the 141 recovering brainwashed!soap but he’s just a shell of his former self; never speaking, never moving without orders. he never even blinks; just stares straight ahead with his unnatural green eyes.
empty.
but ghost can't accept that.
price and gaz can't stand watching ghost torture himself day after day; visiting soap in his cell for hours at a time, trying anything he can think of to bring back his sergeant.
he shows him pictures of the 141 but soap thinks he's being given targets and moves to eliminate them before ghost stops him. he brings him his journal, tries to trigger his innermost thoughts and feelings he never shared with any of them, but after he reads it, soap summarises it like he's giving a mission briefing. impersonal.
cold.
it's late when ghost finally calls it; low and defeated after another long day of being stared at with eyes that don't see him. he isn't thinking when he pulls his mask off and harshly scrubs over his face, grinding his palm into his eye.
"don't worry, johnny; we're still fixin' each other's problems," he promises, little more than a whisper as he tries to summon the energy to leave johnny behind. again.
he pushes himself to his feet, his hand on the door handle when-
"what's my problem?"
ghost freezes, something like grief - something achingly closer to hope - chilling him. he slowly turns and though soap is still starring ahead, there's a faint light in his altered green eyes.
"the mask," he forces out. "take it off."
he knows there's no way to remove the mask - the muzzle - from his sergeant's face. it's too high-tech, even for them; the biometric scanner too advanced for any bypass they know of.
it's just another way he's failed him; bringing him home still bound in their enemy's chains.
soap- jolts; a sharp, almost painful looking flinch jerking his body.
"show my face?" and his voice has changed; no longer the monotone delivery that's haunted ghost's every waking moment.
it's smaller. uncertain. recollection of a memory half-destroyed.
"yes, johnny," he breathes.
soap moves unprompted for the first time since they found him; running his finger along the edge of the muzzle where his skin bulges from the pressure, half-visible scars hidden beneath the harsh metal.
"ugly," he murmurs.
ghost immediately shakes his head, almost stumbling back to the table; haphazardly throwing his mask on it. "quite the opposite," he insists.
it doesn't matter if he has no lower jaw left at all; johnny could never be ugly in his eyes.
agonisingly slowly, soap's eyes shift to the mask. he takes in the balaclava and hard shell skull like for all the times he's looked at it since his rescue, he never truly saw it. his lids fall in less of a blink and more stage curtains closing; slow, heavy, requiring effort and no small amount of strength to open once more
"good... to see you again..." he trails off, his hand shifting up to the top of his shaved head; nails digging unforgivingly into his scalp
"simon," ghost finishes for him; that horrid grieving hope tearing at his heart
soap's fingers flex and a drop of blood trails down his forehead, over the ridge of his nose to catch on the muzzle. "s-simon..."
his nails dig deeper, the drop falling to the table just to be followed by more and ghost aches to stop him but he's terrified to interrupt him. terrified to lose him now when he's so close to something.
soap's bloodied nails scratch down the crown of his head, following the line of his stolen mohawk until they come to rest on the back of the muzzle and ghost's heart drops.
they can’t get it off.
they can't get it off and he doesn't know how to explain that to soap; doesn't know if he can stomach watching soap pull at the monstrosity holding him captive, the inevitable bloodbath as the edges cut into his skin.
"show my face," soap repeats.
"johnny..." ghost begins weakly, reaching out to him but he doesn't know how, doesn't know if he even should-
the muzzle clatters onto the table.
the biometrics they couldn't bypass, the fingerprint they needed that they were so sure belonged to makarov.
it belonged to soap.
how cruel to torture him with freedom he didn't understand he could take; didn't even understand he could want.
just the kind of sick game makarov loves.
ghost doesn't know what's louder; his heart pounding in his ears or the long, uninhibited breath soap takes.
his eyes fall shut as he leans his head back with it, the blood still dripping down his face as he straightens through his exhale. his lower jaw is a mess of scars where he fought against the previous iterations of the muzzle, the corners of his lips cut through and cracked.
but the green in his eyes is duller; that light sparking brighter as blue struggles to break through the glow.
ghost's never seen anything so beautiful.
"good to see you again, johnny."
