Soap was flickering, he could feel it deep down. The entirety of his body felt like he was touching a live wire and he knew, he just knew that everything he had built up in the last few years was going to come crashing down around him like the embers of a collapsed building.
He knew it when Captain Price laid eyes on him the moment he got in the van. The way his eyes never strayed from him as he spoke, informed Soap of what was happening more so than Ghost.
The truth… an op gone wrong… weapons taken and covered up… it was an old hat for Soap these days but one he thought he'd left dead and buried with the others in the mass grave long ago.
60 just down to 15…
He was so young then, fresh as snow or green as grass but just as deadly.
The things he had done in those three days were so heavily redacted that they may as well not exist. The team didn't. The team was dead as far as anyone else knew except for Price and that was because the man had found Soap still caked in sand and blood… figuratively speaking.
Soap was a mess, silent and deadly… labelled untrustworthy to have and yet the Captain still took him in, saw past the blood and gore… it cracked the shell that had formed over him. MacTavish became John and John became Soap.
The talk with Shepard just sent him spiralling more, the beast rattling behind bars and chains, hidden in the depths of a trench so deep that not even daylight could touch him and yet… all it took was a simple sentence.
We all keep secrets, Captain…
A simple fucking sentence that resurrected the monster. Shepherd's smug tone and nonchalant attitude shatters his carefully built up and shaped Soap MacTavish mask he donned over the slumbering monster.
I do what needs to be done, and no one holds me down with a roll of red tape…
I know what's best.
To do good you gotta do some bad…
He's a dog with a bone, and I highly recommend you don't try and take it…
Within the expanse of one breath and the next, the fire hot rage that Soap felt vanished. His feet shifting back a step to remind himself, he was Soap and Soap would be uncomfortable with this exchange, this betrayal.
He could feel Ghost at his back, the irony of it never lost on him, could see Price's entire body changing and it sent the adrenalin pumping. The wound in his arm was a grounding point, the pain keeping him here and now and Soap was thankful for it because he nearly missed what was being said.
"…I'm coming for you." The voice was dark and familiar, the laptop nearly cracking with the force Price uses to close it, eyes flickering up to land on Soap as he says it.
The Scot felt his eyes slip closed at that, his Captain's eyes lingering a fraction too long. He knew what was going to happen, the plan within the plan and prepared accordingly. He ignored that niggling feeling the best he could and hoped that it wasn't an option on the table. His eyes flickered to Ghost's back with a pang of regret, they had grown close, Soap had somehow gained the legendary man's notoriously known for being a Lone Wolf's trust.
Sighing he walked behind them all, a step behind his L.T with Gaz at his side as they followed Alejandro and Price towards the table.
"Vaqueros, pay attention!" the tone was gruff and commanding, Soap watched tensed as everyone fell around them awaiting for what's to be said.
Everything was moving at a speed Soap was familiar with, one that made his brain crackle with the familiar mindset of being a soldier. He kept a tight hold on his façade though, refusing to let go till he absolutely needed to, but Soap felt he was cracking at the seams.
Could feel the monster, the abomination crawl out of its confines with a hungry snarl after years of disuse.
Ghosts' eyes were on him, piercing him down to the very marrow of him that Soap was sure he could see the mask of sand and blood reflected back.
"Aright we're taking back your HQ." Price started, eyeing every face before him but always lingering on Soap. "We are getting our prisoner and we are killing commander Graves."
Rudy twitched at that, blood was in the water and many of the Vaqueros wanted a piece of the American, no more than Rodolfo though. "When?"
"Now." The rumbled reply was all Ghost, just as vicious.
"This is a fight against our own… We are not 141 or Los Vaqueros on this." Price stated firmly, eyes pinning every man down with a stare that knew made people listen to him. He let the words hold for a moment, breathing in and bracing for what was to come next. "We're a team… but we're going to need to be something else as well."
Ghost's eyes never left Johnny's as he lifts the bag at his feet and empty's it on the table, sending a splash of black across sheets of white. Masks, skull masks, some of them his own. His eyes take note of everything, how at the sight of them has Johnny losing the easy-going smile and coiling tighter than a cobra ready to strike...
The look didn't suit Johnny at all, it caused something to rumble unsettled in his chest at the sight of it. Ghost couldn't allow that, couldn't look at that blank broken gaze any longer… yer mask, take it off L.T… His hand tugs off his own, revealing his face for all to see but more importantly Johnny.
His eyes flared briefly, setting a frisson of warmth up Simon's spine as Soap's eyes swept over his face, drinking him in like a dying man in the desert and he was salvation. Ghost allowed himself a moment to bask in it before he pulled on his old balaclava and settled once more.
