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reds-skull · 6 months

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BLOOD||HUNGER

[PREV PART] [AO3]

Haha... it's been far too long. What can I say, technology hates me.

This chapter turned out really long, and I was not planning it like that at all. I like what it became though :)

This chapter is called "The Downfall of Kinsmen".

Page 39 of the “Blooede Starvatfōre-dēde”, parable 13:

How could a man such as you, keep in his heart a Beast? Blind eyes turn heavenwards, crescented and kind, How could a flower, small and fine, Love the fiery sun, the killer and divine, How could the tide, heedless and rough, Love the gentle moon, a teacher for those misguides, How could the star, far and bright, Love our darkest nights, brighten our eyes, How could I Not admire you?

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost has more confirmed KIAs than any merc walking on this accursed earth.

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost came here to work with the Hunter, whose soldiers are ending innocent lives by the hundreds, every second taking down another soul.

Simon Riley was a hero.

Ghost is thrusting a knife into his palm, bearing his neck out. Scarred and mangled, veins discolored by the poison eating away at his blood. Gloved hands resting on Soap’s thighs, a soft touch so out of place on this barren dirt.

Simon Riley is Ghost.

Ghost is asking him to slit his throat. Telling Soap it is the only way to end this, to kill the Hunter, to win. Closing his eyes, leaving fate in the hands of a broken, once soldier.

He’s right, Soap knows. Killing Ghost would end everything. He could free this city from the Hunter’s clutches with a swing of a knife.

Soap lifts the blade, the setting sun’s light reflecting over Ghost’s mask, an emotionless skull painted to resemble death. It shines through its eye sockets, casting light over Ghost’s pale lashes. His cheeks lift somewhat, and it dawns on Soap that he’s smiling.

The knife shakes in his hands.

Open your eyes, Soap wants to scream. Fight me, claw at mine. Why do you accept death so easily, when it’s in my hands?

Tell me, why did you become this?

Simon Riley wants Soap to kill him.

John swings the knife down, teeth bared, feelings swirling in his gut. The blade strikes down.

Buried in the dirt besides Simon’s head.

John watches his brown eyes flutter open, confused. Watches them turn to see the knife, and back to his, questioning.

He heaves a breath, the eye contact burning, yet he doesn’t dare to sever it.

“You were a hero.” John almost growls, hands still trembling on the weapon, “why… why did ye become Ghost?”

Simon tilts his head minutely, his hands caress John’s legs, lost in memories.

“They left me to die.” the man under him murmurs, “was captured, no one came to rescue us.” John feels Simon’s chest stutter, “I escaped. I tried to stay away, tried to live.”

Dark eyes look up at him, “couldn’t. Like you.”

“So ye became a monster?” John spits harshly.

Simon’s eyes soften, “I was always a monster. They only called me a hero because I died-”

“No.” John lets go of the knife, bracketing Simon’s head instead, “ye were a legend, ye saved thousands, ye were-”

Ye were everything I wanted to be.

Simon’s hands are warm, as they pass over his clothes, as if he’s trying to soothe a phantom wound, “you are a hero, Johnny. Why are you not killing me?” he asks, confusion and an edge of fear bleeding into his words.

It angers John. He knows, if he were to try and be a hero, his next step would be to kill the Ghost. Throw his head in front of the Hunter, banish him from this land, save the civilians. His mission is clear-cut, and Ghost is just an obstacle. Another hostile, another target, another objective. That was what he always strived for, from the moment he set foot in bootcamp to the day he was discharged.

All of his previous COs’ words rush forth, voices mingling to a single sentence-

Stop trying to be the hero, MacTavish.

John roughly slides Ghost’s mask off, revealing a face twisted by confusion. Dirty blond hair, curled and pressed flat by the ever-present mask. Scars, creating valleys and hills over pale skin. Bisected lips that fall open in surprise. Brown eyes, so deep, they can’t help but reflect the darkening skies.

Simon Riley is just a man.

He takes the knife out of the ground, only to stab it through the now hollow eyes of the skull. John leans closer, whispering in Simon’s ears.

“Ghost is dead. What will ye become now?”

Simon’s eyes widen, the last of the day’s light radiant in them. “I… I have nothing left to be.” he fearfully answers.

