a/n: one reviewer expressed a concern about our oc being a gary stu. I assure you, this is not the case. In fact, this oc's backstory is one you probably won't see anywhere else. enjoy!
The sound of his feet pounding upon the sand below him. His heavy breathing. The sounds of the equipment he carried with his uniform. The roar of an SUV driving out into the desert. As the sun beat down on the camo of his military vest, dust in his wake, he pulled out a second firearm in his free hand. He carried an M45 in one hand and a Mk 16 in the other.
The townspeople around him scurried into their houses. The urgency of the situation was palpable. They had to be caught. They had to be. They knew by now that a military officer carrying two loaded and un-safetied firearms meant bad news. Behind him, two of his Ops Team Members followed.
"Alley clear."
"Garage clear."
"Boss, up ahead, two SUVs!" one of the followers shouted.
"Which one is them?!" yelled the leader back.
In their ears, a voice spoke. "God damn it, I don't know!"
"Make a decision quickly! They're about to head into firing range!" the other follower urged.
The three military personnel upped their speed to get into position. The Leader spoke into his earpiece again. "Spec Ops 3 to Singapore Back Ops do you copy? Over."
"Spec Ops 3, Affirmative. Over."
"Unit Director, you've got to choose! T-minus 10 seconds!" The team leader yelled.
In Singapore, a man paced around the control room, with a live camera feed of what was happening in the desert. East or South. East or South. EAST OR SOUTH? He thought to himself.
"T-minus 5."
EAST?
"T-minus 4."
SOUTH?
"T-minus 3."
South. Yeah, south.
"T-minus 2."
What if he was wrong? Lives were at stake here.
"T-minus 1."
EAST OR SOUTH.
The Unit Director had less than a millisecond. East or so-
"THE ONE HEADING EAST! I REPEAT, TARGETS ARE HEADING EAST!" He finally spit it out, just as the clock hit zero.
He turned to face the screen at the front of the room.
The Team Leader ordered, "You heard the man! Fire!"
The sound of bullets rang out clearly in the otherwise deathly silence of the locked-down desert town.
Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boo-
Like fireworks, the shots continued to sound. Unfortunately, as the Unit Director realized, there was nothing to celebrate.
The golden bullets pierced the side of the white RAV-4 and shredded the car, along with anyone inside. Out fell three bodies.
A man. A woman. A little boy. It was a family. Not the rebels. He'd killed a family. The Unit Director suddenly collapsed into a chair.
Why weren't the fireworks stopping?
Their corpses suddenly moved. Mangled and littered with bullet holes, the youngest one spoke. "You killed us. You did this to us. This is your fault."
"What! No! It was a mistake, I swear! I didn't mean for this-" Why weren't the fireworks stopping?
"You're a monster. You killed my baby! My son! How could you?!" The mother wailed.
Their bodies floated through the screen and into the control room. The UD looked around. Where was everyone? The room was full not a moment ago. He started frantically scrambling backward. Why weren't they stopping?!
"You bastard. You sinner. How could you? This is because of you. You're worthless. You're scum. You killed my family. You killed my people." The father said.
Suddenly, the dead family's faces morphed into those of his own. Now, his mother, his father, and his younger brother continued their march toward him. They repeated the same mantra. "Your fault. Your fault. Your fault."
Wanting to back up more, the UD reached out behind him only to find a wall. He'd backed into a corner. "No-"
"Your fault."
"Wait-"
"Your fault."
Suddenly, guns appeared in the hands of his family.
"You don't-"
"Your fault."
"Don't do this-"
"Your fault."
"I'm your son-your bro-"
WHY WEREN'T THE FIREWORKS STOPPING?
The three guns were aimed at him.
"Your fault."
"No no no no NO NO NOO-"
His screams were cut off by the spraying of bullets. The sound blended right into those of the perpetual fireworks.
Fredericksburg, Virginia | 1:12 am
FIO Bell shot up from his bed, gasping. His throat felt like a million fires were burning inside of it. His forehead glistened with sweat in the soft moonlight. He was hyperventilating. Inhaling as much oxygen as he could, the Officer tried his best to stop his mind from racing.
He didn't know how much longer he could do this. Keep all these secrets. Keep up the tough guy act. Keep all his PTSD, although he refused to believe it was that, bottled up. Keep the guilt and the depression in his mind, eating away at his ever-shrinking sense of self. Keep waking up after two hours of sleep and working 22 non-stop. He was going to explode.
This team was good at cracking him, although that was to be expected. Even after he told the four in Garcia's lab they wouldn't get to him, they'd kept trying. It was beginning to wear him down.
Add a tired soul to a group of experts at reading them, and the results would be disastrous if the former Interpol employee wanted to keep anything classified for much longer. He didn't know what to do.
Bell's superiors at Interpol told him he was not to talk to anyone about the happenings of Operation Remedial and the events both preceding and succeeding it. Not even a therapist. He knew he had to, but at what cost?
And to who?
Finally, Bell's heart stopped beating at a ridiculous speed and he was able to regain control. He sighed. Less than two hours today. He might have to pick up Reid's coffee habits, he thought to himself.
The man chuckled to himself as he got out of bed, a sound lacking emotion of every kind except for a tinge of wist and envy. He envied those who had people to talk to about their problems. Who led normal lives. It was wrong of him, he knew.
But even the most pessimistic of men could dream, right?
Quantico, Virginia | 3:22 am
Bell brought a suitcase with him into the locker room. There was no point in going back home to his apartment anymore. He'd get the same amount of sleep at his desk or in Morgan's office on the couch as he would at home.
Sighing, he sat down at the desk he was at not 4 hours ago. Out of his sweaty t-shirt and shorts he went, into a dress shirt and khakis. His hair still wet from the shower, he looked at the surface. No files.
He then looked at Prentiss's and JJ's. There were quite a few. He looked at the stacks. Might as well, he rationalized. No one will ever be the wiser, and it'll kill some time. Get my mind off things. God knows he needed that.
The guilt was too overwhelming. The will to live too small. The PTSD as a black cloud above his head. Bell shook it off.
He plugged in some headphones and got to work.
He escaped the horrors of his own world and listened to someone else rap about theirs, going over case files of some family's worst nightmare.
But he was more at peace here than he was at home.