"We're going to have to be smart and deadly, silent as a grave." Price continued, eyes locking on Ghost and Kyle briefly. "We're have to go in silent as ghosts. So we shall be Ghost Team."
The world crashed down around Soap; his control was slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. It was always like sand, the element that shaped and moulded him into a lethal killing machine. He could never get the feeling of it off, it was forever fused with his skin, his bones, his soul.
"Soap," Price called, drawing all the attention to the two men once more. The only two who had yet to grab a mask and place it on.
Confusion swept through Ghost and Gaz as Price pulled out another mask from his tac vest, their eyes locking as Soap began to strip himself of all identifying marks and his tags. It was a slow process but methodical, something about it set everyone uneasy.
Ghost watched as Johnny's eyes shift down to the fabric in his hands, his face blanking in a familiar way that had him on edge. The mask was different, Ghost could already tell, the markings twisting more demonic than human... it looked like a twisted mockery of a smile, a gaping maw of jagged bone.
He watches as Johnny pulls it on and it's then with Price's eyes on his face and the way Soap's entire posture changes does he realise.
"This moment on, John 'Soap' MacTavish is dead." Price stated firm, ordered, the words choking him as they escape. "From now on, you shall refer to him as Stalker."
The name hit somewhere deep within the two remaining 141 members but was missed completely by the Vaqueros. The legendary Stalker team, a story uttered in the dead of night to inspire awe and fear into recruits. How a team of 60 reduced to only 15 held off an army for three days.
All 141 knew the stories from Price, having told them just before Soap joined after a mission deep into their cups. How the men used the bodies of their fallen brothers to hide and lay in wait, their blood seeping into them with the sands, casting them in a ghostly shroud. Anointing them.
They didn't know why all of a sudden Price told them, in detail of a story that they shouldn't really know but now do because Soap was part of it. He was one of the Taskforce Stalker, Ghosts.
The silence in the building was almost unbearable. If it were Soap, he would make a joke or a type of confidence building speech. But Soap isn't here, Johnny isn't here, only Stalker.
It was like watching a trainwreck, you wanted to look away but couldn't, not when a man known as loud, brash and sunshine turn into this. Back straight, arms loose and head tilted ever so slightly that read 'danger.'
Stalker dragged his eyes up slow, lazy and made eye contact with Ghost, eyes narrowing yet calculating as he studied the man across from him. A chill ran through the room at the look, at the two masked men locked in a stare off.
"Anyone who does otherwise is considered a traitor and shall be eliminated immediately." Price growled, eyeing the men before him. "This is life and death, men, and loose lips indeed sink ships."
The men stood straighter at the commanding tone, at the warning— threat. They shifted away from Stalker with unease, unsure of the man who went from being something they know to something unknown.
Ghost watched as Price pulled out the half-broken bundle of equipment and something else from the bag at his feet and handed it over to John—Stalker quick and easy without touching the man. He himself was unsure of what he was looking at, how he felt about it all, but couldn't tear his eyes away from the deft fingers that stripped and twisted the wires to his standard coms.
The now useless bundle of wire and comm casing was thrown onto the table deftly as Stalker stepped back and away, hand fiddling still. The symbolism not lost on Ghost as he noticed that Joh—Stalker made himself distant from the rest of the men.
Silence reigned for a beat more as all watched Stalker fiddled with the amalgamation of wires and parts briefly before stilling. His hands moved up to cover his face, twisting and pinching, jerking this way and that and not a sound to be heard before letting them drop.
Eyes took in the masked man with wide eyes, the mask he wore was terrifying enough on its own but now there was a broken twisted jaw attached to the lower half of his face, it was jagged and gaping, human but not. The wires he was playing with twisted around the scorched bone like barbed wire.
The opposite of Ghost's own…
A barely-there movement of Stalker's jaw was caught by some, confusion sweeping through them all until sound of beeps rung out over all their comms.
Ghost was impressed as he realised what had just happened Stalker just attached a rarely used portable telegraph, that uses the buttons to convey Morse code to the channel their comms were set on… it was ingenious in a way to use the jaw to tap to keep his hands free. A tactic that Ghost knows that only people deep undercover would use, that he himself has used… it was then, with that realisation, that Ghost realised Stalker has no intention of using his voice or giving away his position.
Disappointment settled in Ghost's throat like acid, no more English MacTavish… No jokes or flirtatious Scotsman.
"Stalker, how copy?" Price asked eyes never looking away from the flat ones before him.
'Calibrating.' Stalker replied as his eyes roamed over every person in the room that he could see, calculating every weak point if needed, a way to subdue if he had to.
The shift of the emotion in his eyes was Ghost's and Price's only indication that Soap was indeed gone. The spark of joy that glinted playfully, the one that had dulled the moment Price handed over the mask was replaced with an edge, a look that Price was familiar within dark eyes, not glacial blue.
