked like he was about to say more.

"Can we focus, please?" KKpt barked in that brash drill-sergeant tone that made the professor quiver in his houndstooth suit.

"Right… Once the task force gets the oracle in custody, we'll have to work fast," you uttered, trying to fight the urge to continue the previous conversation.

"We'll have to get the key, decrypt the original orders, then write the new orders into the key and send it out like new," she continued.

"It's important to remember that we're working with a character limit in this medium," Kraus grumbled, shaking away his fluster. "Once we know what the new orders will be, we'll have to tailor our message within a few short lines of text."

"There's also the issue of internal dog whistles. There might be some secret keyword or omission of keywords that signal infiltration," KKpt pressed a balled fist to her tight mouth.

"You have a skeptical mind," Kraus huffed, flopping back into a chair with a squealing creak.

"We should have one of us creating the new message with the existing key, one person to read through the old orders to see if there are any consistencies, and another person to make sure we're not fucking it up," you ordered.

Immediately leaping into action, you gathered your things, preparing for anything. A pen, a notebook, and crumpling up the rest. Wads of discarded papers sat like shovelled snow in corners and under tables, forcing yourself to take a long drag of coffee to fuel whatever's to come. The rest of them caught the message, following with the same energetic preparation. For what? Who knows. Preemptiveness, more like. Pieces are in motion, and the energy can't go unused. It's like when you send a risky text to someone you fancy and start frantically cleaning your entire house for reasons you'll never grasp. Almost on queue, the door creaked open again, and a glimpse of blonde bangs corresponded with the sound of someone clearing their throat.

"The boys are about to head out," Laswell tapped her hand on the doorframe, only halfway through the door. "We'll be watching in the van. You should come join me."

"Yes, ma'am," you unfold your tight arms, letting them fall to your side.

You nodded for the others to follow, almost as if they were waiting for your approval to follow this random woman with skeptical brows. Daylight was blinding, and that blonde silhouette was the only distinguishable figure in the early noon sunlight. It makes you realize how much of a cave that restaurant has become. Your two peers followed at your heels, each armed with a laptop and a fistful of loose papers. The grey cityscape manifested once your eyes adjusted and you found your footing on the uneven sidewalk. A maze of vans and tents and floodlights, this tourist center has become a military encampment, armed to the teeth with cops and soldiers.

Your colleagues, the task force ones, swam into your field of view from across the street. There's something so unsettling about seeing these guys without their full kits and camo. Ghost had a blue and yellow sweatshirt with some sports team's logo on the front, unquestionably not one from his personal wardrobe. A black medical mask and a baseball cap made him look like any other commuter on a bus, backpack over one shoulder and all. On the other hand, Soap looked like at least a dozen other people you'd seen at the gym before, with a grey hoodie with ripped-off sleeves and running shorts. If you close your eyes and imagine a jock, that image of Soap is precisely what you'd see. He looks like a retired quarterback that peaked in Highschool. Even though they're not supposed to see them, you could barely see the bulletproof vests under their clothes. Not nearly as high of an armour level as in their usual kits, but could save their life nonetheless.

The rest of them wore jeans, almost like Soap was the one who didn't get the memo, even though his disguise was by far the best. There's Price, no hat, Gaz neither. It's such a rare, once-in-a-lifetime sighting that feels so unsettling, like you've just drawn a sword from a stone. Except after this mission, you probably won't be crowned King of Angleland. Even though it might feel like you deserve it.

Your staring was interrupted, and Laswell ushered you into the butterfly doors of a white van. Laswell seemed somewhat preoccupied, doing sound checks with dinky headphone pads that she pressed to her ears. She'd set up the interior with a wall filled with screens and graphs, a handful of CCTV angles, and an LED display that listed 141's Bravo signs. Those Bravo signs came online one by one, and Laswell, now 'Watcher,' settled in for her role in this mess. KKpt and Kraus joined you on the bench beside you; he goggled at every flashing light while she was stoic and severe.

Suddenly, everything was so official. So real. This is happening, and your half-baked scheme based on at least a dozen assumptions is about to send your colleagues into certain combat. Worst of all, if it fucks up, it all falls back on you. Apprehension caught up to you, and your forehead prickled with sweat. Every decision you've made with certainty descends onto your mind like a cold mist, sowing doubt. They're already on their way, picking up on a camera on the corner of an intersection headed further into the city. All 21 of those hostages and four of your comrades, all flying on your dodgy conclusion. It's all or nothing now.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 66] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

This final morning was a rainy one, leaving you utterly soaked after your short walk from that dingy motel. The atmosphere was different in the temporary workspace, more dreadful. KKpt at the professor didn't even rear their heads in acknowledgement as you stepped past the glass doors, wringing your soaked shell jacket. You'd finished the night with the idea to use an inversed transpositional cipher and went to bed with the phony joy of a possible solution, leaving the dread of proofreading for the morning. And almost immediately, hazy eyes blink in disbelief at your work from the previous night. Utterly useless, ink now bleeding with stray droplets from your dripping hair. 

Humidity from the air made your clammy skin feel feverish and sticky, clinging to the plastic-ey jacket that crinkles every time you lean to rest your face in your palms. Maybe you're looking at this wrong? What if it's an inside job, and the professor is secretly an armed cultist, the outsider, the one without militaristic security clearance. A glance over your shoulder, he was lying on his back on the wood floor, houndstooth blazer creased as he was clearly lost in deep thought. No, it's not him. Could they be using commercial radio communications? Manipulating stations or songs to send signals, where songs from the 80s mean affirmative and songs from the 90s mean negative. Intelligence would've picked up on that, that kind of surveillance falls into Laswell's field more than yours. They would've noticed something obvious like that long ago, but the sound of movement behind you shattered your concentration. The sound of scuffing boots over your shoulder made you halt your pen entirely, placing it across the paper with an awkward candour.

"I hope we're not being a distraction," that infamous Scottish accent spoke up from behind you; it would've spooked you if you weren't already so hopeless.  

You were seconds away from turning to snap at them for being unhelpful when the unmistakable sound of thick plastic snapped you from your irritation. It's a sound everybody knows, so uniquely distracting, the iconic sound of a plastic cake container being awkwardly pried open.  

"We forgot to ask them to write on it, but Gaz had the idea to write you a message in Morse code," Price nodded, placing a cake beside your damp notepad as you rubbed your eyes. 

"Seeing as you're a linguist and all," Gaz chuckled, clearly pleased with his contribution. 

Not for much longer, it seems.

You craned to look at the unfurled cake, a small treat of puffy chocolate icing with delicate shavings of white chocolate and plump strawberries. An exquisite treat from a bakery a few blocks away, just out of the reach of the barricade. Treats arranged in dots and dashes from licorice and MRE M&M's crudely manifested into a morse message. 'Happy Bsrthday Crscket'. An easy mistake, but you plucked the unnecessary dots to correct the i's and popped them into your mouth, a mistake that made Price jab an elbow into Gaz's shoulder. 

"I've got a birthday candle, too," Soap slipped the dark canister of a CTS Flash-Bang from his vest, trying to fight a creeping grin. 

It managed to pry a weak laugh from your chest, where you'd previously been stunned by the gesture. You'd forgotten your own birthday. Another year of your life passed both horrifyingly quickly and agonizingly slowly. The thought made you lightheaded and mortified at the realization that so much of your life had been spent with this crew. When did you last see Chucky? It'd been a year since you've seen your friends, since you've been in contact with them altogether.

This time last year, you'd made a haphazard attempt to take control of your life by making out with your colleague. A memory that makes you wince. It does explain why these guys remember the date, seeing as they made a point of visiting you at that bar in the first place. As kind as they might be, a reminder of your birthday and the passage of time might not be as welcome as you'd thought. A million thoughts and more crashed into your mind, and sweat pooled in your palms. How old even are you? 28? 29? No, 30? Probably 30. You'll have to do the math later. Holy shit.  

"Kate bought you a gift," Price's voice snapped you out of your trance, rattling your bones. "Simon is still on the overwatch shift, but I'm sure he says 'happy birthday' as well." 

He placed a delicate paper box beside the cake, one that you were eager to pry open to distract your racing mind from the oncoming existential crisis. In a nest of lavender-coloured shredded paper, she'd bought you a scented soy candle and a crinkling bag of fruit-shaped German candies. It made a smile pull at your cheeks at the gesture, willing your conviction to soften, otherwise you'll have a psychotic break. Lilac and vanilla scented, probably bought at one of the boutiques along the tourist quarter. So thoughtful. 

"How've your duties been?" You asked, manifesting your most polite smile as you rolled the small candle in your clammy palm.

In truth, you didn't have the stomach to eat the sweets they gave you, as out of character as that might be. Stress had eaten away at your appetite, and some odd part of you felt strangled with guilt at the thought of the manmade famine those hostages were facing. It doesn't feel right to gorge on cake and candy while you're on the crew bade to find a way to free the pack of frightened students. Or maybe it would feel worse to abandon the food that's so scarce for others. Maybe that's just another pointless ethical dilemma. 

"A pigeon shat on Gaz when he was on overwatch this morning," Soap snickered, sitting himself on the table beside you. 

"I had half a mind not to blast it into a puff of feathers," Gaz nodded along, breaking into a snort, "but it got too close to the theatre."

"Count your rounds sergeant, we're in a fucking city," Price scolded.

"Sir, yes, sir," Gaz chuckled, grinning wickedly under the bill of his cap.

"What if—" KKpt suddenly spoke up from behind you all, leaving you with a pause in her words as she thought. 

The words sounded so abstract for a moment. They sounded like it was just a random sound she'd formed from her vocal cords, but when you turned, her pressing expression sold her seriousness. It didn't look like the eyes you'd become familiar with when she thought she'd had a minor breakthrough in one piece of the cipher, they were so much more thoughtful than that. Intense, void eyes finally snapped to meet yours, sucking the air from the room. 

"What if they're using carrier pigeons," she finally vocalized the thought that had her shocked that she'd even spoken it. 

"Ah, like the Narcos in the 90s," Professor Kraus grumbled as he fought gravity to sit upright.

"It would explain the physical format," she continued, planting her palms on the white tablecloth before her.

"And the need for a seal," your spinning thoughts lunged into speech, springing to your feet.

Your eyes flashed back to your comrades, whose faces each furrowed into intense confusion as the linguists scrambled. Their three pairs of eyes were intently tracking your expression, drinking in the sudden surge of electricity in your posture and straightening their spines. Price cleared the space across the room in four broad steps, flipping through a blueprint that'd been lazily folded on the table. Other than the sound of quickly flipping papers, the room fell into a charged silence, compounded by thick humidity. 

"We have a list of suspicious characters," Price spoke, quickly putting the pieces together. 

Before you could understand what was what, he was flipping open one of those burner phones, hearing the dial tone from across the room. The Korvettenkapitän had taken a posture over Professor Kraus' shoulder, reading line-by-line through a passage of text he followed with his finger. The dial tone rang again, and seconds passed like hours. 

"Do any of the suspicious characters happen to have an interest in aviculture?" you ask, nodding with Price as he parrots your question to what sounds like Laswell answering the phone. 

He stepped from view, ducking into a small server's closet that would've once been lively, filled with pitchers ice water and lemon slices. Even with the assumption of privacy, apprehensive silence in the room left you able to hear the phantoms of their conversation. He mentioned a possible lead; she responded with something you couldn't hear, and you caught the tail end of something about an 'intelligence database.' Gaz tried to play it off like you all weren't rudely eavesdropping, nervously clearing his throat and sighing loudly, but Soap only leaned forward to get a better listen. The difference in both of their levels of manners was hilariously apparent. Finally, Price concluded with a clear 'understood,' and stepped back into view. 