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random thought, but i had a vivid image of, if helsknight and welsknight ever saw each other without armor (or just helsknight out of his armor tbh), helsknight showing welsknight the scar tanguish gave him and saying "this was intended for you."
i don't know how in character that is, but tbh it's haunting me. maybe it's part of helsknight's revenge against welsknight or something, calling out his unknightly behavior and unhonorable conduct.
"You didn't answer my summons."
Helsknight froze. It was a quick, momentary startle, a short-circuit of normality. The moment he did it, every instinct told him to keep moving. That old command [Do something.] blared loud in the quiet surprise of his mind. So he moved his hand to pick up the brush on his table, and pretended to be unconcerned.
"I'm not a dog. You can't call me to heel," Helsknight said simply. He smirked and growled, "Though if you feel like losing some limbs, feel free to try."
Behind him, Wels shifted uncomfortably. Helsknight liked making Wels uncomfortable, he didn't handle it well. He was a creature used to comfort and ease. Inconvenience often galled him more than a sword to the throat. Different tactics for different battlefields, and this battlefield was a delicate one.
Helsknight was cleaning his arms and armor, which was one of several reasons why he hasn't leaped for a fight when Welsknight had called him to one. He was only in a tunic and breeches. It was luck he even had his boots on. He had offered to run errands with Tanguish, but Tanguish had said he was visiting his church and wanted to go on rooftops. So Helsknight stayed home, and he left his boots on. That was the other reason Helsknight hadn't answered the call: Tanguish wouldn't know where he was, and he knew Tanguish got paranoid about being left behind. Besides, Helsknight had chores he could do at home [like cleaning his arms and armor] so he stayed. Cleaning the chainmail was almost a formality. Hels was hot and dry, and he wore it often enough that the rings clattering together cleaned themselves. But sometimes he just liked putting an extra shine on things, so he took out his brush and oil and started brushing it down for any miniscule specks of rust or broken links he could find.
Wels, always keen on the times he wasn't wanted, decided now was the perfect time to show up in his living room. He stood awkwardly, waiting on Helsknight to make some aggressive movement. When none came, he cautiously stalked further into the tiny living space. His emotions were loud and uncomfortable without the distance between their respective worlds to dampen them, and they clung like smoke against Helsknight's skin. Caution at an unfamiliar space. Disgruntlement at being ignored.
[Guilt, like ash on a burn.]
"Is this... Yours?" Wels asked, glancing around.
"No, I'm just squatting in a random house. Sounded like a fun way to spend a Tuesday."
Helsknight felt the ant-bite sting of vicarious agitation and smirked. He was already getting on Wels's nerves.
[Good.]
"Couldn't build something nicer?" Wels snapped impatiently.
"I'm a fighter."
Helsknight found a place on his chainmail to brush down and got to work. The rough, grating twinge of the coarse bristles on chain made Wels wince. Helsknight always found the noise pleasant. Like scratching an itch.
"So?"
"I have better things to do than spend hours building the perfect house."
Wels scoffed and looked around the room with renewed disdain. "Where's your little devil?"
It took Helsknight a moment to place what he was asking. He sneered, a quiet bearing of teeth, and caught the flicker of red in the reflective shine of his chainmail. Wels looked pointedly away from him.
[Like ash on a burn.]
"Not feeling remorse... are we, crusader?" Helsknight asked, finding a new place to polish. The coin-drop clatter of chain, and the shrill scrape of bristles filled the silence like an accusation.
"Of course not," Wels sniffed disdainfully, still refusing to meet Helsknight's eye.
"Careful." Helsknight murmured, that red flash reflecting off his chainmail again, anger simmering. "Lying's a sin."
"Why would I feel remorse for protecting my home?"
"A crusade well fought I'm sure."
"It's not a crusade!" Wels snapped, his own anger a living thing raising hackles. "A crusader invades! A crusader fights a holy war just for the principle."
"Right. And you're fighting because--"
"Because I'm protecting Tango."
"-because it's for his own good?"
Wels didn't exactly wince, but he did still, as though he'd heard someone draw a blade from its scabbard. Helsknight might as well have unseated his sword. He had stopped scrubbing, all pretense of work falling. The need to pace, to circle, to corner, rose up in Helsknight like a waking beast.