I wanna be like you when I grow up… You gotta be better than me Johnny… The words exploded in Ghost's head like a hand grenade as he saw himself reflected in Johnny—Stalker. Was this what people saw when they looked at him? This cold calculating machine with no ounce of mercy? Was this what Ghost was like after he buried Simon in his grave and before Johnny?
They're eyes stayed locked, and Ghost was keenly aware of all the eyes upon them, of the tension that sat thick in the air like the cloying fog of a smoke grenade. God, he knew that look so much that it hurt, the deadpan but alert stare, the waiting for the next command, the next mission stance. Ready to be pointed in a direction and told to kill.
How many people have used Soap as a weapon before Price found him?
Price cleared his throat to break the tension and resumed command of the situation. Stalker gave Ghost one last look, lingering on his face—his mask before turning to Price, an obedient soldier to his CO but Ghost caught the flash of something in those eyes that had Ghost's lurching.
"Alright, we're going to need a plan Alejandro, this is your base, you lead us." Price stated as he stepped back. He had used the last of his will to hand over the reigns for a moment, he needed to, he needed to take a breath.
Price had done many things in his long military career, many things he was ashamed of but this topped it all. Bile bubbled and burned his way up to the back of his throat as he looked at Soap, or the body of it being puppeteered by Stalker.
He remembered the conversation when Soap joined the 141, when John had pulled him from the abyss like he had done Ghost, like it was yesterday.
X
John had watched as the shadow at his door paused and waited. He knew who it was, the silhouette of Soap's hawk distinctive. He watched as the man shifted, twisted as if he was warring with himself of entering or leaving, it made Price curious because Soap wasn't one to be nervous. Minutes passed as Soap struggled and slowly Price went back to his paperwork.
"Soap, what can I do for you?" Price asked as he tossed down his pen and leant back in the chair, eyeing the kid before him once he finally stepped inside.
He looked haggard, eyes glassy and face gaunt. It was a mockery of the man Price had come to know as being perpetual sunshine and manic glee.
"Sir, as you know my history with Stalker Team, I've come to request something of you, give you something so to speak," Soap replied flat, very much how he used to be.
Price raised his brows at the words and took in the man before him again, the set jaw, the flickering eyes that took in the exits, the white-knuckle grip on the fabric at his side. It set him on edge with how high alert the Sergeant was. "What is it?"
"This," Soap replied as he tossed the mask on the table, the bone and shattered communication device scattering the papers. Price eyed the mask with wide eyes, it was something he had only seen once and it was when he had first met Soap, had watched as the kid broke down screaming tearing the mask from his face after a mission gone wrong. "I cannot be Stalker again, cannot be that man, but if you have need of him and I mean desperate need of him then just hand me that, no questions asked."
A sharp inhale escaped Price as he stared down at the Ghosts Mask before him, similar to Ghost's own and yet not. He knew the meaning of this mask and all it represented.
But the trust that was being placed in his hands sent Price spiralling a little, this was another weapon in his hands, one that had a body count higher than his own, one that matched Simons and John wasn't sure he wanted it. "Soap."
"I loathe being Stalker, we all loathe being the monsters that night made us Captain, but for you, because I trust your judgment, I will become him again," Soap explained neutrally, unknowingly cutting deeper into the elder man.
"Son, I need to just to make one thing clear on this," Price squeezed out through a closed throat as he watched Soap shake his head and looked down with a vacant gaze. "I won't use this unless absolutely necessary and I you know don't take that lightly."
"Aye Capt'n." Soap replied more like himself, still despondent but there was that spark in his eyes again.
Price sighed in relief a little at that, but he knows the conversation was far from done, he's been through this before with a different man with a different mask.
"The only concern I have Soap is when push comes to shove and I am forced to use this, because I know there will be a time that I will… are you able to come back from it?" He asked just as Soap went to leave, causing the Scot to whip around and stare at him.
Price watched as he worked his jaw, finding the words.
"Promise me Captain, if I cannot return to this, to being Soap, and Stalker remains…" He trailed off before snapping his gaze up, blue eyes cold as glaciers. "You bury Stalker in the bloodied sands and bones once and for all."
X
Snapping out of the memory Price moved off to the side as everyone began to get ready to leave, he didn't need to look at Stalker to know that the man would follow. It was time for the hardest part, no, the hardest part was giving the mask to Soap, the worst part was this.
"Orders, sir?" the clicks could be heard over the comms, and some stilled to turn to look at them though quickly adverted their gaze as Gaz and Ghost glared at them, keeping a barrier between the room and the two in the corner.
"Seek and destroy." Price managed to get out through the stranglehold on his vocal chords. "Any means necessary."