"Kate will run through the sources. She's just next door," he grumbled, slipping the dinky flip phone back into his belt. "She'll come over if she finds anything." 

"So this is our best lead? Carrier pigeons? " Soap tucked his thumbs into the straps over his shoulders. 

"Yes," you three linguists all proclaimed as one. 

"They're out of supplies in there, time is ticking fast," Price's booming voice echoed in the empty restaurant. "These cultists know we're scrambling. I am sick of them having us on the back foot." 

It's scary to see Price be visibly agitated, even if this is probably far from the extent of his genuine wrath. He's right, though. Playing into the first rash idea you have could be playing into their scheme; it could be a diversion to get you out of the area for them to carry out a more dastardly attack. It's a dice roll, but at least that means you're playing the game now. The influx of energy made the room plunge into another apprehensive silence as everyone collectively paused to digest the conclusion. You couldn't handle the stillness, pacing frantically in laps around your colleagues' workspaces. Gaz pried open the heavy curtain over the front window, creasing darkness with pillars of murky light as he craned to look at the theatre. 

"The hostage-takers won't execute until they're given the order, but that order could arrive at any second," Gaz spoke, dropping the curtain and forcing your eyes to adjust to the darkness again. 

"Then we can't let another order arrive," Soap added, settling down into one of the cluttered table settings. 

"Shoot down all of the pigeons until we get one with the note," Price met your eyes. "From there, we can crack it and get into their communication line."

His directed attention made you feel like he was asking for your authorization. He was looking to you to approve this outcome, assuming you can take the baton from there. Your overstimulated mind stuttered at the foray, swimming in possibilities. It felt thrilling to be seen as an authority, but also devastating at the thought of making the wrong decision. Shoot down the pigeons and collect the notes before the terrorists do. 'From there, we can crack it and get into their communication line.' 

"No. Both the sender and the receiver must have the keys to the one-time pads," you finally found your voice to contribute, and Price's eyes almost imperceptibly narrowed. "If we get the message but don't have the key, we're back at square one,"

"She's right. One is useless without the other," KKpt came to your defence, and you felt the tension in your chest loosen slightly. 

A flash of blonde bangs pushed through the glass doors and entered your peripheral. The temporary break from concentration only served to remind you of how tense your jaw is, reminding you to blink. It felt like the air was sparked with anticipation as everyone fell dreadfully silent, listening to every tap of Laswell's petite boots as she approached. 

"One of our key suspects lives just six blocks away from here. She's been on the German Intelligence's radar for some time… and," she slapped a manilla folder on the table, loose polaroids of CCTV footage showed a hooded figure at a phone booth. "Her parents own a dove aviary business."

"That's our 'Oracle,'" Price's gravelly voice made your heart sink and soar in equal measure. 

"What if this is all just a red herring, and we're wasting precious seconds that we could be using to crack the cipher?" Professor Kraus bumbled, shaking his head in shock. "How would we know if she's even the right person?"

"Under normal conditions, surveillance and patience," Laswell rallied, rocking on her heels. "We don't have patience, and this is all we've got."

"We shoot down any pigeons we see until we get one with a note," Price nodded to Soap and Gaz. 

"Shoot the pigeons? In the city with roosts and windows on every corner?" KKpt folded her arms, scoffing in disbelief." You'd have to have an incredible shot to hit a mark like that."  

"Like shooting a bullet with another bullet while riding a horse, yada-fuckin’-yadya …" Soap murmured sarcastically, fiddling with a stray pen that you'd run bone-dry.

"We have to get her in our custody and stop any orders from coming in," Laswell approached Price, tapping the printed CCTV photos atop the file. "John, I need 141 to raid her apartment nearby and bring her into custody. But be careful, we don't know what kind of security she might have."

"Have we forgotten that there are fucking hostages in the theatre still? " KKpt stepped between Laswell and Price's dialogue, standing her ground against these titans. "We have hours until they start executing them, they should be the priority."

"We can't approach the hostages until we've eliminated the threat. They have that entire theatre rigged with explosives," Laswell countered. "We cannot have any more orders reach the terrorists."

"Hang on…" you interrupted her, pinching your lower lip in thought and feeling every pair of eyes settle on you. "I have an idea."

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 65] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: This chapter has mentions of sexual assault.

It's hard to complain about shitty sleeping conditions if you have nearly no memories of where you laid your head last night. Hours spent pouring over details, running through every textbook's spine, and scouring for a groundbreaking case study left you on the brink of utter exhaustion. Hoping that one of them will give you some direction because, at this point, you're coasting off hope in miracles. After hours of heated discussion, often boiling into screaming and resulting in a couple of shattered ceramic mugs, you'd retired to the dingy motel they're keeping you at. All you remembered was a drizzly outdoor walkway leading to your door, musty orange floral sheets and dead flies settled at the bottom of tinkering light fixtures. Frankly, you didn't have the mental capacity to process anything around you. 

So here you are now. A styrofoam cup of burnt coffee on an empty stomach compounded electrified nerves in the same repurposed restaurant. All of your Task Force comrades, plus a few more, stood in cross-armed silence, awaiting your solution. You and KKpt Wolf stood straight-backed and tall when your superiors filed in, a memo that Professor Kraus seemed to purposely miss. He doesn't owe these generals and captains the time of day; they asked him to be here, not the other way around. You could only silently envy the way he could lazily lick his cinnamon-covered fingers as Laswell filled you all in on the updated situation. 

"So, as I'm sure we're all well aware by now, more messages got in. They're demanding four million euros and a spot on daytime television to share this tape," she tapped a blocky black cassette down on the tablecloth. "Or they'll start executing."

Your fingers wrung your eyes, diffusing the words even as you could sense them coming. You'd seen their sign portraying the ultimatum as you passed the theatre, painted on the back of a glossy movie poster with scratchy black marker. A proud middle finger to your efforts, it made your forehead prickle with sweat from the stress. 

"We're still no closer to understanding the message," the Korvettenkapitän spoke for the linguists, and you sheepishly met Price's stare in agreeance. 

"But the words have meaning," One of the unknown faces with a reddish beard spoke up, some Joe from the German military that the KKpt yielded to. "They're not just random letters and numbers."

"Might as well be," Professor Kraus smacked with a mouthful of pastry. 

"If it's possible to crack it, aren't there algorithms to break these kinds of things?" Soap's foreign Scottish accent was cut off. 

"Attempting to break a one-time pad manually is like trying to shoot a bullet with another bullet, blindfolded, with your wrong hand, pissed drunk, while riding a horse at 70 kilometres an hour," Kraus interjected, reclining in his seat. 

The corner of Soap's mouth flickered into a smile, but the collective's stony expression only hardened. Clearly, Professor Kraus' metaphor didn't land. It would make sense for an auditorium of keen linguistics students but not for a choir of stone-faced army folks who don't have the patience for theatrics. 

"It's essentially impossible," you chose to break the cringeworthy stillness. "You can't see the message without the key, and the key doesn't make sense without the message. You can't have one without the other."

"How are they getting these messages, then?" Gaz asked, sliding one of the messy pieces of handwritten nonsense into his view, frowning at the scratched-out words.

"The message the hostage showed us was in a physical format, the most secure form. They could be using some sort of binary transmission, but it wouldn't make sense for them to add a seal of approval afterwards," you rubbed your eyes as you spoke. "The seal implies it's coming from outside the theatre, but all evidence says they're not being delivered by hand."

"Agreed," Kraus audibly scratched his stubble as he spoke, not even facing the direction of the conversation.

"Are there any underground tunnels?" Ghost asked, shifting on his hips with folded arms. 

"We have the original blueprints. There's nothing underground, not even a well," Laswell answered calmly, glancing at the professor's odd posture. 

"Even still, our heartbeat sensor would pick up any secret dropoffs." Price grumbled, his signature hat peeking into the corner of your vision.

"Let's double up overwatch. We clearly need more eyes on the building," Ghost ordered, nodding to Gaz and Soap.

"I already said they're not being delivered by hand," you bit back sharply, sucking your teeth in deep thought.

Only after another eerie creeping silence did you realize your transgression. Like something straight from a nightmare, everyone's eyes fell on you coldly, as if the teacher had just called your name while you were lost in thought. Speaking back to your lieutenant's order is a serious offence in this career, especially in the direct company of Captain Price and Laswell. A panicked surge of sweat and bile crashed into your system, and the room felt 20 degrees colder.

"-Sir," the correction meagerly slipped from your throat. 

It's easy to forget that he's your commanding officer, even if Price and Laswell are significantly higher up the totem pole than him. Even in the state that you've seen him in. It gets frustrating when you're talking in circles. Repeating old points that'd already been eliminated. It made you sharp and jaded, unaccustomed to the standard military dress. Luckily, Korvettenkapitän Wolf took the reigns, leading the conversation to wrangle attention off your risky insubordination, leaving eloquent closing remarks that silenced the investigation.

Eventually, they left just as quickly as they came in. The second that glass door clicked shut behind the last pair of polished boots, you could let out a long-held sigh. However, the tension wouldn't entirely dissipate. There was still so much work to be done. It's not wholly your expectation to solve this mystery. The linguistics team is just one cog in the machine. If anything, the overwatch squad has The Man's breath down their neck, as their iron blockade had been penetrated again. Your team is under additional stress because you're the closest to finding a solution. But that's the thing; you're no closer than them. One additional clue, likely entirely useless unless they happened to transmit game-changing information in a single message.

You'd started with creating potential profiles of the five terrorists, age profiles and demographics based on shoddy intel thus far. Having five of them suggests at least one is in command, delegating orders to the others and a second in command to help enforce command. The cult only lets men be their sacrificial lambs in their escapades, so you can expect five men between the ages of 18 and 45. Not much to work with…

Kraus was almost certain he found the word 'the' in the cipher, but you had to break his heart with the reminder that that's assuming they're working with a substitution cipher. Even if such a discovery would be a blessing, not unlike the feeling of a newborn child in your arms. The KKpt was tapping away at a laptop at one of the cloth tables, but every once in a while she'd slam it shut in frustration, let out a heavy sigh, and pry it open again only seconds later. 

You'd all reached a somewhat steady rhythm of work, about two hours of silence, looming over a book or laptop with an aching posture. Once the silence made everyone nervous enough to snap, you all broke into a fear-fueled, impassioned discussion. This was the kind of stress you'd feel if you'd found out the deadline for an essay was 11:59 that night, and it's worth 60% of your grade. Panic was only alleviated if you could focus long enough to forget where you were. There wasn't a reprieve in checking in on your colleagues either; the windows are all blocked to keep peeking soldiers and press at bay. Your British buddies could've given up on you and moved along to the next mission for all you know. 

Saliva stuck in a clump in your throat when the clock read 22:00. There's no way this day ticked past so fast. So horribly fast. An entire day spent in this restaurant, feeling like you could easily dissolve into a sobbing mess if you allowed yourself the time to feel the emotion. Your second day had melted away with nothing to show for it. One more day. Tomorrow, better make a difference. 