“No.” John raises up, “there’s more to us than heroes and monsters, Simon.” the man startles at the name, “what do ye want to do now? Ye want to kill me, kill yerself, keep on the path that destroyed us both…”

John offers a hand.

“Or ye want to find out what else we could become?”

Simon breathes in deep, like a newborn’s first taste of air, like a dying man’s last prayer. Gloved hands, that know to both give and receive unfathomable violence, take his.

“I do.” the words flow through scarred lips, and John can almost taste the want in them. For salvation. For redemption. “But how?”

John yanks the blade out of the mask, and gives it to Simon. The man that wears it will not be the Ghost that sunk first to the ground, nor the man that has risen from the grave.

“With what we always had.” John turns back to the truck, “with pain and will. With bloodshed.”

He glances at Simon, mask still in hand, “we lead ourselves now.”

When he joins him in the vehicle, Simon wears the mask. But he could never hide how his eyes look at John, how the emotions flow through them. How he trusted him with his death.

How he’ll trust Soap with his life.

He takes them back to the city center. All paths lead down here, it seems. Soap feels the weight of Ghost’s stare on him for the whole drive, and not for the first time he wishes he could take a look inside his skull.

Soap is surprised to find himself without regrets. He’s not without anger at Ghost, hell, not without hate, but alongside those feelings something else stirs awake.

He thinks it might be kinship.

His surprise only grows when Ghost chimes up, “you still want to kill the Hunter, right?”

Soap glances at him, “‘course.”

“We still need to get intel-” Ghost unexpectedly jumps at the steering wheel, pulling it left.

“What the-!” Soap veers the truck back to the road, “are ye tryin’ teh kill us?!”

Ghost’s head pokes out of the side window, looking back, “there’s someone on the road, Johnny.”

“What?” Soap kills the engine, jumping out of the vehicle. Ghost instantly follows him, rifle ready for a gunfight.

They approach the still body on the road cautiously, “are ye friendly?!” Soap shouts.

The form doesn’t move a muscle. “They’re dead.” Ghost mutters. Soap observed the pooling blood around the body, sensing the tension leaving Ghost’s motions.

Stepping closer, Soap recognizes the insignia of the Hunter’s soldiers, a red skull. The body is littered with gunshot wounds, from their legs to their head. Whoever was fighting them, they were frantic. Desperate.

There is only one other group fighting the Hunter in this city. The 141. And if they were in a state bad enough to shoot like an untrained rookie…

Ghost crouched down to pat the dead man’s pockets. He collects a couple extra mags, and the comms. As he switches between channels, Soap scans the surrounding streets. Signs of a struggle litter the walls, cracks drawing a picture of a hopeless fight for survival. More bodies are hidden under shadows, and Soap walks to check their identity.

Civilians, mingled right among the Hunter’s soldiers. This doesn’t feel like Price and Gaz’s work…

Soap’s lingering thoughts snap back to the radio in Ghost’s hand, when the constant white noise is replaced with alarmed commands. “-armed civvies, group of 20! They’re around the main plaza. Took down about 5 of ours-” Ghost meets his eyes, expression serious. “-told you to take ‘em out!” “yessir”. The comms click off.

“They’re fighting back…” Soap thinks out loud, voice trailing off.

Ghost raises to his feet, shoving the radio down one of his pockets, “they won’t last long. The Hunter’s soldiers are highly trained.”

Burning rage spreads through Soap. He can’t let them die, can’t let the Hunter squash down the few that found the courage to strike back. He glares at Ghost with a challenging stare, “I’m going to help them.”

Ghost studies him silently. “We are going to help them.” he starts walking back to the truck, leaving a bewildered Soap to catch up, “I know where the plaza is, was in the debrief the Hunter gave me. There’s a sniper rifle on the rooftop opposite of it, we can back up the civvies from there.”

Soap slams the door behind him, rushing to start the engine, “if there’s a sniper rifle there, wouldn’t the Hunter have a soldier on it?”

Ghost halts his movements for a moment, “they did. It was me.”

“What- who did ye shoot?”

Ghost seems to curl into himself a little, “...I don’t know. They were just… a target.”

A warning light flashes, signaling the fuel tank is almost empty. Soap sighs, worries and curses overlapping each other on his tongue, ”can ye direct me to the plaza?”