Stalker cocked his head to the side and nodded, a barely there flicker of emotion in his eyes. "Affirmative, sir."
"Stalker." Price called as he watched the man begin to leave, taking to the shadows in a way that usually only Ghost could pull off. He waited till Stalker was before him once more, head once again tilted in question that pulled a deep sigh from his lips. He itched to reach out and clasp his boy's arm but the man was no longer Soap. "Be safe, do not risk yourself."
There was a heavy pause as Stalker looked at him, less frosty and more unsettled, a glint of Soap. Years of practise with Ghost had Price being an expert on reading men behind masks and Stalker's face was twisted with confusion. It ached when Price fully saw the trauma of it all, of the misuse that Stalker would have endured.
Afterall he was supposed to just be another weapon… a thing to use and toss aside without a care.
He had seen that in Ghost and swore it would never happen under his watch.
"Seek, destroy. Capture and or kill Graves but you need to come back to us alright son?" He whispered low, taking a risk by stepping within Stalkers personal space but he needed the man to know that someone cared for him too. "I need confirmation you understand what I am telling you Stalker."
"Affirmative, sir."
Within one blink and the next, Stalker was gone out into the night, his hands swiping the keys of a motorcycle as he went. He had his orders from his handler, seek and destroy, capture, or kill… come back alive.
He let the commands sink over him like a pall, smothering everything else that twisted inside of him, there was no time to ponder on emotions. He was awake, Stalker once more and though his body burned with the need to hunt, he could feel Soap fighting to stay awake and making it harder to focus on the mission.
It made Stalker remember his brothers, the bodies of those that made him and of the ones that raised from their self-appointed graves with him. The memories were not something he wanted to remember, not when he could see their shades in the masked faces of the soldiers back where he came from.
Soap wasn't even supposed to be on Operation: Sand Viper being still green and British forces.
No, it's no use in thinking of the why's.
His mind was still calibrating from being Soap to Stalker, slotting the warm memories in draws and dragging the darkness out of the pit where he usually slumbered. It was a slow process when his own mind fought him, when his eyes lingered on the Lieutenant that wore a skull to match his half, who bore the name Ghost as a call sign.
Kindred spirits recognised kindred spirits after all.
Simon isn't like us… Soap's whisper filtered through the chaos, the wind whipping past his ears.
But Ghost is… he reeks of death and bloodshed, like us it taints his hands…
The road was silent as Stalker made his way back towards Las Almas, the only sound being the purr of the engine and the roaring of the wind. It settled something within him, allowed his hypervigilant mind to cool enough to take stock of his body and drown out the panic that silence threatened to bring.
His arm was throbbing, bullet to the shoulder, through and through. A dull ache in his back, he must have taken another to the vest, cuts and burns on his hands on his face. Muscles were burning from running, fighting… it was all a familiar burn, and it kept his mind awake and occupied.
He could feel the silence creeping in, could almost taste the coppery tang of blood and the grit of sand in his teeth.
It didn't take much longer for Stalker to reach the outskirts of the Fuerzas Especiales Facility, cutting the engine on the bike a bit further back and allow it to coast close to the treeline. His eyes roamed over the walls he could see and took in the guards that walked the perimeter.
Fuck… he muttered to himself as he realised that in his confused haste to flee the words of his handler, that he didn't stock up on weapons. He has various bits and bobs, rope, glass and a broken fan blade, one gun with half a clip, his standard issue knife and a wicked blade with a white pattern and green tip. Ghost's blade.
We'll I've worked with less on more dangerous missions… he grunted to himself, pausing in an underbrush as his coms come to life. He let the voices wash over him, centre him as he lays all his focus on the two guards that are walking by. They would be one of the ones to see the Ghost Team coming.
With a feral grin, Stalker pounced, a silent snarl twisting at his lips as he drove the borrowed knife into the jugular of the first man and slashing across to cut both arteries while his free hand wrapped around the other man's fragile neck, it was all too easy to squeeze, twist and yank… dropping the body after a satisfying snap.
Stalker pulled the corpses into the shrubs, hands patting them down and raiding them of weapons and gear that he may need before moving on. There was another patrol of footmen walking on the other side around the corner of the gate, a bit trickier but this is where Stalker thrived.
He lived for the challenge.
Sadly though, they didn't put up much of a fight. One ended up with his dagger to the head and his comrades falling soon after before they could even realise what was happening. It made him sneer down at them in disgust, yanking the American patches off them in their shame.
Scarecrow would have sent them back to basic with how useless they were… if they were going to act like rookies then that's where they belong… He sneered as he twisted the silencer on the handgun. All these soldiers were beyond useless, they didn't even see him coming, didn't even hear him coming and by now Stalker wasn't being quiet.