The stagnation made you stir crazy. You'd reached diminishing returns. When your eyes dragged over text passages, the words no longer sank into your mind, instead gliding off like rain on a wing. Passages about WWII linguists cracking Axis transmissions looked just as foreign as that crumpled letter the hostage pressed to the window, begging for your competence. Before you knew what was what, you'd entered the starkly lit kitchen, not even glancing to see if your peers were even present anymore. Wolf, Korvettenkapitän Wolf, had the same idea. Fresh air from the back door where countless sous chefs took their smoke break, a cool slab of concrete that separated the cobblestone from the swinging metal door. Streetlights were a foreign sight, and the darkness of the night sky was blinding. You settled in beside her, and she shifted to make room. Your polite smile was met with a curt nod, but you'd come to expect that from her at this point. But just as a comfortable silence crept over the two of you, her voice cut into the night air, and you didn't even notice her eyes on you. 

"What happened here?" KKpt Wolf tapped a dark finger on her cheekbone, mimicking the location she was referring to. 

Your voice caught in your throat. For a moment, you genuinely didn't know what she was talking about. Her pressing gaze persisted, and your exhausted mental faculties sputtered into action, remembering the bruise you'd suffered only days ago. Lorenzo. The shiner he'd graced you with as a parting gift. You didn't have any makeup to cover it up, shit. What do you say to her? The half-truth you told Gaz manifested on your lips, ready to explain it as a training mishap, but a foggy mind resisted the elusive response. 

"I rejected the advances of my trainer and…" you shrugged, forming a nonchalant smile on your lips to deflect any blooming pity. "I was leading him on, but then it- it suddenly started going too fast and I-"

"Did he come here with you?" she leaned in, gravely serious despite your attempted diffusion. 

“No- no,” you gulped. "He's back at the base we'd just left. One of the guys beat him within an inch of his life, I think."

Her pressing expression and snake-like eyes didn't relent, even when you were sure it would. If anything, she's more intense. The sudden surge in energy and attention made you cringe and tremble under the weight of her gaze. This was a can of worms you hoped to leave sealed, but your subconscious seemed to have insisted that it'd already been cracked open long ago. 

"I just don't know why I didn't just lean into it. I wanted it," you fumbled the words. "I panicked. I haven't had this problem before wit—" You cut yourself off before you overshared, luckily. 

That fucking stare didn't relent. Not even to blink. Two dark orbs tear into you like bullets through paper, wringing the truth from you with ease. It doesn't help that she keeps her navy uniform on 24/7, probably even when she sleeps, making her feel like a titan of forbearance and self-control. 

"I- ran away when he put his hands on me, I didn't even say a word. I guess he didn't like that, and he socked me," you tried to conjure a punchline and a weak chuckle to ease this electricity. 

She didn't even do you the kindness of sharing your laughter. Fuck. You were stammering like you'd taken a cookie from the cookie jar, wracked with a pang of guilt you couldn't understand. This silence stayed, though. She shifted her posture back, illuminating her face under the overhead door light. 

"Anyone with your best interests in mind will hear 'no' and not think twice about it," she finally spoke, her softness unfaithful to her grave expression. "I think something in you knew he was bad news."

"I think you're right," you sighed. 

"This career isn't kind to women," that severe tone you were expecting manifested again. "You have to come forward when something like that happens. Even if it might not always seem like anything changes afterwards, it does make a difference. If not for you, it'll make the path easier for the next woman that happens to." 

She spoke with a level of confidence that made your gut wrench, sure that was speaking from experience. The thought made your face wrinkle in despair and your heart soften in a conflicting cocktail of emotions. At some points in her speech, you weren't sure if she was scolding or comforting you, but that just seems to be the way she is.

"-And it doesn't sound like he'll be groping any more of his students anytime soon with the beating he got," she added, a smile finally cracking onto her lips.

It's like she's finally allowing you to laugh. And you did. Fuck, it felt good to laugh. There's nothing more embarrassing than being psychoanalyzed by a stranger, except for the fact that she's entirely correct. Someone you met less than 48 hours ago reads you like a book. Laughing away the stress felt like the relief you craved, even if the quip wasn't that funny. The change in gears stunned you. Not just her shift in attitude, from cold and calloused to displaying a steady thrumming heartbeat of compassion and respect, but also the unexpected change in tune from the slog this workday had been. 

"Better get some shut-eye. Tomorrow's the last day," she warned, dusting off her heavy coat as she stood, ordering you to do the same. 

"Goodnight," you nodded, meeting her face one more time before you parted for the evening.

Renewed hope for life and crushing dread at the current circumstances created a battlefield in your mind. It would usually be fodder to keep you awake for hours, and yet muscle memory commanded your sluggardy muscles to follow the route back to the motel. Boots tapped on creaking iron steps that brought you to the second floor of the same dingy motel, fumbling with a rusty room key past heavy eyelids. You collapsed on the squealing mattress, surrendering into the sheets and breathing in the stale pillow. You barely had the mental faculties to slip off your cargo pants under the sheets before you were deep into an impenetrable sleep. 

Dreams fill your mind with colours entirely absent from your vision for the past 48 hours. You dreamt of old memories with friends, times you'd snuck out late at night. Swaying palm trees and sturdy redwoods. Of the Korvettenkapitän's forgiving glare. Dreaming of that seaside park, peace and warmth at your back, of the osprey's wings slicing through the air. Warmth at your back dissipated, and you turned to see your front door, just in time to be met with an outpouring of dread. The dream shifted, and a wave of silky blue rose petals were washing on the sidewalk shores in front of your house, rising. You run to your front porch, desperate to escape the surging wave. Fingertips are a breath away from your front door; you can practically feel the biting metal before it slips from your grasp. The front door fades from view, and a crushing onslaught of velvety petals surge into your lungs, sapping the life from your veins.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 64] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

With a heavy heart and a shotgun blast of apprehension, you swallowed all pride and pushed through the glass doors. Meeting new people is always the worst. 

"Hello?" you pressed your lips into a tight line, awkwardly calling into the empty restaurant.

Even when you crane your neck to sweep any corners where your 'new best friends' might be hiding, these exalted experts aren't anywhere to be seen. You took extra care to make your boots echo on polished wood floors, hopefully alerting someone to your presence, but long shadows from drawn curtains cast every corner in hostile darkness. It quickened your heart rate, making you almost frantic to find your peers; otherwise, you'd have to sheepishly report to Price that you'd lost them. A fate worse than death. Only when you came around to the other end of a chic, modern bar did you find another human. Faces you'd seen on Laswell's tablet manifested in the flesh, though not nearly as prim and put-together. 

You winged at the clamorous cracking of the glass, but her heavy gaze didn't waver. The Korvettenkapitän's dark formal jacket lay neatly strewn over the back of one of the cloth chairs, where she stood folding muscular arms over her chest. A finely ironed button-up with a tight collar made Laswell's similar clothing style look so much more approachable. Professor Kraus was within arms reach, slumped into a matching chair, nearly strangled by a chunky sweater of beige cable-knit wool. She stood tall and stern, commanding respect with her posture, whereas he seemed entirely aloof to your entrance, more concerned with sipping at another cup of coffee he'd kept as a backup. 

"Nice to meet you both," you sighed deeply, breathing away bubbling tension. 

This dining space would be so romantic and intimate if it were under the intended circumstances. Low cylindrical crystal chandeliers glitter even when they're illuminated by a stark floodlight, the apparent source of those long shadows. The shimmering crystals create the most stunning effect on the ceiling, almost like a water's surface sparking life into lofty ceilings of dark panels. Tabletops that aren't repurposed to function as makeshift workspaces are adorned with pristine white tablecloths that flow over the edges of the tables, with sultry, slender candlesticks and withered bouquets. Your 'new best friends' have established themselves next to an elegant bar of black wood and smooth steel, making use of the nearby kitchen's stark lighting. 

"Commander Karim told me about you," the polished Korvettenkapitän spoke, scuffing polished shoes as she approached. "She and I used to work together. She spoke highly of you, said you were one of the best she's ever seen." She glowered down her strong cheekbones at you skeptically.

Commander Karim? Who the hell is Commander Karim? 

Your mind spun as KKpt's words rattled in your mind, failing to stick their landing. So many faces had come and gone in the past few months; it's a wonder you can remember your own name if only it weren't shouted at you every other day. Precious seconds used wracking your mind are ticking down, and the Korvettenkapitän's social timer is quickly slipping. 

Who is that… who- oh! Commander Karim! Farah Karim! Oh, she's talking about Farah, and she left a good word about me too. I only worked with her for a few days, so I must've left a deceptively good first impression. Damn. I owe her a drink. 

"Farah was a treat to work with," you smile after a rigid pause. 

"Yes…" KKpt spoke cautiously, you turned to see that she was visibly unsettled by your usage of Farah's first name. "She called you 'Cricket.'"

"Ah," you chuckle weakly, "a nickname I've picked up. You can call me Lu-."

"Why 'Cricket?'" Professor Kraus cut you off, finally lifting his head to speak with piqued curiosity. 

"Are you a fan of the sport?" the Korvettenkapitän circled around you pensively, folding her hands behind her back as she stalked.

Words failed you for a moment. Why are you called cricket? When Soap's logic finally did click into place, it struck you as something you shouldn't explain in conjunction with a first introduction. Being pinned as a shit-talker isn't conducive to a reliable and hard-working teammate. It would be easy to lie; you could easily make something up like 'I'm a really good jumper' or 'I have a brother named Grasshopper,' but lying to allies you'd just met just doesn't feel right. There's nothing to fear from these people. They're peers. The professor, this Korvettenkapitän, just more faces you'll forget in a few weeks. But this time, you won't be the meeger and soft-spoken specialist they expect to meet. You've earned your merit. And you won't roll over and show your underbelly at the first sign of intimidation. 

"It's a nickname I got from chirping at my superiors," a wicked smile lit up your face, rolling back your shoulders. "And I pissed them off enough for them to grace me with a callsign."

"Yet you've managed to keep your employment in the military with such a lack of respect?" Korvettenkapitän Wolf lashed.

"I got promoted from Corporal to Sergeant a few months ago," you shrug, meeting KKpt's intense eyes with a matching challenge. 

Her eyes were dark, scathing. A different kind of dark from Ghost's. His were scathing and spiteful, the eyes of someone who could kill you without a second's remorse. Hers, too, were warning and lethal, but more skeptical than anything. You'd do anything to know what thoughts are rattling around under those tight curls that cling to her scalp like a helmet. 

"I like you, Cricket," she said, putting extra emphasis on your callsign. The sudden change from skepticism to camaraderie caught you entirely off guard.

Somehow those words lowered your guard enough to rest your hip on the side of their table, craning to take in their work. A handful of paper-thin laptops dotted the cris-crossing tables, temporary stations for these manic cryptologists to flit between. Cords and crumpled papers served as excellent trip hazards, and a deep coffee stain on one of the stark tablecloths will have to come out of the German military's budget. But you could feel the Korvettenkapitän's eyes on you. She's not done with you, and the anticipation of her next words sat in your conscience, even when you tried to look like you were reading. 

"I-I read your file, Sergeant Grant," Professor Kraus spoke shakily, seemingly oblivious that this topic had already been discussed while he studied his papers. "You're a bit of a superstar in the linguistic community lately."

His words made you freeze, turning your absent gaze to meet him. 

"What?"

"Your work in Al Mazrah was incredible. I've heard and read your transcriptions with some of my peers. What a bold choice to go into the town in person, and your use of sociolinguistics to infer and problem-solve is remarkable. It takes a lot of nerve to think of something like that, and do it yourself too," a phantom of a smile pulled at her cheeks.

