Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan

Ghost wasn't kidding when he mentioned giving Scarab shit to do. Much to MacTavish's astonishment, the lieutenant pushed as far as insisting they take her along on this stint in Afghanistan. His logic was simple: Get her off the base and away from all that shit so she has other shit to think about. Simple enough. From what MacTavish saw in Azerbaijan, she could handle herself on missions alright.

The base itself was chalk full of Rangers, many of whom gawked at them as they rolled in. It was enough to get Roach to uneasily shuffle closer to their group and awkwardly ask, "Why're they staring at us?"

MacTavish stifled a chuckle. "We're an elite task force."

Beside him, Ghost snorted. "No offense, mate, but I think it's because we look bloody ridiculous."

Or that. It could- no, it definitely was that. They'd hit a point of elite where they didn't conform to regulations. In the most obvious way, uniforms weren't as strictly enforced. That's all well and good on base, where it's just them there 99% of the time, but here they stuck out. A number of them were only in half the desert uniform and not dressed to the nines with their gear. Compared to these guys in their ACUs, they looked unprofessional.

Tack on the fact that Ghost was still wearing his usual skull balaclava in this heat, MacTavish himself was sporting a mohawk, and they had two women in tow where there didn't seem to be one in sight. Back in his SAS days, when he had a lot less freedom to let his hair grow how he wanted it, MacTavish probably would've been thrown for a loop too.

This was awkward.

He banished this to the mental filing cabinet of stupid things to fuss over at 3 in the morning and led his men to the briefing room so Shepherd could fill them in on what was going on. With a grand total of eighteen people, the room was cramped and quickly became balmy with everyone's combined body heat. The little oscillating fan continued its futile mission to combat the heat in the corner.

They were stuck waiting there for bordering on a half an hour. In that time, amazingly, Ghost actually pushed his balaclava up to free his nose and mouth. The lower half of his face gleamed with sweat and one corner of his mouth twisted down as he continued to tap his fingers in the crook of his arm.

By the time Shepherd arrived, the General gave pause when he was clearly hit with that rush of heat that'd been building in the room. "You know there's a window."

"We tried it. It's stuck pretty good," MacTavish explained.

Shepherd made a point of propping the door to get a little bit of air circulation in and went on with business. Apparently, whatever he needed from them wasn't so confidential that he'd be concerned about prying eyes or ears. Always a good sign. He apologized for being late (apparently some accident happened with training the local militia) and moved on to reestablish the facts for everyone concerning the weapons cache, arms dealers, and oodles of fun they'd been having trying to track enemy assets down.

"We're still working on it, but it's been narrowed down to nine locations." Shepherd pulled up a map with a cluster of buildings in the nearby city individually circled. "They're scattered throughout the Red Zone, and if we hit one and get it wrong then we run the risk of our target destroying valuable intel."

This sounded way more elaborate than something he'd bring eighteen men for. MacTavish crossed his arms and reiterated, "So you're saying we'll need to spread out and hit all these locations at once? That'd be two people for each location. You sure that's smart?"

"It's not ideal," Shepherd agreed. "If I could, I'd pull more assets and give you back up, but as it stands, I'm dead locked with people who think the problem got solved in Azerbaijan."

Ah, so there was the real problem. No love from the top of the ladder.

They proceeded to go ahead and iron out plans from there: who was with who and going where and what have you. Nine teams of two, and once a place was cleared then the team would move to assist the nearest team that had yet to clear their location. This would create a domino effect where they'd hit everything simultaneously and weed out the dead ends so that they could move wherever needed.

The game was set and the operation would commence the following day. Before they were allowed to leave, Shepherd had one last thing he wanted to bring up. "I'm having everyone run The Pit to pull a new member for the Task Force. Since you're here, do you want to show them the performance I expect out of them?"

Ghost had yet to pull his mask back down, so his smirk was on full display. "What's the standing record?"

"29.45 seconds," Shepherd replied.

Lord only knows how Ghost managed to look more sinister without that skeleton grin. "Lovely." He said nothing else and pulled his mask back down over his features.