Two shots in rapid fire had the two sniper guards on the towers above the gate falling, dead before they even hit the ground. Pleasure swirled through Stalker as he noticed the grenades one of them were wearing as he dragged them back into the trees, tossing the bodies with all the rest.
"Gate clear. Good for breach." He alerted over the comms, stilling the small chatter.
He kept moving, low and out of sight, memorising the base as he went. There were dozens of shadows, probably more in the HQ surrounding his target but that wouldn't stop him, not with his orders. There probably will be a reprimand coming his way for delaying though, seek and destroy, were his orders not, secure a way in.
But Soap was still too close to the surface, still too active in his mind. Sleep, you will not like what you will see…
He switched from Ghost's knife to his own, slashing and stabbing any major artery exposed as he tore through the buildings steadily making his way to HQ. There weren't many Shadows to encounter on the way and a lot of places to hide the bodies.
Oh, a pleased rumble escaped his lips as he found the explosives. Excitement shooting up in him, even like this, even as Stalker… Explosives were still his thing. Nothing was more satisfying than the sound of an explosion, of the fire whooshing forward like a maw and devouring everything in its wake.
'Give us a sitrep Stalker.' Price's voice ripped through the silence, stilling his hands from the detonation and priming cables.
'Hostiles everywhere. 55 roaming. More undetected." The familiar click of his jaw pressing down on the key-type Morse telegraph transmitter was ingrained into his very being, months and years' worth of use and experimentation to find the right system, size and placement to make it work.
To make communication easy. What would be easy would be to talk, but Ghosts were made for silence, to become one with the area they haunted and that illusion would shatter by speaking. Tapping comms would help too but hands needed to be free, Stalker couldn't remember who brought up the jaw mechanism… maybe Kick or Keegan.
Either way it was a pain to communicate and usually by the end his jaw ached.
'Rog Stalker.'
'Four Ghosts in the tunnel'
Ghosts… It had Stalker pausing long enough that the shadow he was about to take down turned the corner, nearly spotting him if it wasn't for Stalker diving down under a table that was covered by a few ammo crates.
Ghosts… ghosts… not his ghosts though… half of them were dead and the others were scattered in the wind. His mind cracked, his fingers felt like they were bleeding with the force he was mentally trying to hold onto the shards. He wasn't fully calibrated, didn't have time to properly.
He slid his hand up and pulled the mask down tighter, firmer, as a reminder of who and what he is. This mission was too important, it was dire and of national security, more than that. Taking a deep breath, he got to moving, keeping low and silently followed the soldier, burying the knife in his throat with one swift plunge and twist.
His eyes scanned the hanger that he was in, taking in the heavy armoured vehicles and the tank. There were too many men, much more than they expected if he calculated the munitions and gear correctly.
The sweet blessed sound of gunfire cracked through the air, sending the few shadow's in his path scattering out of the door with shouts of surprise. The familiar rumble of explosions vibrated in the air and set Stalker's body alight.
Chatter of the comms and the teams gave information to Stalker, information that he needed to make his way to HQ. Team Two was making their way to the front, Captain Price with Air Support while team one found their target… it just left Stalker unknown to them.
A grinding boom reached his ears as he pushed onwards outside, his body twisting as the sound grew closer. Fuck… the radio tower was coming down around him and fast, he needed to push faster… either make it out fast or take a few hits but make it out alive… he had a mission to complete.
Price swore as he jerked his head at the loud long drawn-out beep in his ear, that continued in his ear like an omen. This was not good, either Soap took a hit to the comms, or something has happened for him. "Stalker how copy? Anyone got eyes on Stalker?"
'No.'
'Seen the bodies left in his wake but not him.'
'Negative sir.'
With each negative stated Price's eyes swept the ground with more urgency, directing the piolet to do another sweep over as he supplied air support. A sense of unease hitting him as he realised that the noise of the telegraph happened after they blew the communications tower down.
Stalker came to with pressure on his body, the taste of blood in his mouth and agony. It was quiet, only the faint sounds of gunshots in the distance could be heard. No no no… I cannot be back there… Panic bubbled the longer he remained immobilised with the scent of death around him.
Breath kid, that's it… in and out… remember where you were… Elias's voice whispered in his mind, wiping away the panic with a cloth. The war is over John, that war at least… think. What happened before you were stuck.
Flashes of twisted metal and a helicopter, running. Ah! He was stuck under rubble, not the bodies of his fallen brothers, not the men who had helped him and trained him as they prepared for the mission he was not supposed to be on.
The world snapped back into focus, loud and painful. He took a moment to catalogue his body, split lip, bitten tongue which is why he could taste it. The stitches in his arm were torn and there were several throbbing points on his body from being struck, but nothing broken and nothing piercing.