"Oh, that wasn't my idea to go into town. It was actually Farah's… Commander Farah's," you corrected sheepishly. 

"You applied all the right methods, and your understanding of regional Arabic syntax is textbook. Beyond textbook, I was really impressed with how you-" the professor's gushing was cut off. 

"And your understanding of the message padding in the oral transmissions in Kazakhstan, that was some quick thinkin'," Korvettenkapitän cut in, stepping closer to you. 

Kazakhstan? When the hell was I in- oh… Chita, Russia. The first mission they had me on when I met 141. Laswell probably changed the details of my location and mission to protect the security of the task force, especially with something as highly sensitive as stolen nukes. I wonder what they would've thought of the other highly classified missions I've done. What would they think of that hostage recovery on the yacht in Mexico with all the Russian mobsters, posing as a sex worker, or when I was torturing vital info out of that guy in the dam. Maybe it's a blessing that they don't know about those missions. 

"I was just following orders," you manifested your most modest grin, feeling like you could shrivel into a ball at the sudden onslaught of affection. 

"Now- I wanted to pick your brain, Miss Grant," the professor bumped the table as he clumsily rose from his chair. "How did you get the idea to take one of the family members into the barricade in Verdansk?"

"What approach did you use to understand the sociolinguistics of Ukrainian Pidgin so fluently in ten days?" KKpt approached further, craning to stay in your field of view as she stood above you. 

"I'd do anything to see your notes," Kraus nearly lept over her words, keen eyes searching your face for answers.

Ukrainian Pigin? I definitely wasn't fluent in ten days, they pinned me as a 'Yankee' almost immediately. I can still feel the scar tissue from the beating I suffered because of it, too. Laswell must've buttered up my record because it certainly didn't go that smoothly. 

"I was doing what any of you would've done under the same pressure," you croaked, the barrage of attention making your visage of confidence crack. 

"Very good!" He blurted, tipping his new ceramic mug to you, almost giddy. 

There's nothing as foreign as this feeling. It feels like you're hallucinating. You were expecting to be reluctantly recruited as a forced addition due to the SAS' occupation of this existing encampment, yet you're receiving a hero's welcome? This celebrity status you've inadvertently gathered just by doing your job, it's like how the soldiers at all the barracks' look at Ghost and Price… revered. It feels good. It feels wrong. Like they're only praising you because Laswell puffed up some of the details and made you look more impressive than you actually are. These two are staring through you with keen but increasingly puzzled expressions, like they're watching your sense of self unfold before them.

"So what's the sitrep?" You blurted, eager to redirect the conversation in the creeping silence. 

"Right," KKpt Wolf stood straight-backed again, smoothing down her dress shirt and returning to the main table. "Our heartbeat detector shows five extra tangos outside of the known 21 hostages. They've been barricaded for 10 days, and they're all heavily armed, including remote detonation explosives stored in caches around the hostages."

"This is a Sig-Int mission, so we're working on the back foot," Kraus looked up past his heavy glasses to speak, haphazardly shifting the topic. 

"Sig-Int… so what Signals do we have Intelligence on?" 

The Korvettenkapitän slammed a booklet on the table at your hip, a predictable dazzle technique that failed to make you flinch. You're too used to Graves to be spooked by that, but at the same time, something about this woman makes you think she could give him a run for his money. She's got the physical intimidation down with broad shoulders and a tight mouth, but you'd never see Graves admit admiration for someone below him.

"We had a breakthrough two days ago, it's been the bane of my existence," the professor started, tugging at the high collar of his sweater. "A hostage held up one of the terrorist's internal messages to the window, and we got a glimpse at the code they're using."

KKpt Wolf placed down a still image taken through a sniper's scope of pale fingers pressing a crumpled note to one of the windows at the theatre. You slipped the shiny paper into your palm, examining the photo. Through a rain-spattered window, the hostage offered the linguistics team a Hail Mary: a string of strategically and clearly laid out letters and numbers in a grid along pale paper. A maroon emblem in the bottom right almost looked like a wax seal, though it was too obscured by the window pane to know for sure. They were begging the linguistics team to make sense of the nonsensical characters, but you're all just as confused as them.

"It's a one-time pad," you spoke, studying the text block with a crinkled face.

"You are quick," the Korvettenkapitän's confident tone resumed. 

"We haven't been able to crack it," Professor Kraus said, tossing his wiry glasses onto the desk and reclining in his chair again, defeated. 

One-time pads have been around since the 1800s, and they've been used in warfare and espionage ever since. Only usable for one message, and is useless immediately after, hence 'one-time.' Secure, virtually unbreakable, and as Professor Kraus put it, the bane of a linguist's existence. Scrambled letters and numbers make a chart-like structure on the page, a perfect block of text only discernible by the keyholder. They're annoying as hell. 

Kraus has been running a frequency analysis of the text, his swirling, elegant handwriting noting any repeating characters that might fit the vowel structure of any known language. Time and time again, slashes and dashes eliminate attempts at cracking the cipher, each new piece of dogeared loose-leaf signifying another failure. KKpt Wolf had a much more barbaric approach; a brute force assault on the letters, one by one, going through each potential possibility in an attempt to bend the cipher to her will. Her handwriting is stiff and rigid, with angular letters in all capitals, each failed jab at the code is slashed with a red pen. They both know what they're doing, unquestionably experts in their field. But they each represent polar ends of a linguistic cryptologist's approach. 

Piles of papers splayed on repurposed dinner tables proved they've been at this for a while. Borderline insanity bleeds into their word, sprawling dashes along one particular piece swipes over white tablecloths, indistinguishable from white paper for the exhausted linguists. You slid off the side of the table, standing on your feet again and pacing passively to pacify tense muscles. 

"These terrorist zealots won't do anything without the word from their 'god,' this 'oracle' figure they keep mentioning," Kraus grumbled after a raspy cough. "They won't operate without 'his' word."

"Fucking fanatics," KKpt cursed under her breath, resuming her lurking and muttering, moving in an opposite momentum to your pacing. 

"We suspect this is a seal from the oracle, proof that his coded orders are official," he added, tapping a thick finger on the maroon blotch at the corner of the photographed note. 

"It works in our favour, though," KKpt said in a brittle voice. "It means we won't have to worry about copycats. The media's having a goddamned field day." She pressed her clenched fist on the table beside you, and the professor sighed. 

"They've been receiving orders from this 'oracle' since they've been held up... Somehow," he clicked and un-clicked a pen, seemingly bored by the conversation as his eyes wandered to the rafters. 

"Somehow? That doesn't make any sense, isn't there a blockade?" You pressed, turning on your heels hotly. 

"There is a blockade." She spat with that familiar coldness. 

"Could they be receiving the transmissions digitally?"

"We've asked the area's satellite and landline providers. No transmissions are coming from inside the building. No cellular, nothing," she chided, refolding her arms over her chest again.

"If they aren't receiving it digitally and they aren't sneaking notes through the back door, how are they communicating?" you continued. "I-is there a signal flare communicating in binary we're missing or-"

"We have eyes on every window from here to the fucking Rhine River," she commanded, halting her stalking eerily.

"The Cuckoo Clock is ticking," Kraus said, oddly aloof. "Supplies are bone dry inside the theatre, and the hostages can't survive on vending machine food for much longer."

"The General says we have three days to figure it out," Korvettenkapitän Wolf barked, running a chill through your body. "Or all our necks are on the chopping block."

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Master List

[raisindave]

Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses - “Cricket” Moodboard

“You’ve been a linguist in the military for years, chugging along on non-consequential missions. An anonymous letter with the CIA emblem begs you to meet up with an agent, urgently. Will your skills in your specialized field be enough to keep your head above water, or will you be crushed under the pressure?”

I put together a lil moodboard for my Ghost x Reader (ish) fic that includes at least two references to all the completed missions thus far. I made this when I was supposed to be editing this weekend's chapter. Yippeeee

I'm really hesitant to portray Lua physically because she's specifically designed to be a reader insert. Lua isn't necessarily canonically white or exclusively with a slender body type, but I included those pictures to portray some of her wardrobe. Lua "Cricket" Grant is more of a state of mind.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 63] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

How are you even technically associated with this task force, anyway? Your mind drifts to deem them co-workers, but is that even true on paper? The jet Laswell ferried you into was marked as British, some sort of British officer's jet that tears down the runway like a bat out of hell. But you're definitely not British. Though neither is Laswell, yet there she sits, across from you in your aisle tapping away at a bulky laptop. So why are you tagging along on this mission? The Canadian Air Force is pretty far separated from the SAS, only sharing the Air part in their names. Is SAS even the Air Force? You'd surely read that somewhere, but it's hard to say. They're like, the British version of Navy SEALS, but in the air, for some reason. The details get foggy, but by now it's definitely too stupid of a question to ask. Maybe you're on this specific mission as an extension of NATO again? Maybe some sort of exclusive Air Force club you've accidentally joined? It started off simply enough, just helping out with the odd mission and utilizing your unique set of skills where you're applicable. Now, it's gotten to the point where you can't seem to shake this British bag of goons.

Your role as a specialist always had you on these kinds of gigs, being casually traded around to other organizations to serve wherever you're needed. They could send you home after one of these missions, and you'd never see any of these faces again, likely shipped off to another transcription mission on a boat somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. It's been so long since you've been on familiar soil that you can only speculate that your home government hasn't marked you as KIA. But that seems to be the lifestyle of working with an elite counter-terrorism task force. What's Uncle Chucky been up to? Is the goldfish you'd surrendered to your neighbour still alive? Your friends back home have probably gotten married and had kids by now. Yet here you are. 

The stray cats, with a sudden and entirely coincidental fixation on Ghost, will have to carry on without him. At least they were appreciative though, even bidding him adieu from the edge of the tarmac with some distant hungry yowls. So far as you've been told just over thirty minutes ago, you're on your way to Germany. It's not a far flight, especially with the significantly more speedy military airliner you're on; you're looking at an hour flight tops. It's pretty luxurious too, with that classic plastic-ey wood that forms a thick plate over any appliances and comfy leather seats that groan with every movement. It's not quite a jet, but it's big enough for you and Laswell to split one seating quadrant and Gaz, Price, Soap and Ghost to sit at another just across the aisle. They'd found a pack of cards somewhere in the cabin, which explains their occasional outbursts of commotion. It sounds like they're playing bridge, and Price is wiping the floor with the lot of them. 

"Cricket, I hope your German is up to snuff," Price spoke, shifting across the aisle to settle next to Laswell after making Gaz throw up his hands in frustration. 

"That won't be an issue," you nod, smiling politely as you feel the others' gazes eavesdropping on your conversation. 

"Where would we be without you," Laswell enthused, occupied with unclasping thick buckles around a messenger bag.

"Probably back in Chita trying to find those warheads," you chuckle.

Laswell and Price had an unusual reaction, like just for a moment, a flicker of discomfort and concern flashed across a shared look between them. It's as if you'd struck a nerve. It made discomfort radiate through you at the thought, but almost on queue, Price cleared his throat to speak, and the cabin collectively stilled. 

"Laswell's got the sitrep," he boomed, clearing a path for Laswell's contrastingly weaker voice. 