Did the lot of them proceed to embarrass these Rangers on their own course? Just a tad. Did MacTavish end up making a bet with Ghost whether the lieutenant could match or beat his record with an M9? Yes. He hadn't exactly expected Ghost to get within a couple hundredths of a second of his time while matching his accuracy with a pistol, but somehow the cheeky bastard pulled it off. He owed Ghost one "favor" to be determined later.

He was also met with the interesting discovering that Heatstroke was in some ways familiar with these guys. The man stuck running times and taking care of the firearms was some Corporal Dunn. Heatstroke gave pause at the entrance to The Pit and stammered through a greeting of, "Eli? Hey, um, how've you been?"

The Corporal clapped his jaw shut with such force that his teeth clacked. In an instant, he stopped leaning against the crates and fixed his posture. "Shoot, Riley! What're you doin' here?"

MacTavish and Ghost exchanged looks and shimmied towards the stairs as these two caught up. Neither of them sounded upset to see each other, but something clearly went on between them at some point if all the start-stop ahem-uh-ums were any clue. They left The Pit and MacTavish asked quietly, "Do you think they...?"

Ghost gave a shallow nod. "They definitely did."

Small wonders. On that note, they split up to take care of things before the operation. Ghost mentioned double checking their weapon load out. MacTavish went to check on how Meat and Rook were doing with lorries too. For the most part, his men were being productive and getting ready. There was one person he didn't see around for a while, and that Scarab.

"Yeah, I dunno, Captain," Meat said from beneath the truck. "She's somewhere, I'm sure. Probably just wanted to be alone."

Maybe, just maybe, he'd regret this, but he decided to go find and check on her. Last thing they needed was one of their team unable to carry out the mission. Scarab ended up hanging around the firing range, observing rather than shooting. For the briefest of moments, MacTavish hesitated. He wasn't sure if he and her were okay after everything that happened, if she'd want to talk to him at all. If he could maintain a professional attitude, then it should be fine, but he wasn't fond of treating his men coldly. Mustering his courage, he approached.

"Hey, Scarab. How are you feeling about the mission tomorrow?"

She was propped against a post, but the moment he spoke up, her back stiffened. "I should be okay, Captain."

Her tone was off, fainter and less spirited than normal. He opted to do some gentle prodding. "And in general?"

Scarab pressed her lips and pulled a pair of dog tags from her pants pocket, tossing them his way. MacTavish caught them and briefly glanced them over.

MACEY
ALEXANDER R
918 34 6122 USN O+
NO PREFERENCE

His heart sank. These weren't hers. If he had to guess, they were probably her father's. They were weathered from at least a couple decades of time, parts tarnished and some of the letters worn down as if repeatedly swiped over like a worry stone. "I'm sorry. Did you want to talk about it?"

Her answer was a half-hearted shrug.

Maybe he should've left things at that. Instead, he pressed the dog tags back in her hand. "Has it been a while?"

"Fifteen years today," she answered, closing her fingers tight around the pair of metal tags. "He had lung cancer for a while, since I was born pretty much. In hindsight, I know it was a matter of time before that caught up to him. He lived a lot longer than the doctors said he would. I didn't get what death was when I was ten though, so it was rough."

"He might've hung on for you," he guessed. In his head though, he was doing the mental math. Scarab had a stepmom, and if he had cancer since she was young, it was possible that her birth mother walked out due to the emotional or financial demand of caring for a baby and a seriously ill spouse. The stepmom was probably brought in as a way to ensure that someone would be around to care for her and the slightly older brother. In a lot of ways, it was sad. He couldn't imagine living like that. "I'm sure he's proud of you, wherever he is."

"Mhm..." Scarab returned the tags to her pocket. "Do you believe in heaven?"

It was a hard question. He wanted to say he did, after all, he was born and raised a Roman Catholic. Over the years though, he was hit with so many mixed messages that threw him between wanting to renounce his faith and attending a confession. "I think some of us have someone looking out for us."

"Captain?" Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

Did he say something wrong? "Aye?"

She sniffled and faced him with watery eyes. "Thanks."