His name being called, a low silent snarl escaped his lips as he pushed himself up and shook free the debris in his vision. Time to get moving Stalker, no time to waste. Seek and destroy, come back safe.
"Not Broken. Tower knocked me." Relief hit Price like a punch to the gut at hearing the rapid beeps. "On target."
Chaos was a funny thing, controlled and yet not, expected and prepared for but entirely unpredictable. It was a whirl of bloodshed and mayhem as Stalker tore through the base, leaving nothing but broken bodies in his wake like footsteps.
The comms were loud, voices jumbling over one another shouting orders and confirmations but there were two that Stalker really heard. Lieutenant Ghost and Captain Price. A panicked roar of a helicopter going down and a furious snarl that Graves was getting away.
Anger and fury now burned through him, a remaining echo of Soap. Any and every soldier left that stood between Stalker and his prey was brought down with excessive, precise force. It was nearly too much, too many for himself to handle but he had to. He would not let his prey escape.
Stormy eyes caught sight of him in an instant, their target zigzagged between debris and broken husks of armoured vehicles right towards him and the tank that was behind him. It was all too clear what his target was trying to do, and Stalker will never allow that.
He grabbed the last two throwing knives he had acquired and let them fly, burying satisfyingly to the hilt in the throats of the leading men, alerting his Target that someone was before him. Good, let him see the beast.
Graves staggered to a stop, his eyes widening as he took the man before him. For a moment he had thought Ghost had somehow managed to beat him to his destination but no, this man was different, if not the same intense dark aura as the monster of 141.
No, Graves had seen this man before, not in person but in images on redacted files and mission reports floating in the background of hushed talks. The images did not do the man justice, nor aptly portray how utterly horrifying the man was.
You don't fuck with the Ghosts, Phil. If you see one, then ya' better pray they're on your team. He remembered one of his old commanders telling him long ago, hands shaking with haunted eyes. They live up to their name…
It was as if the man had crawled out of hell itself, blood dripping steadily from every part of him, body loose, eyes cold and calculating. Phil had barely seen the movement made to throw the daggers… There were no markings on him for identification, no country tag or blood, nothing that could reveal who it was besides the mask…
"Get him," He managed to croak out, watching as the man tilted his head, eyes crinkling that made Graves believe the monster before him was amused.
Stalker closes his eyes for a breath, just to centre himself before attacking. His foot snapped up, spartan kicking the first attacker while dodging the incoming punch. Once again he found himself questioning the training of these men, they all had guns but they all came at him with fists.
Some people are irrational on adrenalin John, they make mistakes and that's where you strike… Ajax's voice washed over the haze.
You just need to see their weak spots Scottish… Keegan's voice was next, a bitter laugh as they beat him down and tried again.
A lesson he learnt hard and fast, well and never forgot.
He drove his fist down into the second attackers' knee, sending him to the ground with an agonising wail as he dislocated the kneecap. Stalker didn't waste time in following his swings momentum to turn and deliver an elbow to the mans throat, feeling the bone in the soldiers nose give away. Wet ragged gasps followed in his wake and he twisted to avoid the knife from the first attacker who regained his balance, hand wrapping around the forearm before delivering a brutal blow to the elbow, snapping bone.
Screams replaced the silence in his head but brought forth memories, they overlayed each other as the taste of blood and dirt grew heavy with each breath. One blink and he was in Las Almas, the next he was in the Iranian desert surrounded by hundreds of dead.
It was Grim's voice who scorched its way across his mind fire hot next FOCUS.
Blinking the memories away Stalker heaved in a lungful of air as he let the last body drop to the ground, hands clenching and unclenching with a soft squelch. His target stood before him, face twisted in a sick sense of fear and determination.
"Who are you?" Graves demanded with a knife at ready. "You'd betray your own country!? For what?"
Stalker cocked his head to the side in dumbfounded amusement, the man had betrayed them all over a fuck up that should never have happened. Had betrayed Soap most of all as they were friends but that could have been excused if it weren't for the fact the man had shot him and had spent the night killing innocents looking for Soap and Ghost.
Orders were orders till you found out they were wrong.
"Target locked." He managed to relay the news, but it would be too late for them if they wanted the Target alive. His eyes flickered around to see more Shadow Team members filter out of the woodwork, he didn't have much time.
Graves snarled, "doesn't matter anyway, now move or I'll move you myself. I don't care if you're a myth among the ranks or not."
In a blink Graves shot forward and met the Ghost head on, snarling with each punch missed and received. The man was silent and deadly, barely made a sound even when he delivered a hard punch to the kidney. There were very little openings for him to take, but he was dedicated, he will get to that tank and complete the mission Sheppard gave him.