"A hostage situation has gotten out of hand. 17 British secondary school students, two teachers and three chaperones on a field trip were taken hostage in a historic theatre in West Berlin. A religious extremist group has barricaded the hostages, armed to the teeth with stolen foreign weapons," She made sure to exchange eye contact with every one of you as she commanded. "They're demanding a televised transmission so they can share their violent gospel, and killing them outright will only make them martyrs."

"It got messy when one of the chaperones died after the cultists refused to accept diabetes medication provided by the negotiators," Ghost added gruffly from across the aisle, slyly reminding you to 'pay more attention to the news.'

"'Medication is of this world, and this world is sinful,'" Price quoted sarcastically. 

"That's horrible," you gulped, but the rest of them seemed unfazed.

 

"The Germans aren't happy about having the SAS step into their turf, but now that a British citizen has died in a hostage situation, the whole world is watching," she continued, folding her fingers together on her lap. "We want the weapons in our custody, the hostages back home, and the terrorists to be brought to trial, not executed. And we want it all done yesterday."

Hostage situations are always the worst. They rarely get resolved with outright violence, running with all guns blazing like cowboys. Instead, they have to be solved diplomatically; trying to talk sense into the heads of people who abduct innocent civilians for leverage. Taking their offer and sharing violent cultist ideologies with the people of a nation that's looking less and less competent every passing day is a recipe for increased terrorism. If they're calling in a Task Force like 141, it must mean that there are details about this situation that are particularly sensitive. That it's beyond the scope of a run-of-the-mill hostile takeover since it's making government bodies panic.

You can only hope you won't be on the negotiation team, because Laswell should know full well by now that that's a topic you're not equipped to approach. Graves might be willing to bend your described skillset to fit a mission, but the thought of doing anything more than translating and decrypting makes your fingertips feel numb. Not only that, but you're entering a setting where the default attitude toward your presence is hostile. It's got to be hard to forcibly accept help, especially when Germany is famous for producing some of the best hostage negotiators in the world. But you're more than used to handling hostile presences at this point, seeing as you've survived being around Ghost for this long. 

"You'll be working with two other linguists this time around. They're gonna' be your new best friends," Price emphasized sternly, staring through you with a trusting gaze.

"Yes, sir."

"Korvettenkapitän Nyota Wolf, she's been hand-selected by the Inspector General of the Navy. She's the best of the best," Laswell spoke, extending her arm to place a tablet in your fingers.

"Should I be worried about my job security?" You smiled, squeaking in an attempt at smoothing down creeping anxiety. 

"Don't give me any ideas," Price grumbled with that classically British sass that's almost indistinguishable from seriousness. 

The illuminated display showed the profile of a stoney-faced woman, denoting her rank and affiliations in a tidy profile. Deep umber skin and a stout nose, finely decorated in a heavy black trenchcoat with gold buttons, signature to the German Navy. The bulky navy scarf crossing over her collarbones and tucked into the coat made her look like a cobra, especially with angular eyes that stared through you, even behind the safety of a screen. She seems like the kind of person you don't want to piss off, but unfortunately, it seems you already have.

"You'll also meet Otto Krause, a Linguistics and Cryptology Professor from Humboldt University. He's been an academic in the subject since before you were born," she continued, nodding for you to swipe to the next slide.

Professor Krause looked much more approachable, dressed in a bulky suit of tacky brown houndstooth, calling forward imagery of at least a dozen professors you'd encountered in your time in academia. Thick aviator glasses with silver frames made him look like he'd never left the 1970s, especially with a strategically styled hairstyle that made use of sparse silver strands. Thick frown lines creased pale, wrinkling skin, firmly cementing him in the age bracket of somewhere between 70 and 120 years old. 

When it comes to high-ranking task forces, it's always best to travel light, even if it would technically be wiser to have peer-reviewed work. It's why there are only four of those boys, rather than a squad of 30. Having too many cooks in the kitchen can make critical intel take longer to get back to the task force, a field where every second means life or death. Of course, your work will always be passed back to a team of linguists once the mission is complete and every utterance and solution is recorded. Except for when it isn't. It'll be nice not to be the sole linguist, and if shit goes haywire, you won't be bearing all of the responsibility. Especially when there's already been a civilian casualty so far. But it also comes with the consequence of reduced control, particularly with a decorated Navy Korvettenkapitän, which if memory serves, significantly outranks you. KKpt Wolf operates the DHO38, a German transmission station famous for its use in decrypting encoded messages, as the profile neatly notes. It indirectly tells you about your details of the upcoming mission, and your role in this puzzle. 

It's easy to forget how quickly things move in this career. Less than 24 hours ago, you were standing at an insufferable gala, forced to tolerate pompous diplomats boasting about their supposed role in your accomplishments. At least you had a solid exfil though, and you got to have a slightly more memorable night instead. One that will probably leave you with a pretty unhealthy expectation that you can avoid any unsavoury social setting with a sneaky hookup. You can still feel his presence inside you. Not in your oh-so-tender heart but in the pit of your lower abdomen. Rucking might grace you with bruises and aching muscles in the morning, but it won't hold a candle to the bruising Ghost wrought into you when you fled said insufferable gala. 

There's no escaping this time, and not nearly as much independence. Anxiety always comes easy, but you can't afford to let it take hold of you right now. The rest of the flight was spent toiling in your recollection of the German language, a far less foreign language than Arabic or Russian, with a relatively familiar syntax to your native tongue. On the bright side, if you ever forget a particular word, there's a significant chance the actual word is a compound of a few adjacent terms that create a mini sentence. Tintenfisch… ink fish… squid. Fledermaus… flying mouse… bat. Best of all, Handschuhe… hand shoe… glove. It gets a bad rap for sounding like an 'angry language,' but that's always struck you as a cruel and unusual way of describing it. Any language sounds like an angry language if the person speaking it is yelling at you, especially as a Westerner who might not understand the social customs that've existed for generations. German seems to have become the scapegoat, even if it’s absolutely undeserving of that reputation, biases aside. 

Only when you'd landed at another standard military airport did you get to consider how much of a difference an hour flight can make in the environment. The trees aren't as dry as their sun-baked counterparts down in Italy, though that's probably a consequence of shorter days and more forgiving temperatures in late summer. The grass is shorter here, more green, even though it might just be contrasted by the significantly greyer sky. Not nearly as many cats, too.

Almost immediately after your boots touched the ground, you were shuffled into a dark van that ferried you to the theatre. Laswell offered you a thin shell jacket to cover your shoulders in the temperature change, but only after the zipper reached your chin did you realize the blocky "Informationsanalytiker" text along every face of the piece. Neatly categorizing you as an Information Analyst long before you'd even reached the setting. It felt like you were being herded into your pen, catalogued by your coat to be as easily accessible as possible, and the lanyard around your neck like a lead really sold that concept. You didn't have to ask if you were close to the hostage situation yet because blocky inner-city architecture and buzzing civilians with craning necks welcomed you to the arena. 22 civilians sit behind those theatre doors. Well, 21 now. How long have they been there? How many Tangos are there? How will you fit in with the dynamic between the other two linguists? Nearly a million more questions swirl in your mind, effectively distracting you from the fact that you could easily be on this mission for a month. Rows of blockades thwarted chattering press crews, German police in their Navy and black uniforms chattered warnings through muffled radios of your approach. The city grew denser, and so did the pressure. Price swung open the sliding side door, and you instinctively followed like the obedient little lamb you are. 

It's a lot bigger than you were expecting. The theatre was pretty unassuming from the outside, easily missed among the grey stones of the inner city, but a steadily focused floodlight and a sprawling sign differentiated it from the others. Two expansive wings on either side of a massive multi-level central auditorium, all made from the same uniform grey stone bricks. Cobblestone streets led up to a steep staircase, up to a polished white door, now haphazardly barricaded with wood slats. A square sign with slots for sliding letters that once displayed some prestigious play or musical lay shattered on the ground, reading Kino Der Toten in shattered bulbs. 

"There it is," Price spoke from beside you, folding his arms and drinking in the established perimeter.

"'Cinema of the Dead,'" your face crinkled in thought, reading the sign's lettering. "It's a bit on the nose."

"Western Europeans tend to have a pretty grim sense of humour. But we'll be staying across the street," he chuckled, suggesting you turn over your shoulder to follow his nod. "'KK' Wolf and the professor are expecting you."

His nod directed you to a significantly more ornamented restaurant that stood on the opposite side of the grey street. Even from your angle on the ground, you could spot shadowy figures with the probing ends of a sniper's rifles jutted out from the windows and rooftops. So many windows face this small plaza; it'd be nerve-wracking if you were on the other side of this conflict. Now, with an awareness of their presence, you could see at least a half dozen other pockets of snipers on every street corner. There are probably another half dozen that you haven't even spotted yet, a team that Gaz and Ghost take the initiative to join, watching them head toward one of the outposts. They're the designated snipers, but it's relieving to know they, too, have to awkwardly work their way into an established foreign team. It's almost funny to see how much people tip-toe around you, and it only just occurred to you how close you're allowed to get to the theatre without having been stopped by the police. 

Your friends may have built families and found lifelong spouses, but you'll have to settle with the satisfaction that you're not being ushered by any of the armed police officers that buzz around in the background. A few nods and the odd salute, but other than that, these people mostly ignore you. Because that's the thing; you're a slave to your work, and it comes with the consequence of expected participation from your colleagues in the field. They don't have to question if they'll have Sergeant Grant to help them whenever shit hits the fan because you've already been crowned as having no life outside of work anyway. At least your devotion means you're free to briskly walk over to the designated location you've been allocated; but don't worry, your leash is just a precaution, and try not to think of it as a collar. Just past these tall windows boasting exquisite seafood with elegant calligraphy, beyond drawn curtains to keep out the peeking press, are your 'new best friends.' Hopefully, they'll have some answers for you before they start asking you for the answers.

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 62] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

If your drill sergeant back and basic training had seen the state in which you'd left your quarters, he'd probably have you running the mile until noon. That dress you'd spent so much time searching for lay in a shrivelled mess across the bedroom tile, a single stiletto in your bathroom, another just under your bed. To your shock, your pearl necklace was still clinging to your throat, leaving lingering pink dents from a haphazard night's rest. Last night was a blur, but precious few memories that do flicker in your waking mind make your stomach flutter. You have to get up, even if sleep-deprived muscles make their protests known with every movement. 

It's nice to know that the barracks are quiet once again, seeing as most of the exalted generals and commanders have fucked off to whatever decorated offices they'd spawned from. Although, as comforting as the architecture might be in this stunning vista, it'll never ring as comfortable. A solid sleep being a consequence of sheer exhaustion, not a peaceful state of mind. Familiar halls steered you toward the common room where you'd previously found your colleagues lounging on other mornings, so you'll likely find them there. An odd sense of self-consciousness washed over you, not quite guilt per se, but a sense of abashedness that made your eyes flicker to make sure you're stepping through this wooden threshold with all your clothes on. No lingering glances, or even a glance at all; Soap was weaving blades of long grass into twine for whatever reason, and Gaz and Price were enthralled with their soccer on the grainy screen. 

"Cricket," Price grumbled; it made you flinch. "Good morning."

"Morning," you called, rounding the corner to find Ghost seated beside Soap's weaving station at a table by the window. 

"Seeing as you're excused from training today, I thought we'd get you out in the field to compensate," his piercing blue eyes saw through your soul when he turned to look at you.