"Interesting choice of words. Protecting." Helsknight said, his voice low, his hands still. "I was under the impression they were friends. Do you often protect Tango from the people he's begging you to spare?"
"That doesn't matter." Wels said so firmly it was almost convincing. Almost. "People are convinced they need an abusive relationship. That doesn't change the fact it's bad for them."
"So many interesting words today," Helsknight hissed. He stood like a dark tower rising, all embered fury slowly stoking. Wels didn't bother turning to face him. He could feel his intent like thunder. "Abuse. Brings to mind the image of power. I do have a question."
"I didn't come here for your stupid questions."
"No, you came here looking for a fight."
"I didn't."
"You really do need to tame that lying tongue."
"I didn't come here for a fight."
"Did it feel powerful?" Helsknight demanded, pacing a step, and loathing the tiny room for denying him the space to circle. "The voice. The command. How did it feel."
"Shut up."
"To have someone begging you not to hurt them," Helsknight continued relentlessly. "Not your stupid play fighting on your stupid little server. True, shaking, terror. Did it feel good, crusader? Just?"
"I told you to shut up!" Wels shouted, taking a threatening step forward only to find Helsknight had closed the space between them and stood looming like a rook on a tombstone.
Fear, a caged thing howling, battered against Helsknight's anger. It made Helsknight feel almost giddy, the crash of malicious schadenfreude and self-righteousness against Wels; a flickering thing of brittle will. They made a terrible ouroboros together, fear feeding anger feeding elation feeding fear. They were always like this. No matter how calm either of them tried to be, once anger kindled in one, their emotions burned until there was nothing left but fury and loathing. Helsknight had been made to cut Wels down to size.
"Do you know what that kind of fear does to people?" Helsknight demanded again, his voice so near a whisper it was smothering. They were so close together, but they made so little noise, all will and wide eyes. "What happened to mercy for the helpless, crusader?"
"He wasn't helpless," Welsknight said, trying very hard not to back down. "He stabbed me."
"And a drowning rat bites. I wouldn't call it an apex predator. Certainly I wouldn't call it a danger to you, with your full armor and sword." Helsknight bared his teeth at Wels, something like a bitter grin. "I wasn't wearing armor."
Wels looked down, where Helsknight had drawn up his tunic to reveal the new scar in his abdomen. Wels looked like he'd stopped breathing.
"This was intended for you," Helsknight said. "You should thank me."
"You're-- you're here telling me he's harmless," Wels laughed nervously. "But he almost killed you. You."
Something in Helsknight snapped, and in the moment it took him to reach for it with white knuckles and compose it again, he'd shoved Wels hard in the chest. It didn't knock his other half off his feet, but he stumbled back hard enough hit the opposite wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but certainly hard enough to warn.
"He did," Helsknight snarled, pacing forward slow steps. "That's what terror does to helpless people, crusader. It makes them bite. It makes them beg. It makes them clamor to live. You. Did. That. What did it feel like to abuse that kind of power Wels? To turn someone into a scared animal? To make someone so desperate they would almost kill a friend? Did you find your righteousness there crusader?"
Helsknight didn't know what he planned on doing. Violence was in his blood like a serpent, and he wanted it. And Wels knew he wanted it. There was the ring of drawn metal, and the silver-bright glint of an enchanted blade in a dark room. Helsknight's advance stopped at the top of Wels's sword, not close enough to hurt, but close enough to warn.
"Stop." Wels said. A command. A plea.
"I'm unarmed."
"That doesn't matter."
Helsknight smiled, and there was loathing and euphoria in it, and the wine-dark dread of Wels right on the other side of it. The knowledge of a line crossed, a battle he hadn't even realized he was fighting made forfeit.
"Fine." Helsknight said. "My blood's already been spilled once on your behalf. At least this time do it with your own sword, coward. I'll make it easy for you."
He took a step forward, and nudged the blade with a knuckle, resting the point against his scar. The metal was cold, even through his shirt, the enchantments alive and writhing so close to his skin.
"How cruel have you gotten while I wasn't there to keep you in check, crusader?"