What are you doing, why are you going easy on him kid? Merrick's voice was angry in Stalker's head as it jerked back with a harsh uppercut. Remember what we are, what that night made us. We became monsters, now show him!
A feral grin pulled at his lips as Soap vanished completely into the void, the door slammed and locked closed the moment Stalker twisted the blade from his Target's hands, driving it into the meaty flesh of the mans thigh and yanked back out. It didn't slow him down, not a bit, Stalker made sure to jab far from the artery, he only meant to hinder not incapacitate.
It earned him three rapid jabs to the ribs, something creaking violently but it only added fuel to the fire burning within.
Fast as a viper he delivered another blow, this time to the familiar weak spot below the jaw, purring as the bone gave way and brought forth another agonising scream. His Target didn't stop fighting though, weak as he was, admirable, but stupid.
The Shadow's that came to his aid paused, stepping back, and dropping as Stalker snapped up the handgun and fired in rapid succession. HE let his target go, watching as the body slumped forward, jaw hanging loose at an excruciating angle. Even if he lived, Striker knew that the target would never be able to talk properly again.
Something twisted in him as the Target looked up with wide disbelieving eyes, they screamed why.
Soap barrelled through the blockade with rabid fury and Stalker couldn't help but lean forward, pulling the taget closer, an unseen smile on his face. "I have my orders, brother. Now let me give you yours."
Graves felt his heartrate spike as dawning realisation flooded him, the words were barely above a whisper and if the nightmare soldier wasn't so close, Graves would swear they were a figment of his imagination. But no, he saw the slight twitch of the jaw, the eyes burning bright with rage and familiarity.
"J—joh–nny." A mangled agonizing sound of the mans name but Soap didn't even blink back, there was no recognition in his eyes.
"There is no Johnny here, only Stalker."
The last thing Graves sees and hears is dead eyes and a haunted whisper.
It wasn't long till the comms crackled to life, the sounds of clicks and roaring stilling Price, Ghost, and a handful of those that are left instantly. Rudy began to pray in a way he hasn't since he was a child and that alone sets off Alejandro who was running towards the last known location of his Sergeant.
Then they hear it, laughter, low and dark that oozed promises of pain in the background.
Price and Ghost share a look as the familiar laugh continued; their eyes snapping back towards the Fuerzas Especiales Facility where a loud earth rumbling boom could be seen a heard. Both were familiar with Soap's work with explosives, the man could jerry-rig any kind of bomb with a small amount of c4 and broken parts… but Stalker?
Stalker was an unknown.
Within a blink, the two men took off in a dead sprint towards the inferno that reached high into the sky like a beacon beckoning them forth. Ghost likens it to the glow of hells gates if he believed in the afterlife, but his heart thudded to another tune. It beckoned him to Johnny.
The sight they both came to a stop to will forever be burned into their minds. Stalker stood before them, his back to them but Price and Ghost both knew that he knew they were there. The blaze before him was bright and burning hot from shades of whites to reds, a hunk of metal within that looked like it was a comet fallen right from the sky.
Ghost found the scene appealing, the sheer destruction and art of it all with Johnny in the centre like an angel of death. Beautiful.
Laughter still rung soft and deadly; Stalker's head was thrown back as the fire stormed around him. It set the hairs on the back of Price's neck standing and that was a feat considering his day job. His eyes scanned over the molten metal of what once was a tank, eyes lingering a little too close to the body that remained in the inferno.
Worry churned as his eyes finally landed properly on Striker-Soap. He was coated in blood, dirt and debris, it ran off his skin and clothes in little tendrils, making him look something otherworldly and Price knew that this is what made Ghosts Team so frightening and nightmarish.
Because one can never ignore the amount of death that clung to them when they look like they bathed in their enemies' blood…
The promise Soap made him take lingered in the back of his mind, Soap or death and Price knew which one they would all prefer but he also knew what he needed to do to get their beloved Scot back.
"Simon." Price started, hand snapping up to stop Ghost from moving forward. "We need Soap and I loathe to ask this of you, but you're the only one who can."
"Sir?" Ghost asked warily, head tilted.
Drawing in a ragged breath he slowly let it out before turning to face his right-hand man. "Soap isn't there anymore Simon, only Stalker. We need to get Soap back before it's too late."
The names were stressed with an undercurrent of fear that Ghost wasn't sure he has ever heard from Price before. His eyes flickered from Johnny to Price trying to connect what was being asked of him, but nothing could stick.
"Stalker was formed in a field of blood buried under those of his brothers." John stressed again, watching as the confusion vanished in Ghost's eyes. "Soap clawed his way out with tooth and nail, peeling back the blood-soaked sand of his shroud. Only you can understand and help him."