Getting out in the field. That only means one thing. It's hard to say if Ghost's words with Price mentioned your aforementioned lack of participation in the practice. It might be Ghost's way of including you in an activity that distracts your mind from your cancelled training, or maybe he's trying to punish you for abandoning your post at the gala. Or, maybe it's just as simple as Price including you in rucking because you haven't accompanied them in a while, and that's the whole of it.

"Yes, sir."

"Get kitted. We'll be out and back before the afternoon sun cooks us," he grumbled, taking another long drag of coffee from one of those white mugs. 

Unluckily for you, this time around they had no intention of stopping in a pub on this excursion. No, it's for real this time, evidenced by a single twenty-pound pack of equipment slung beside four other kits laid up against the stucco wall by Soap. Still 'babying' you, as Ghost so uncharitably put it, as their packs looked to be easily fifty pounds, not counting the layered jackets and denim pants you're expected to equip. The military-grade jeans could probably stop a bullet at the right angle, starchy and heavy, finely woven to catch serrated blades in their place. It's easy to forget how weighty this armour and steel-toed boots feel once you've got them all equipped, but that's the purpose after all. And that purpose is to make this tactical equipment feel like a second skin, teaching harsh lessons of endurance and self-discipline with every agonizing pound. Buckles and velcro pull at unusual locations, grounding themselves in the sensitive flesh of your inner elbow and thigh, even with a thick barrier separating them from your skin. Eventually, you're all kitted up, only making your teammates wait about five extra minutes, despite only needing to apply half as much equipment. 

White sunshine made your pupils burn at the change in brightness, but pushing through the strain, you could barely make out Gaz's raised hand ushering you to the mode of transport. Of course it's in one of those trucks. And not just any truck, either. It's the same fucking one from the night before. At least you were wise enough to collect all of your garments before you left, or rather, most of them, but the thought still made your blood run cold. Soap gestured for you to slip in before him, oh-so-gentlemanly using saying 'ladies first' as an excuse to give you the dreaded middle seat in the back of the vehicle. The universe seems to have an odd sense of justice though, as only seconds later, after he'd assumed his position on your flank, Gaz's seat kicking backwards stripped him of the extra legroom. Ghost sat in on your other side, effectively sealing you into a horrifyingly claustrophobia-inducing situation. A front passenger seat had been dragged forward so far that only someone like you could've been seated there, but nobody bothered to question. That's weird. 

Chilled morning steam contrasted with warm breath created the most mortifying sight. A sight that even Ghost didn't initially spot until he followed your mortified gaze. Perfect imprints of sweaty palms and dragging fingertips imprinted on glass perfectly choreographed a sinful scene. Soap was contentedly distracted enough by arguing about soccer with Price and Gaz in the front seats, seemingly insulted by his opinions being intentionally disregarded. The Englishmen have banded together in an unsteady alliance, rejecting the inputs on the sport from the resident Scot. The distraction was enough for Ghost to think on his feet, rolling down the windows to drown away the scene on the glass. Fresh air didn't hurt either, and it felt like a crisis averted. Still, the stress is enough to make you forfeit your breakfast right then and there. 

Eventually, the vehicle came to a halt, and Soap's door swung open before Price even had the opportunity to take the keys out of the damn ignition. It came with fantastic timing because the sense of surging claustrophobia was just reaching a new high. The Captain had steered your hike through a lightly wooded scape that dramatically dropped into a sheer cliff that sloped into the rocky sea below. Kicked pebbles scuttered into freefall, the ensuing splash only barely audible over churning waves, white peaks of crashing saltwater lashing at the cliff face down below. 

So long as Price is satisfied with how exhausted you are, all while bearing it with a stiff lip, he'll relent his grip and let you shed this cruel equipment. You have to look tired, but not too tired. Dirty, but not too filthy. You have to keep up, but not enough to look like your equipment isn't a significant burden. At least the view is nice, where the morning sun had a way of making the late-night mist sparkle on the lush branches of proud cypress trees. Salty air sucked away simmering heat from under your jacket, where cool air breathed across the sweet spit that pooled over your tongue as you heaved. Rucking is exhausting and mentally draining in a backward sort of way, where you're in a constant state of willing creeping thoughts of weariness to silence. 

A fluttering bird over the horizon caught your attention, soaring and drooping with sleek wings, slicing through the air and stopping on a dime with a flash of flared tailfeathers. An osprey, probably. The speed at which it tears through your vision makes it difficult to identify it beyond a blur of brown and white until it deems whatever fish it'd spotted as an unworthy cause, instead flattening angular wings to catch the calming gale. Not delicate and demure like a sweet songbird, those seem to be plentiful in this patch of birch. It seems like every other branch is dotted with a spatter of yellow feathers, contentedly harmonizing with the next branch, little beacons of sunshine in their tiny bodies. 

But a trill, slicing through the air above crashing waves and thundering footsteps, enraptured a swivelling glance from all five of you. That osprey, commanding respect. They could be described as meek when held up to the mighty eagle, but they are independent and fierce, especially in their native environment. They don't have to fight for attention or prove themselves. Their worth is effortless, natural. But you couldn't get too lost in thought because every once in a while, you'll catch the tail end of cheeky banter between Soap and Ghost that sounds more like a married couple's squawking. Soap'll push Ghost's buttons about something menial, Ghost will have some stony and grim response, and Soap will cut the tension with some intentionally obtuse quip. It's like fire and ice with those two; it's easy to forget they're both career killers. 

In your eavesdropping, you'd uncovered the trivia that Ghost sometimes plays the drums, surprising as you'd always pinged him as a bassist. Soap used to play the bagpipes, but he'd apparently never graduated beyond playing the reed and not the full bagpipe, a detail he was fiercely defensive over when Gaz pushed for more information. Price glanced back at you as if to posit the same question of preferred instruments, but your heaving gasps seemed to communicate that you don't have the breath to contribute. And the assumption was entirely founded, because your lungs were burning in your chest just by keeping up this enduring pace. 

Your wandering mind made it possible to submit to your hiking, finding the same winding trail through tall birch and cypress trees reversing before you. You'd survived another session of rucking. Though this only counts as the second, and a half, rucking outing with these guys. Even still, it's enough to make you comfortably surrender to the fact that you're not cut out to be in the Special Forces. Conversation was easy whenever you found the breath to participate. Of course, it was easy for these guys; it was more like a leisurely stroll, swatting damp branches and kicking pebbles into the turbulent sea below. It felt like everyone was just contentedly avoiding the elephant in the room. It made your skin crawl, and your skeptical eyes dart to Ghost up ahead, on the vanguard of the trail.

Just as the afternoon sun was becoming unbearable, honing in on dark equipment, the cool wind from the opened windows in the truck gave you the comfort your slippery skin was begging for. You were getting dangerously close to heat exhaustion, but you'd never admit that. And Price would never knowingly put you in a situation he didn't think you could handle. Or so you hope. The sweet smell of manufactured coolant from the air-conditioning sang through your system, breathing life into dragging joints. Just as the rest of the gang was eager to unwind tense muscles and shower, you caught Ghost on his way down the hall, glancing for company before skipping to catch up. 

"What did you tell them?" You pressed, forcing him to halt his rigid pace. 

You knew he'd know exactly what you meant. Not a peep of concern and where you'd disappeared off to in a huff after just over an hour at the gala, never to be seen again. Nobody's asked where you and Ghost slinked off to, inconveniencing the lot of them by hijacking their ride. How did they even get back? Maybe they caught a ride with Laswell, or maybe they hiked back in the damp night, suits and all. Not exactly a hero's welcome, in spite of their medals and ribbons. 

"I told them the truth," he pledged with a cold and unabashed tone. 

Your heart plunged, frigid blood crashing through your system. The truth? He told them about your time at the park? 

"And what's the truth?" You croaked, feeling your forehead crinkle in abrupt concern. 

"That you're struggling to understand why you're not getting any recognition," he replied simply, edging on a challenging tone. "I said that I explained it to you, that I gave you a pep talk, and that it won't be an issue anymore."

"And you were the wise and valiant hero that wrangled me from that ledge," you scoffed, redirected horror manifesting into creeping agitation. 

"Yes," he replied arrogantly. "And I have the trophy to prove it." 

"A trophy you plundered from another. That's very British of you," you chirped, sealing your pack shut with a satisfying zip.

"Funny," he snarled flatly. 

It took the willful command of every muscle in your body not to swing your palm to smack him, striking that snide look off his face as he looked down at you. Yet, a sneaking sliver of yourself found discomfort in his initiative. He'd taken agency of your mental health, capitalizing on it to get you out of a sticky social situation. But at the same time, it's not like you had the willpower, nor the rank, to bring up those concerns to the Captain on your own anyway. And it's not like you weren't eager to take any opportunity to conceal a sneaky link on company hours. A part of you knew that he was aware of your dilemma. You'd given your trust to him, wholeheartedly laying your soul bare. But you came out of a willful disobedience of orders scot-free. Hell, if anything, he's the one who's under the magnifying glass now, seeing as his objective was to retrieve you from fleeing the gala, a mission he'd failed. Appearances that would've been damaged were saved by charisma and probably a handful of white lies. Effectively wriggling you free of a scolding from Price or Laswell, bringing up your concerns that you'd have to silently bear otherwise to your superiors, and permitting you to selfishly imbibe in another encounter with this coworkers-with-benefits relationship. Well played, Simon. 

"Lieutenant, sergeant, pack your things. We're in the air in thirty," Laswell called in your direction, already disappearing in a flurry of steps down another connecting hallway. 

"Do you know where we're going?" you posited, glancing back over to your colleague with a sudden surge of energy. 

"Berlin," he began. "You should really start paying attention to the news."

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Master List

[raisindave]

[Chapter 61] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

What would your father think if he saw you right now? Putting a wickedly sharp knife in the hands of a man you've just knowingly turned your back to. He's specifically trained in pinpointing the most efficient way to sever your life from your body. A man you've known for a year, tops. Whose background strongly suggests that he should be an emotional wreck and has already established himself as a fanatic for the macabre. Hell, he just technically admitted to bludgeoning a man within an inch of his life with his bare hands just minutes ago. Worst of all, nobody's even seen his face, so filing a police report about your murderer is off the table if some civilian happened to walk by. So why does the heat from his chest along your spine taste so sweet? 

"Aren't you worried I'll cut you?" The warm air from his whispering breath on your earlobe made goosebumps run down your arms. 

"I don't know, are you getting sloppy ?" You chime sweetly. "I thought you SAS folks were better than that."

He slammed the blade down flat between your pinky and ring finger; the flash of cool air from the movement made you shiver. The knife buried an inch deep in the picnic table, splintering thickly painted wood as his free hand on your lower stomach dragged you closer to his torso. He must have been intrigued by your challenge. It startled you and softened you in equal measure, suddenly accurately aware of a swell of body heat radiating through you. The act saps the breath from you, how close it was to the webbing between your knuckles, a show of force. A familiar pace in his breathing captured your fascination, especially as he reaffirmed control of the knife by slipping the blade free from where he'd buried it in the wood.

Each tap of the dagger made your heart thunder, but digging fingertips and a flat palm on your lower abdomen was the scourge of your creeping apprehension. Parylization ceased, and your free hand slid down his arm, across his knuckles, even when the present setting commanded your attention with every slice. The thought of this being a somewhat innocent game of chicken with your comrade quickly spiralled into something darker. He dared to go faster, even with your skyrocketing anxiety. Yet, it made you crazy. Your head fell back against his shoulder, feeling the humid night air breathe across your damp neck. Sentences in their infancy crept across your lips, falling short of formation, betrayed by the hypnotic spectacle. He was finding feverish excitement in this game he was playing with your body as the field, and you were no more than a spectator. Not that it made it any less entertaining. 