Ghost looks up, “...affirm. Turn right at this intersection…”

Flashes of gunshots light the plaza, a huge building with a court in its middle, acting as a battleground for the civilians and the Hunter’s soldiers. Their fuel lasted them just enough to reach it.

Ghost leads him to the back, where a ladder lines the side of the wall. When Soap doesn’t follow him, Ghost stops, “what’s on your mind, Soap?”

Soap grasps the rifle in his hands tightly, “There’s only one sniper rifle up there, right? Ah’ll be of more use down ‘ere.”

Ghost lets go of the ladder completely, “you’re not planning on joining the civilians, are you?”

“You know Ah won’t be able to do shit up there with ye.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, that will certainly help-”

“Why would ye even care?!” Soap snarls, taking two steps closer to Ghost and staring him down.

He watches his gloved hands clench, “I can’t-”

“What is it?! Ye think Ah’m feckin’ useless-”

“I CAN’T WATCH YOU DIE!” Ghost shouts.

Soap’s brow shoot up, his anger dissipating into nothing. He’s left speechless, as Ghost continues, “you’re fucking reckless, and uncontrollable, and- I thought we’ll-!”

“Ghost.”

“I’ll die without you, you know that? The poison-”

“Ye didn’t care about that when ye gave me the knife.” Soap grabs the front of his mask to pull Ghost down, shoving him against the wall, he ignores his grunt as he forces those dark eyes on him. “Why do ye care?” he asks calmly.

Simon breathes heavily, so much that Soap can feel it through the mask, and he sees how the emotions try to peek through the bleached skull. “I… I don’t… “ Simon sighs, “I can’t let you die.”

“Why?”

Simon hand wraps around Soap’s wrist, not pushing away, just holding. “You… trust me. I can’t break it, not again-”

Soap lets go of the mask, “I won’t die, Simon.” He looks down at the hand holding his, and it retreats, “and ye didn’t fully earn my trust just yet.”

Simon nods slowly, and Soap steps back, “ye better stay alive so ye can.”

Simon stares at him, eyes somewhat soft, muscles relaxing, “I will, Johnny.” the name sends a pang of hurt through his heart. Despite everything, Soap still hasn’t stopped Ghost from calling him that. He thinks he’s just afraid of regretting it, missing the way it sounds.

Wanting that little connection, to keep them tied through this endless sea.

Soap shakes his head. He finds himself in a similar boat to Ghost.

He doesn’t think he can watch him die either.

Chaos is the only rule on these grounds. Furniture is stacked precariously to build cover, bullets shoot in every direction. Soap can’t tell whose blood covers the once white floor.

He climbed up to the second floor, trying to find a vantage point over the battle. The civilians have retreated farther back into the shops, soldiers overwhelming them by numbers and skill. Soap takes aim, a deep inhale.

The shots echo through the empty walkway, deafeningly loud in his ears, but he pays it no mind. Soap keeps tabs on the soldiers trying to push forward on the civilians, watching them scramble to cover once they realize someone is attacking them from above. He tries to kill as many as he can before they’re out of his sights.

Every few seconds, a soldier he’s aiming at drops abruptly, the shell of a bullet splicing through the night air. Ghost is a frighteningly excellent sniper. Soap can see why he struck fear in the hearts of so many.

The civilians have noticed something’s amiss, their willpower strengthening. Soap’s heart swells-

They’re fighting back tenfold, now that they believe they could win.

The Hunter’s soldiers retreat, enough that Soap has to descend back to the ground floor. As he rushes down, he spots the fearful eyes of children peek through the dark shops.

The civilians are protecting them.

He vaults over the edge when he’s low enough for it, and finds himself in front of a man, who seemingly left the fight, searching for him. Soap’s eyes widen with recognition.

“...Mihail?” Soap mutters.

“Soap!” The man smiles, “I have thought it was you!”

They both start running back to the front, “I thought ye left!”

Mihail shakes his head, “I left. I came back.”

“...Why?” he frowns.

The man halts for a moment, staring at Soap with a determined gaze, “I couldn’t. Leave others, children, friends.” his untrained arms shake around his stolen gun, “you fight, so why couldn’t I too?”