The location Heatstroke and Scarab got assigned to was on the opposite side of the Red Zone. While Heatstroke drove them there, Scarab gave directions. Because they were the furthest away, it also meant that the operation couldn't kick off until they arrived to infiltrate the building. Heatstroke's nerves were rapid firing as she clutched the steering wheel.

"Take a left. The target building should be around this corner."

Heatstroke glanced into the rear view mirror to make sure the road was still clear before following through with the instruction. The place was deserted. Not a soul to be seen in this dusty city. Civilians had long since left the zone or hid deep in their homes. To think this used to be normal place with regular lives being played out was chilling.

I'm being stupid but... "Scarab? Do you feel like something's off?"

"Off?"

"Like this mission's about to kick South any minute?" Heatstroke elaborated.

Scarab hummed. "Nope. Can't say I do."

It was just her then. Good. She could chalk this up to the chaos that the base has been in and call it a day. This morning started so normally too with her writing an Email home to her folks. There was no way she should be feeling this anxious, not when the final words she wrote were simply "Talk to you soon! 3"

Once she parked the car, they got out, readied their weapons, and made their way down the street. The area continued to be dead silent. It was as dusty as knickknacks pulled from the old trunk in the attic. It hinted at a time when people walked these streets, when shops were open and kids might've run to the school building several blocks away. Several years from now, would life return to this ghost town? People were stubborn, but it was difficult to picture life picking up where it left off someday. The building itself was a bunch of offices. She couldn't read Dari, let alone speak it, but what was left of the chipped away lettering suggested a law firm in her mind.

"This is India 1, we're in position outside Building 9," she informed over the comms. "We're ready when you are, boys."

Ghost responded, "Roger. Alpha team's in position. All callsigns, confirm." This was followed by a chorus of confirmations from the other teams.

"Ignis copies all," Command answered. "141, you're clear to engage the target buildings."

Heatstroke reached for the knob and gave it a testing wobble that ultimately became a simple turn as it ended up being unlocked. Slowly, she slipped the door open and entered the main lobby with Scarab behind her. The first thing she noticed was the dirt tracked throughout the area. At one point of another, there was a heavy amount of foot traffic.

"Looks like someone's been through here with a dolly," Scarab noted, gesturing to few sets of wheel tracks that followed along one of the clearer paths.

The question was how long ago? Heatstroke passed the front desk and mailboxes, then led the way up the stairwell. At the landing, she paused. "Scarab, you smell that?"

"Yeah. Cigarette smoke."

"Someone's here. Stay sharp." Heatstroke continued up the stairs and with a great measure of caution, entered the second floor hallway. Her heart picked up faster. At the end of the hall was a man with his head wrapped in a shemagh and a lit cigarette in his hand. An AK-47 hung off his arm. His back was to them, his attention fixed on the window.

Scarab stepped in front of Heatstroke and drew her sidearm, a silenced Five Seven. "I've got him." On the next beat in the Corporal's chest, the man smacked his face into the window with a noisy thud and collapsed.

Much like a cat, Heatstroke bristled from the sound. Hopefully no one heard that. "We'll clear these rooms one by one. Nice and easy."

They proceeded down the hall, opening rooms and confirming that they were empty. Aside from the single man at the end of the hall, there was no sign of any other targets. It was possible that they encountered a scout. Their upturning did reward them with a single locked room. Heatstroke shot the lock on the wooden door.

"Watch the door. I'm checking this out."

Scarab nodded. "Go for it."

At around that time, Teams Alpha, Golf, Echo, and Charlie reported in that their buildings were deserted. Alpha would divert to Bravo Team's location, Charlie was headed towards Delta, Echo to Foxtrot, and Golf to Hotel... Them, Team India, remained alone.

Inside, Heatstroke came across a small weapons cache. "Ignis, this is India Team. We've found a small munitions cache. Nothing big, but it could be linked. I'm checking it out now."

Guns hung on the wall, and there were a few crates stacked on top of one another in the corner. Printed on the sides of those crates was a logo: a 51mm bullet with AWR on the casing. It seemed that the arms dealer train reached the station here. Heatstroke pulled out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the logo on the crates.