Tch.

The blade was all you could focus on, except for the split second between when it snapped back to the surface. 

Tch.

A bead of sweat slid down the column of your throat. 

Tch.

Your free hand shot to grip his fair hair from over your shoulder with white knuckles. 

Tch. 

He started a rhythmic rocking of his hips against you that made saliva pool over your tongue. 

Tch.

What if someone walks by?

Tch.

Is it wise to grind against his searing body heat and redirect more blood flow to the hardness pressing against your tailbone?

Tch. 

The thrill, the fear, the risk, makes you crazy. Makes you both crazy. Drunk on a frenzy of anticipation of pain, a blood-curdling scream for both of your attention that you were both equally forced to obey. Hazy streetlights above grew hazier from the view of half-lidded eyes. Especially when the scratchy fabric of his mask slipped across the bridge between your shoulder and neck. This really is a testament to the extent of his superb control over every muscle in his body, especially when it comes to those knife skills. This would've made for excellent recruitment propaganda for the SAS if it weren't for his free hand sliding over your breast, crushing soft flesh. Laboured breaths on your shoulder and a drawing at the hem of your dress pushed you beyond your breaking point, only held back by the prospect of that pocketknife slicing your flesh from the bone in a split second.

For only a moment, the game ceased. Just long enough to let him manhandle your hips, lifting you properly onto his lap. The hardness of his member under your bare core ripped a sigh from your throat, forcing you to try to recall where you'd lost your underwear. Just as you were able to get a grip on your position, he gripped both of your wrists, commanding you to spread your fingers on the dewy wood with a pointed finger. You did so, bade by his harshness. And you'd be wise to keep them in that position he demanded from you, because he'd slipped the silvery weapon back between his fingers, posturing to resume this sick game once again. Now toying with all ten of your fingers, methodically working around you with masterful precision. The intensity was enough to wring a whine from your chest, paralyzed by anxiety, save for your rocking into his lap. 

That pesky unused hand made its way along your wetted entrance, audibly snickering in your ear at the revelation. Being subtle was no longer in his repertoire, toiling in this sick display of authority with clearly evident excitement. Not a word from either of you. Just breathy silence and the occasional whimper when he continued to drive his fingers into you while your eyes followed that glinting dagger. Unholy heat crept through you, drained when his digits briefly slid from within you, only to be swiftly and cruelly readministered. It's enough to make you crazed, and he clearly found some sick pleasure in your paralyzed state, taking advantage of your lapse of control. Even the sound of his work on your body made you shiver and sob, electrified by his dexterity.

Something inside of him must've made it known that you were close to coming undone around his fingers, and he cut his slippery intrusion short in an instant. A flash of movement made little sense in your hazy mind, but he'd picked you up, stepping free of the bench and walked you over to the end of the table. The smell of damp wood filled your senses, and your cheek pressed into the cool surface. Effectively crushed down into the soaked tabletop with a palm at the base of your neck, the pads of your feet fought for traction against the misted grass below. After a brief fumbling of fabric and a struck zipper, he slid himself into your dripping depths with never-before-seen ease. Strangled cries tumbled over your tongue, and his groans harmonized with your meweling. The sideways view of a seaside city park, hiding in plain sight– without the hiding. This is so dangerous, so indiscreet, so inappropriate, so fucked. But the sinful sound of his thrusts striking slick flesh made all concern dissipate. Once again, his hand wrangled your wrists together, planting your palms back into the table, hazily but greedily obeying every radiating atom in his body. 

"Relax your hips a bit," the words sounded like a song in your ears. 

A slice through the air broke your concentration on his command, if you had any to begin with, dragging your chin along the tabletop to see the knife buried in a space between your pinned fingers. Pumping pressure rocked you dangerously close to connecting the bridge between your fingers with the razor-sharp blade, fighting terror and pleasure in an unholy cocktail. You obeyed his bidding to the best of your ability, even if it was nearly impossible with charged muscles. Who cares if someone sees you, they should be lucky to bear witness to this sinful coupling. The world has never felt so small, so simple as it does right now. Just the present, just this table, just his cock churning your insides and his knife between your fingers. It's enough to walk you to the edge of your climax, chased by an oncoming wave of creeping heat that breathes through your body. 

"That's it," his smooth, gravelly accent made those two words force a chill run down your spine, helplessly obeying him with bated breath. 

You came undone around his cock, nearly screaming at the unparalleled pleasure that tore through your system. He took his time to wring every tremor from you with an unforgiving pace, grunting ill-mannered expletives into your ear as he pressed what must be his entire body weight against you. That punishing pace of his faltered, pouring his seed into you with reckless abandon, groaning heartily into the open night air. You didn't even notice his fingertips crushing against the soft flesh around your hips until their grip was softening, slowing to a tedious rocking in and out of your core. Your hands were free nearly the whole time, but the gripping tension in your body compelled you to obey him beyond the need for orders. 

He slipped himself from within you, and a flash of white sleeves in the corner of your vision signified his release of the grip on your body, collecting his knife from above you. A sobering click of his blade folding shut lifted your attention to the present, snapping you into reality with the sudden absence of his body heat. Warm essence streamed down your thigh, and you fought for the strength to lift your chest from the picnic table, but you did. Unexpectedly, he flicked the bunched skirt of your dress back down over your rump, eliciting a snicker from him. With some strain, the pads of your feet fully reconnected with solid ground, taking some time to gather your senses again. Not far away were your stilettos, rendered slippery and unsteady by idle mist whenever, or however, you'd discarded them.

"By now, most people would've asked about my mask," he struck up an unusually casual conversation, calm and collected as ever, hearing a clinking belt from over your shoulder. 

"That's a predictable question. Predictable is boring," you chided absentmindedly, your thoughts still foggy and raw. 

"You seem interested enough."

"What, are you scared I'll lose interest if I see your ugly mug?" 

"That's not a concern," he mused when your eyes met once you rose to face him.

"Quite an arrogant one, aren't you," you griped, hopping into a faster pace to catch up to his sudden leave. 

"It's not arrogance if it's justified."

"Says the man who's hiding behind a piece of cloth."

It's a good thing the truck wasn't parked too far away because your weakened knees had yet to fully regain strength. Even prying open the heavy passenger door proved challenging, with lazy muscles hesitantly following your direction. But stepping into actual shelter will be gleefully welcome after spending so long out in the biting early morning air. Be it a subtropical region or not, the nights were chilly, especially with bare shoulders and a thin sheet of tulle separating you from the elements.

"Well, have the others seen your face?" The words squeaked from your throat from the strain of lifting yourself into the seat. 

"Pretty predictable question, wouldn't you say?" he chirped in that low, casual articulation with contrastingly impish eyes. 

"Fuck off then."

Laughter cut over the sound of a rumbling start of the ignition, flooding the terrain in illumination. No longer in near pitch darkness, the trail leading up to that quaint park is nothing short of picturesque, looking more like a default wallpaper on some expensive laptop. Even as you drove away, your head swivelled to catch a departing view of that seaside terrace. 

"Price, Soap, and Gaz have, Laswell hasn't," he affirmed calmly, reigniting the conversation. 

"Why did they get to see?"

"It was strategically important at the time."

"And Laswell not seeing it was strategic?"

"She wasn't there."

"Will you ever show the rest of us your face then?"

"If it's strategically important."

"What if I told you I've already seen under your mask?" 

"Oh yeah?" He challenged hoarsely, intrigue igniting in his gaze on the illuminated road. 

"Yeah, I peeked in your window when you were sleeping. S' nothing special," you shrugged with brazen certainty.

He huffed a laugh with knowing arrogance at your bluff. Reading right through you before the sentence is even fully formed. Even without taking his eyes from the road, it was like he was looking right through you, probably weighing your soul with a smirk under that dumb mask. Cheekily lying to people used to come so easily to you, are you losing your touch? 

"I sleep with my mask on."

It's hard to say if he's joking. He probably is, but an odd part of you sowed doubt in your conviction. He seems the type. A familiar silhouette of that boxy barracks and landing strip came into view after being temporarily obscured by dark foliage. Returning there no longer filled you with dread, only the thought of returning to bed and getting at least some sleep before wake-up-call. At least he was kind enough to take you to the back entrance of the compound rather than the front, avoiding a lengthy walk of shame. Tires slowed to a halt on crunchy gravel just under the light of a flickering wall lamp, a metal fire escape door that'd been left ajar by some lazy recruit. 

"Where are my panties?" You pressed, writhing in your seat to find where they'd wound up.

"Confiscated."

"I didn't permit you to loot them, you dog."

"'Call it a brag rag," he grumbled playfully, sliding his hands down the side of the wheel to rest on his lap.

"You already have enough of those," you snark coldly, fighting a bubbling giggle to retain a glimmer of composure.

He scoffed, and you swung your legs from the car seat, planting wobbly stilettos on uneven gravel. The thought of a sheepish but satisfied skip back after curfew made a cheeky grin pull at your cheeks. Everyone else is asleep, and you'll soundlessly tiptoe down echoing hallways, slipping past your dormitory door and taking great care to prevent it from creaking. Whatever excuse Ghost will have to conjure for your abandonment of your post better be good, because poor Price's heart might just give out if he knew what you were really up to.

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This entire Knife Game sequence was inspired by this one 1-second clip of Ghost in the background of a random MW3 trailer. (Also lol I just noticed Gaz over his shoulder)

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[raisindave]

[Chapter 60] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

These fucking car seats are always kicked back to a ridiculous degree. Sure, they need more legroom as significantly taller soldiers, but you could easily fit three of yourself in this seat before you even touch the dashboard. Greedy. Only after you readjusted nearly every setting on the seat could you see leafy trees whirring past, occasionally interrupted by increasingly crooked street lamps. Smooth concrete made for an u usually smooth drive in tranquil, easy silence. But once enough silence had elapsed, and Ghost cranked the wheel to pull onto a crunchy gravel path, a lingering question struck your lips.  

"So, what were you before? Before the SAS, before any of this?"

He drew a long, thoughtful breath, leaving you to linger on the edge of his forming words, wrestling with cruel anticipation. It leaves your waiting mind to consider the lifestyle this man might have led before being a counter-terrorist was an option. It's almost like he came out of the womb with a balaclava and an AK-47 in his writhing fingers, kevlar and all. With someone of his prestige, his mythos, you'd think he's more adjacent to a cryptid. You probably won't find yourself pondering what Dracula was up to before becoming a vampire when you're fumbling through a Transylvanian castle. You'll probably be more focused on not being hunted for sport by some fanged creature. He broke into a low chuckle, catching you by surprise before he spoke. 

"I was a butcher at a Tesco," you could hear a smile on his lips, even when you couldn't see it. "I enlisted in the Air Force two days after I turned 18. Never looked back."

"If you were in such a hurry, why'd you wait two whole days?"

He lifted a hand from the wheel to scratch his chin through the plain, dark cloth, once again pausing in thought. The landscape flattened into a vista of an inky sea, where the streetlights of a distant peninsula cutting into the waves left a haze in the misty night air. It seems to be a topic that he's not used to discussing, though jaded soldiers on a battlefield aren't famous for asking thoughtful questions about their comrade's childhood. The act of reflection seemed to make him laugh, when you'd made peace with the assumption that he'd probably coldly shut you down after the initial question. And flowing answers felt like forbidden knowledge. 

