My brother and I went to the midnight release of Black Ops 2 and we've been playing it straight until tonight when we finally beat the campaign. I was almost in tears because of all the emotions it caused, the life of my favorite character taken by my own trigger finger because I didn't know I had another option… so I decided to write fanfiction for the Black Ops fandom!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or the addicting games, as is why it's so out-of-character.
The brunette slipped through the guards with a flash of his clearance guard, managing a weak smile and a nod as they bid him a good time, rolling his eyes as he picked up a fast pace and wove in and out of the idling crowd with murmured apologies and pardons. Some people didn't move, or just didn't in time, only to be shoved aside by his impatient shoulders, no apology rendered out for them, hurrying on with his quick pace and simply ducking his head down towards the camouflage hoodie covering his chest, the hood piled up at the nape of his neck.
"Fucking… numbers," a few swore they heard him say as he continued darting impatiently in and around the crowd, avoiding meeting anyone's gaze, his own rather distant as he seemed to be following something else through the air.
They couldn't see the numbers. No, no one was ever able to see the numbers. He knew that, it wasn't like it was new to him-
"Sorry," he muttered in his pleasingly deep voice before sinking his elbow into a bigger man's side to make room for himself, ducking behind a smaller looking man and snickering as that blonde collapsed to the ground from the direct punch he took to the jaw.
—just that he still had hope that one day, someone would shyly pipe up and ask him in fear of sounding insane, only for him to feel that much better. No one else ever saw the numbers though. Not the ones, twos, threes, fours… not even the sevens. They all saw the world, but he could see the lies and he did his best to dodge them, or more specifically, go for the tall brick building stretched up not too much further north from where his current speed and location had him maybe a minute from.
Who had sent him there? Why did he know to go to the bushes on the outside of the building? Who was waiting for him inside? Someone important… he was here for a reason. What was today? Where was he? What good all those numbers were; couldn't even give him the date. Just confuse him. The headaches. When did they start? How long had the numbers been around?
The brunette shrugged the thoughts as he found himself face-to-face with the building, dodging around the side and looking for the bushes he knew would be there, up to his hip which was a lot taller than he had originally thought. It didn't stop him from peering within it, squeezing one eye shut as the numbers swarmed over a dark patch, snagging his hand out and grabbing a large and hefty black bag, throwing it over his shoulder without even looking inside, holding the hand that had grabbed it over his eyes.
Maybe he just needed a new eye. Surely that was it. It must be post-traumatic stress sending him the numbers of the scanners all over the air around him. Maybe therapy would help him. Maybe if he got a hot therapist. A blonde would be nice, big tits. Someone with a little curl… He pushed open the door to the building, looking both ways before stepping inside and firmly closing the door behind him as the numbers swarmed at the entrance. Trap them outside. Good luck getting in.
"You're late, Mason," a Russian accent spun the soldier around on his toes, a smile of relief stretching over his lips as he recognized the man resting up against the door in front of him.
Alex raised a calloused hand and rubbed his neck tiredly, looking his friend up and down as his smile stretched to a grin pretty fast, his feet swiftly crossing the floor.
"What'd you expect, Reznov? I had a country to protect," he chuckled warmly, holding his hand out toward the chiseled man, loving every little wrinkle on that warmly old face.
Viktor's hand reached out and clapped over his, pulling him in and briefly putting an arm around him before pulling back and adjusting his vest.
"Yes, as you still need to do today. Head upstairs and open the bag, you'll know what to do," the shadow-haired man promised, standing straight and heading for the stairs to leave. "When you're done, come out by the woods. I'll have a truck waiting."
Alex nodded silently, waving three fingers in a wave to the aged man, waiting until the door had slid shut before he turned and trod quickly up the stairs, the metallic echo clanging noisily in the air around him until there were no more left. There was just a shoddy wooden floor and a large window. And the numbers. A lot of numbers. Swarming. Heavy. Turning the world scarlet.
"Fuck, no!" he groaned, collapsing to his knees and cradling his aching temples, the bag sliding from his shoulders to the ground.
When he opened his eyes, he tensed to find an L69 perched on the window sill, his eye pressed to the scope and his finger curled around the trigger.
"W-What the-?" he started to ask before he saw what the scope was following.
That was the President of the United States. He had aim on John F. Kennedy. He tried to pull back. He tried to turn on the safety. The numbers were heavy though. So much red. It hurt to keep his eyes open.
"Kill him," Reznov's voice burnt in his ears, tensing his shoulders painfully, doing everything in his power not to pull the trigger. "He's a danger to the country. Don't you want to be a hero?"
He wanted to be a hero, but… he couldn't just kill the—oh well. Too late now. By the time the panicked screams hit his ears, the gun was in his bag and he was only a few feet from the door to the outside, putting on a false face of horror as he wandered through the fear-stricken crowd all the way to the forest lining the complete opposite edge. That engine rev in the background. That was for him. Reznov pulled through, right?
Alex squinted hard at the trees, staggering now as the world came in bright scarlet surges. Four six five three seven two two five four nine three six ten thirteen two four four five three zero one one six eight eleven nine zero… The world was fading out, at an alarming speed now, never seeing that truck before he collapsed to the ground.
Eyes opening weakly, the dim light of the live camera footage reflecting in his irises to mask the original color, Alex gave a groan of frustration to find that he was still bound to the chair with the silhouette watching him from the higher window.
"You have to remember, Mason," the filtered unnaturally deep voice blared hard through his head, screwing one of his eyes up tight, focusing on the figure to ignore the dim numbers. "You can't believe anything… what happened after that?"
The brunette tensed his jaw, fists trembling under the restraints.
"Where's Reznov?" he shouted aggravatingly, arms tearing desperately against the leather.
He couldn't get up though. The restraints worked their namesake, leaving him only to groan and grunt in pain and frustration, glaring at every screen reflecting his confused gaze back on himself.
"What do these numbers mean?!" he screamed louder when he didn't get a reply, bucking back and forth violently in the chair, giving a cry of surprise as he tipped and hit his head against the concrete floor.
He squeezed his eyes shut to fend off the stars, tensing when he opened his eyes and met the older man's gaze, smiling in relief at the familiar face.
"Your men in the truck didn't show," he laughed weakly, cheek pressed to the floor as the figures upstairs scurried about in a panic in trying to decide how to go about setting him upright without letting someone near him to reveal their identity or to get him out.
The man chuckled, rubbing at the scruff on his chin before squatting down and resting his elbows on his knees.
"They do that, take after me," he beamed for a second before growing serious, "You have to ignore these men, Mason. They're no good for you. They're the ones who caused the numbers, and they don't want me to be around you. I have to get out of here before they sic a man on me, but know I'll be waiting for you outside when you break out."
Alex's eyebrows furrowed as the man straightened and walked off, his boot steps growing dimmer and dimmer until they were deaf in his ears, the cold of the floor cradling his ears, a bit of anger in his features now. It was their fault. All of the pain and havoc he caused. Their fault. He was going to be a hero tonight, as soon as he slipped his wrists from the bonds. He had a country to protect.
I know they're all a bit out of character and the end was a little choppy, but I had to play out on the unfinished question from the first game. I mean, I really like the idea of it being Mason killing JFK. Who better than an insane soldier?
-F.J. III