Soap heart beats a war chant in his chest. Mihail pushes them both to run again, all the while his mind forms a storm.

He chose to fight… because of Soap?

“Here!” Mihail shouts over his shoulder, “we need help. This is Alma.” he points to a woman tending to one of the shot men, hidden behind a stack of sofas, “she knows English good. Tell her what we do, she will tell us.”

“Aye!”

The woman, Alma, lifts her head when he comes closer. Her arms are covered in blood up to her elbows. Her brows crease as she assesses Soap, “are you the one that helped Maria and Victor?”

“I am.”

Her expression relaxes, “thank you.” She nods to the fighters, “we’ve been fighting for hours, they cornered us here. I think they’re trying to kill us all at once.” her teeth bare, “they will, if we don’t do something differently.”

Soap quickly scans their numbers. About 40 people, most equipped with rifles like his own. The Hunter’s soldiers are still cowering under cover. Ghost’s shots are making sure to down any that attempt to push forward, but he can already see them going around, using Ghost’s blind spots to try and flank their group.

He turns back to Alma, “We need to split up, take both the left and the right. Leave the worst fighters here, so they think ye haven’t moved, take ten of the best left, five more right.”

Alma nods, “where will you be?”

Soap motions right, “Ah’ll go ahead, clear the path fer the five on the right.”

Alma wipes the blood on her dirtied clothes, shouting to the fighters. The shooting calms a tad as they listen to her orders. Soap watches them get ready to split up, and only a few moments pass before fifteen men and women step back. Alma continues to talk, pointing at both hallways. Ten leave, and Soap leads the remaining five to their side.

It has been over a year since Soap ordered anyone on field, and a certain nervosity spreads through him, before he shuts it down.

This is no different from any other mission he’s been on, he has to tell himself. The footfalls behind him are of soldiers, not civilians. Their guns are their own, not stolen from corpses.

He is Sergeant MacTavish, not John.

Soap motions them to stop, and he walks ahead to clear the corner. He swiftly ducks behind a low wall, scanning the dark hallways ahead. Ghost seems to recognize the forming plan, since he started providing cover fire for the split groups.

Even with no comms, they work flawlessly.

Soap hears the nearing steps of hostiles, and so he points his group to find cover, and aim forward. He himself sneaks ahead, moving from pillar to pillar.

Once the first soldier rounds the corner, Soap pounces. He burrows his knife into his side, dragging the man in front of him.

A copy of Ghost’s tactics, he uses the dead man as a shield, and shoots down several soldiers. Soap finds a moment to back up, opening the hallway for his fighters to shoot the rest. Their aim is expectedly shite, but they managed to hit the hostiles by sheer number.

He smiles back, baffled. Soap wishes he could encourage them. But the fight isn’t over, and soon enough the Hunter’s soldiers find a weak point in their defence.

Soap is blindsided by a mass tackling him. They both fall to the ground, Soap scrambling for his knife, blocking the frenzied hits of the soldier. Large arms manage to wrap around his throat, lifting him to a chokehold.

Soap snarls, eyes rotating wildly in his sockets, breath squeezed out of his lungs. He slams at the hands, clawing at them, leaving rivulets of blood behind.

It is not enough. His vision begins to darken, spidery tendrils encompassing his sight. He can distantly hear the civilians shout for him. They wouldn’t be able to save him now.

As his vision fades completely, John waits for his life to flash by. This death would be far than the worst he could have had.

Yet, instead of memories, dark eyes flood his mind. A man, once dead, with a plea.

I can’t watch you die.

Soap grips harder at the arm, shoving his face to it.

And bites down as strongly as he can.

Crimson bursts on his tongue, a scream goes off behind him, the arm loosening. Oxygen fills Soap’s lungs once more, and he arches forward, flipping his attacker and slamming him to the floor tiles.

For a split second, he sees the fear in the soldier’s eyes, the dark red covering him. Soap finds his blade.

It sinks down the soldier’s throat not a second later.

Soap rises on shaky legs, adjusting his rifle. The civilians behind him look horrified at his appearance. He can’t find a place within himself to care. He only spares them a nod, and he’s off.

If he can’t be these people’s hero, he’ll have to suffice with being their enemies worst monster.

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