"One day to get pissed drunk, another to recover."

"Did you use any of those skills on your résumé to get into the SAS? I can't imagine you've been fighting smoked hams and blood sausages since you've enlisted."

"Taught me some knife skills. 'Got good at stripping meat from bone, it's surprisingly useful in my new career," he turned to give you a cheeky glare.

"That's a good thing to brag about when you're driving alone with a woman at night," you croaked.

"You asked."

"What would you be doing if the military didn't work out?"

"I didn't get to ask my question."

"I don't care about your dumb fucking question," you sighed dejectedly. 

He laughed at your words, making a smile pull at your cheeks as well. Unlike him, you don't have any legendary status or a haunting reputation. You're just a regular linguist information analyst who's apparently good enough at her job to be kept around. You're not the anonymous one. 

"If I wasn't in the military? I don't bloody know…" he flexed his grip over the wheel as he mulled over your question. "Organized crime." 

"Hmm," you smiled at the thought, even if his words were clearly facetious in nature. "Narcos?"

"Are you kidding me? I'm not that bloodthirsty." 

"You did say you were a butcher," you smiled as the vehicle slowed to a halt. 

Cutting the engine made it official, and the absence of amber headlights left the foreground in sudden darkness. The driver's door popped open, and you followed suit with yours. He'd brought you to a park by the seaside, elevated by a thick seawall made from stone and moss. Pockets of light provided by tall street lamps illuminated a smooth Sampietrini walkway that eased along the seawall's raised edge. Around the park were raised rocks with copper plaques rendered smooth and tinged in colour by decades of luck-seeking tourists. Every time you stop to consider your surroundings, nearby crashing high-tide waves surge for your attention, even from beyond a meter of elevation. 

Over your shoulder, Ghost seemed to have settled himself in at one of the picnic tables nearby; brightly painted wood of blue and swirling magenta contrasted his grim appearance. He tapped away at a blocky cell phone he must've kept somewhere in that suit, noticeably still free from his embellished blazer. He's probably alerting his comrades to the fact that he hasn't gone AWOL, and the military vehicle that'd been hijacked is in his custody. 

In the afternoon hours, this place would be buzzing with activity. Joggers with swinging ponytails, leashed dogs rolling in patches of thick grass, elderly couples with folded hands considering curated patches of flowers. But now in the late hours of the night, or perhaps early morning, it's devoid of all life. Hopefully. Cool sea breezes fought for dominance over heavy, humid mist, billowing smells of salt and seaweed into your senses. It's easy to forget the horror that brought you here. Those yellow Mary Janes are still as clear in your memory as the granite park benches that offer dreamy views of inky waves. Flashes of snapped fingers in jutting directions and soulless cadavers catch in the underside of your eyelids with every blink. Sprinting past gawking soldiers down amber hallways like a bat out of hell, the blooming pain on your cheek and spiders on your skin. 

"Ghost," The following words caught in your throat, leaping from deep within your system.

Once electric muscles felt weak from excretion, it felt like your mental faculties had been tapped dry. Social exhaustion left your conscience vulnerable to heavy thoughts that clung to your brain like burrs. Some mental burdens are too heavy to bear, and the words pour out of you before you even have a chance to stop them. 

"How do you sleep when you've seen things? The viscera and horror and people who've died because they met you… What keeps you,-" you sucked in a breath of cool salty air, staring blankly at the invisible line that separates the sea and sky. "What keeps you grounded?"

"It's not all bad," he sighed nonchalantly, slipping the phone into his side pocket. "I've seen some good things, too," he hummed mischievously.

Without even thinking, you pivoted on your heels to shoot him a glare. He knows damn well that's not even remotely that's not even remotely the response you're expecting. It seems that he got the change in attitude by the look on your face, and he dropped his antic. That change in attitude dampened the atmosphere around you, and his gaze drifted to the distant twinkling cityscape, to the sea, and eventually back to you. 

"I try to keep myself in the moment, not worrying about the future or the past," he said slowly, grumbling every syllable as he knit his fingers. “I like to play a game."

Intrigue compelled you to track his words, commanding you to pursue this train of thought. Basalt tiles clicked under your heels as you approached the park bench he'd perched in, leaning over the adjoined table as he watched you calmly. Instead of sitting in the bench seat beside him, you settled for resting your hip on the side of the picnic table, where charged dread made muscles tense with anxiety. You watched with a furrowed brow as he fished the flat, sloping shape of a folding switchblade from his pocket. 

"This knife, it's real," he flashed the silver blade open with a flick of his wrist and a satisfying click. "-And fucking sharp," he placed his hand down flat on the table before you.

The absurdity of the situation washed over you as he sloppily pushed white sleeves higher on his forearm. Wherever this is going is bizarre, but oddly in character for this ghastly psychopath. He'd officially captured your attention. 

"Stab between your fingers like this," he spread his fingers across the painted wood, placing the downward-facing blade beside his thumb. "You start slow. If those thoughts keep creeping up, go faster until you have to focus on the present."

Finger by finger, he stabbed the razor-sharp weapon down between his pale digits, returning back to the original starting point after each tap. The Knife Game. The kind of game you play in middle school or with a mischievous older sibling. You watched with suspicion as he methodically tapped the point of the knife down between his splayed fingers, doubling back on his pattern in a practiced strategy. 

"Sounds… healthy," you mused, gaze still knit with skepticism. 

"You asked," he shrugged coldly. 

It seems like every time you do ask him a personal question, he never fails to surprise you with the depths of his edgyness. What a strange answer. What a strange man. You turned further to get a more astute perspective of his method, glaring down at him as he tapped the knife back down beside his thumb with a concluding thud. 

"What if you slip up and stab your hand?"

"Then you have bigger problems than whatever's keeping you awake."

Your eyes met, and you nearly choked on a bubbling laugh at the absurdity of his solution. It's like holding a shotgun to your nervous system, willing it to silence. Evidently effective, considering his permanently calm and collected demeanour. That and the government-mandated therapy you're all subjected to. However, he likely doesn't bring up this strategy at those sessions because they'd probably put him in a padded cell if he did. He seems to get a thrill out of danger and horror. It makes his regular skull-patterned mask much more sense, even if he just has that flat black model on now. He's a remarkably simple creature if you strip him down to the bare bones, literally. 

"Teach me," you ordered. 

Of course, you didn't really need teaching. It's a game that an eight-year-old can grasp. There's something about the danger of it, with a tendon-splitting knife in the presence of the Grim Reaper, that makes it so delicious in your mind. You didn't even give him time to agree before you were slipping off the table to his side. He shifted on splintering wood to offer space on the seat beside him, but that wasn't what you were after. It may be his game, but you're choosing the playing field. Betraying his expectations, you slipped yourself into the measured space between him and the table, settling yourself down between his thighs. His forearms lifted in stupefaction at your intrusion, but his skepticism faded as he repositioned himself to sit farther back on the bench to permit you more room. With you both facing the same direction, you could pluck the cool knife from his fingers and practice with your own volition; but still partnered with an angel, or devil, over your shoulder.

A hot breath over your shoulder made your skin ripple with goosebumps, and he matched your grip on the knife over yours. The knife was lightweight in your fingers but undoubtedly heavy with balanced steel that would make it easily slip into someone's heart without effort or sound. Cobwebs of cool, dark metal knit together into an elegantly crafted, expensive knife with a tiny skull crudely carved into the pocket clip. Distant cicadas from the nearby forest sang in anticipation of these ceremonial games, lavishing at the bloodsport and goading you for more. Rolled prim white sleeves bordered your peripherals offering glimpses of macabre tattoos, his free hand holding the top of your wrist to lay flat on the wood with his palm. His touch was hot on your cool skin, chilled by the night. Reaffirming your grip on the tool, you blinked away your creeping nerves and planted the blade down beside your thumb, apprehensively leading the game with his pursuing touch. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Tck. 

Every time the glinting blade tapped down between one of your fingers, it made your adrenaline spike. This weapon could sever muscle from bone so quickly and with such a supernatural sharpness that you wouldn't even feel the torn ligaments until there's spurting blood from a dangling digit. It commanded everything from your senses to focus, even with his guidance. However, scuffed and scraped knuckles occasionally caught your sharpened attention under the misty streetlight, highly visible when contrasted by pale skin. All you could hear was your breathing, only occasionally interrupted by the crest of a crashing wave. All you could see, all you could feel, was this game. Weaving between your fingers, where a single flick of your paralyzed fingers could mean an indeterminate number of stitches. 

"Do you know any other games?"

"I can think of some," you could hear the smirk on his lips as he spoke. 

"Bloody Knuckles?" you blurted confidently, without thinking.

The words slammed the conversation to a screeching halt. You knew he caught your insinuation. You aren't talking about games anymore. It felt good to make his breath halt, at least, a rare chance to make that icy poker face crack. Even if just for a split second. His grip on your knuckles weakened, and your breath stilled in your chest. In a matter of seconds, a shard of ice manifested in your throat at the flicker of that memory. The memory of your trainer's creeping hands, of the makeup over the bruise he left, of Price reluctantly informing you of his sudden resignation.

"I don't need you to bludgeon every person that crosses me."

He should know you can function on your own without a feral pitbull to rip the ears off every soul who does you wrong. You've been fine with going your whole life without having a guardian angel in a skull mask. Lorenzo's creeping hands on your apprehensive skin was your problem to solve, your right to resolve. The question of your willpower to do so still sat like a heavy blanket on your conscience though, and creeping weakness made tears sting in your eyes, making you thankful he's not facing you. It stings to surrender control, but it stings worse to think about that sheer terror you felt in his presence for reasons that are beyond your comprehension. Any of your colleagues would have done the same if you approached them directly, but Ghost seems to have a particular affinity for making people sing their deepest secrets. You're glad it's over, that goes without saying. The method of its resolution just caught you off guard. Deserved, but unexpected.

"-But sometimes it is nice," you sighed. 

A sharp exhale in his laughter blew cool air over your bare shoulder, and a melting smile pulled at your lips. Maybe it's okay to accept help, even if it's against your nature to do so. Whatever his methods for finding out were; maybe from Gaz, maybe from your frantic dash from the direction of your training, maybe from him spying on your training like a gargoyle in the rafters. Perhaps he made Lorenzo squeal like he'd done to countless terrorists before, or maybe by another unforeseen strategy. It doesn't matter, really. It's a closed chapter in a book that feels like it's only just begun. A complex cocktail of pity, pride, guilt, intrigue, irritation and flattery swirled in your system. 

"Now, you go," you hummed into the air, cutting the humid silence.

At this point, you'd come to realize the very real possibility that your weakened muscles and sloppy mental fortitude might genuinely lead to injury. You flashed the flat of the hilt into his palm, splaying your hand onto the table before him. With some hesitation, he gingerly lifted the weapon from your clammy fingers. This could make for an interesting trust exercise if nothing else. It could also make for exhilarating entertainment from someone as allegedly adept as him. Let's put those honed senses to the test and see how good he really is at this game. If he's going to act like a guardian angel, it's nice to know if he cares about your safety, or the act of playing the hero. There's no better way to put someone's intentions to the test than by putting a knife in their hand and turning your back. Well, maybe there is, but they wouldn't be as exciting as putting the pedal to the metal like this.

<< Prev Chapter           Next Chapter>> Just so we’re clear, please don’t actually take Ghost’s self-soothing advice.

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