There was a long breath of silence between them. Helsknight stood, precarious and predatory, daring Wels to kill him. And Wels stood there, and dared himself to as well. And the room was dark, lit only by red anger and blue dread, and the pale, languid flicker of enchanted steel. And neither of them breathed. And the universe watched.
A loud clatter sounded on the roof. Both knights looked up towards the ceiling, Wels in startlement, and Helsknight in resignation.
"And he stays my hand once again," Helsknight sighed.
"What--?" Wels didn't get his full question out before Helsknight moved. He knocked the sword aside and lunged forward to grab Wels's shirt. In a move that would've made Martyn proud, he dragged Wels forward into his knee, knocking the wind out of him. In the time it took Wels to collapse to the floor, Helsknight had taken his sword, and held the point beneath his other half's chin.
"Go home Wels," Helsknight said, "before I send you there the hard way."
Wels, breathless on the ground, let out half a strangled laugh. "Why don't you?"
"Because I was asked nicely not to go running off and killing you."
"Helsknight?" A loud knock sounded at the door. Tanguish's voice, a bright comfort even in spite of its concern, called to him. "Is everything okay? I thought I heard something fall."
Helsknight glared meaningfully down at Wels, who only hesitated long enough for Helsknight to draw back the sword before slipping back to his world. The moment he did, Helsknight felt his breath leave him, the great void of being left to his own thoughts and emotions. In the wake of everything that was Wels, he felt ridiculous.
[What in hels had he even been about to do? Die on someone's sword to prove a point? Idiot.]
"Helsknight? The door is locked."
"I'm coming," Helsknight called, pausing only long enough to hide Wels's sword beneath the couch, where Tanguish couldn't see it and inevitably worried about it. He checked his tunic to make sure he hadn't managed to actually stab himself [he hadn't] and went to let Tanguish inside.
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100 little things I stayed alive for
Reflecting on the little things that kept me around when I didn’t want to be. It’s not wrong if the only thing you’re living for is trivial. Try to remember your own✨
Warm bed, cold room
The animals outside
My favorite artists releasing new content
My favorite creators releasing new content
Eating the dough when I bake
Seeing animals at the zoo
Growing plants
Laughter
Wearing my favorite outfit
Deep diving on a topic I’m into
Laying in the sunlight through the window
New funny memes
Dogs
Stuffed animals
Oversized sweatshirts
A really good meal
A really good sweet treat
Music that gives me chills
Colorful flowers
Spite
Curiosity
New books
Cool rocks
Low lighting
Vanilla candles
When the weather starts to cool
Waking up and realizing I have hours longer to sleep
Funny videos online
Leaning a new skill
Realizing I’m passionate about something
Rivers
Mountains
Pretty landscapes
Listening to a song/album on repeat
Sitting down after standing for a while
Bird nests
Crocheted clothes
Rain
Thunder
Clouds
Road trips
Winning bingo
Crunchy piles of leaves
Accidental jokes
Discovering new music
Petty revenge
Love (of anyone or thing)
A dog running to you
Finding a really good restaurant
Ice cream with a hot dessert
Cold water
Wholesome videos online
Finding something really cute on sale
Coloring
Writing
Late nights
Deep conversations
Discovering a new aspect to my personality
Sleeping
Odd compliments
Freaking out with a fandom
Slime
Dogs again
Blowing dandelions
Someone getting my reference
Dancing to music alone
Learning useless facts
Learning funny facts
Telling an anecdote someone is interested in
Learning to cook
Dogs again
Taking a photo of myself that I like
Gift giving
Getting gifts
Winning carnival games
Feeling free
The sound of streams
Baths
Doing my hair
Doing my makeup
Taking a pretty picture
Windy days
Seeing the stars
A child laughing or smiling to me
Decorating my water bottle
Wind chimes
Binging a good tv show
Homemade gifts
Ice cream trucks
Making someone laugh
Overcoming a fear
Making progress internally
Inside jokes
Finding something after searching for a while
When the world feels paused / not real
Finding a nice-feeling texture
Smooth drawing pens
Colorful sunsets
Waterfalls
A really good story
If none of these resonate enough to help, I implore you to come up with your own :)
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