"India 1 confirming that these weapons are linked to those arms dealers. The logo on some of the crates match." Heatstroke turned and noticed an old fossil of a computer. "I'm looking for any records or intel written out."

"Copy that, India 1. Do what you can."

Scarab spoke from the doorway, "How much is in there?"

"Plenty," Heatstroke said, flipping the chair around and checking the console. From the looks of it, it must've died ages ago. It refused to power up, and even if it did the dust inside it would probably cause the whole thing to spontaneously combust. "The computer's trashed. I don't think I could get anything out of this without a floppy disk."

The desk drawers had nothing new to contribute either. A lot of them were empty and sad, with the single exception of one that was stuffed to the brim with packs of cigarettes. Probably the community smoke stash. There wasn't much else in the way of clues to be found.

Heatstroke readied her gun. "Alright, let's get out of here-"

On the last word, the loud booming of an explosion within a mile of their position cut in. Over the comms, Bravo Team reported, "They rigged a thermal in floor above us! I don't know if this was a booby trap or if there's hostiles nearby."

"Rook, are both of you alright?" MacTavish questioned.

The answer came with a series of coughs from Meat. "We're still in one piece, Captain."

"Find some place to hole up, we'll come to you." The Captain advised. "ETA two minutes."

Scarab and Heatstroke shared a look. Without needing to be told, Heatstroke chimed in. "This is India Team. We've just finished up here. We'll head your way." She returned to the hall with Scarab and they went down the stairs. That was when they made the unfortunate discovery that the lobby they'd come in from was now swarming with hostiles.

{—To Be Continued—

Summary of Plan B Chapters 20, 21, and 22

20. Scarab morning dead dad. Soap talks to her about grief, more bad backstory. Shepherd sends Scarab and Heatstroke on a bullshit mission, they leave.
21. They go to wherever for that intel. Soap and Roach have a smoke.
22. Lockpicking hijinx. Heatstroke does Scarab's job. Price has a weird chapter.

A/N: I know I said I'd be following Plan B more closely. I'm a liar. This has some very weird differences and things cut out that didn't need to be there. Don't worry, you don't miss much, but let's talk about these changes, shall we?

The biggest change was moving things to Afghanistan. I planned on starting the fic with this, but opted to do it later. They're here now partly because the 141 needs to flex on the Rangers with The Pit and also because the way that the mission gets described sounds like something inside the Red Zone at the beginning of the mission.
Soap and Scarab's conversation was pretty shitty originally. Scarab starts talking about her dad, Soap mentions how his brother's paralyzed from the waist down and his sister has been severely ill for a long time. Then Scarab goes on a tangent about her dead brother while Soap makes some highly inappropriate and insensitive remarks. I felt the need to rewrite it so that it wasn't terrible and remove some of the shitty backstory.
Plan B has the mission be just Scarab and Heatstroke. No particular reason for it. I elaborated more on what's going on while keeping the two isolated from everyone else for reasons.
Soap and Roach's smoke scene was not even 200 words of them wondering what Scarab and Heatstroke were up to on their mission. I cut it since it does literally nothing narrative wise besides pad the word length (Younger Me even admitted in the A/N that it was basically only for that).
When I wrote in the summary "Heatstroke does Scarab's job", that's referring to a detail on Scarab's original reference sheet. Her designation was a hacker while Heatstroke was a sniper. Amusingly though, I forgot my own reference sheet because whenever any sort of tech is involved, Scarab's never thrown at the problem in favor of Heatstroke or Ghost. Ultimately, for Plan A, I scrapped the designation entirely as placed her as a standard rifleman. She really never does ANYTHING that would nod to a specialization, aside from snipe one time and be super good at CQC.
Another piece of cut content is a scene where it's Price in the Gulag getting bullied by other prisoners and guards. It's stupid. The only detail of relevance is the off handed mention of his wife and son. He was supposed to get several other Gulag Scenes (TM), but they're also getting cut because, again, they don't do anything narrative wise.

Man, I really didn't think about how much I changed until I typed all this out.