Ghost jerked his head back at that, physically recoiling at the words. Price was the only one who knew Simon's story, all of it, in detail. How a betrayal ended in Ghost clawing from Simon's grave with a jawbone… It was not something he liked to dwell no, was something he didn't wish to share an experience with… especially not Johnny.
Not someone so pure and good…
But Johnny is more like us than we want… someone who will understand what it's like to be broken and remade.
"Ghost," Price called back with regret. "He made me promise if I couldn't get Soap back then Stalker must be buried."
Ice settled in Ghost's veins as a new nightmare began to form in Simon's mind. He knew it would be featured heavily in the rotating roster of his nightmares, images of Soap screaming in a coffin buried so deep no one would hear him and Simon would be unable to help.
But he can help now.
He will not let Johnny become another tally of the dead buried in the sands.
Ghost felt like he was swallowing grave dirt as he charged forward, taking in Stalker and categorising each weakness he could see. Bullet to the shoulder, favouring left leg, slight limp and hands bruised. Acidic bile burned at the back of Ghost's throat as he noticed all the wounds… how to use that information to hurt Johnny.
Yet, he knew deep down, it must be done.
Ghost has had decades to come to terms with his fractured mind of Ghost and Simon, Soap did not.
The world fades away till there was only Ghost and Stalker, Simon and Johnny and the bodies of those they buried around them. It was a brutal thing, a suffocating thing. Both of them were drowning in the blood, it clung to them and sunk down to the marrow.
Pain bloomed in fractured stills of reality, a knife to the side, a crunch of bone.
Soap was sinking in the blood of his brothers, into the sands and bones of their tombs. He watched as Striker and Ghost fought, vicious like rabid animals, of the demons they were made to become while Simon clawed his way towards him half interred in the memories.
He was so tired… so very tired of fighting… but he would for Ghost, for Simon. Soap began to pull himself free, hand outstretched towards Simon who was calling for him, his dark eyes wide and fearful, full of desperation. He felt his body – in reality not his mind– begin to slow, giving Ghost the opportunity to take down and restrain.
SimonSimonSimon… PleasePleasePlease… Help me!
It broke something deep inside Simon, something he didn't realise could be broken but here it was. Johnny, his Sergeant who had looked beyond the mask to see Simon, had treated him as a person with a smile and fist bump… staring at him with blanked fear filled eyes as he thrashed.
"It's okay Johnny, it's okay... come back." Ghost pleaded, arms still restraining Johnny to his chest. "You're not there anymore, you're not him. You need to come back to us Johnny, to me."
The words seemed to drift like leaves in a hurricane, intermingling with the sounds of death and taste of viscera. In one blink he was in Las Almas, the next he was ankle deep in broken bodies and blood soaked desert sands. The skull mask the only constant, here but not, they were dead all dead…
"No… you're not real! NOT REAL!" Johnny screamed as he struggled still, his elbow connecting with the knife wound in Simons side, but still he didn't let go.
The mask… It hit him like a punch, it wasn't Simon that Johnny was seeing but a ghost of his past, a familiar shadow that even Ghost has trouble with some days. Without hesitation he tore his own mask away, uncaring if anyone saw, all that mattered was Soap, Johnny.
"Look at me Johnny, look, look! It's me, it's Simon." He stressed, one hand coming up with a bruising force to keep Soaps gaze on him. "It's Simon, Johnny."
With every Johnny, being uttered Stalker began to slumber, with every Johnny, Soap began to awaken...
Ghost watched the snap back and wondered if this was what he was like after Roba, after his family... Watched as Johnny's mind splintered and crumbled to dust, leaking blood and matter into the sands where their graves were dug. Ghost expected this, prepared himself for the triggers but what he wasn't prepared for was the screaming... a heart wrenching, soul crushing scream tore from Soap's throat with force that Ghost felt blood splatter his face... even through the Striker mask.
He will never be able to remove that sensation… Soap has bathed him in it.
"I can't do this again... I can't... I can't Si..." Soap screamed, clutching onto Ghost hard enough to cause him to bleed. "I can't go back to the sands, can't go back to being buried in the blood and bones of my brothers."
Price watched with broken eyes as Simon ripped his own mask from his face, uncaring of who saw him as Soap screamed and screamed at Ghost's face. He watched detached as Ghost ripped free the jagged jaw and mask tossing it towards him without a glance.
He couldn't tear his eyes away as he watched the mask skid towards him, through debris and blood, coming to rest in a pile of black cloth and mangled bone. It was beautiful in a way, the flickering of the fire casting shadows across the mandible and wire, the slow drip of rubies from the angle of it... beautiful like accepting the embrace of death at the end of a lifetime of pain... but so agonisingly painful.
They should never have trusted him with this… God why did they trust him with this. Closing his eyes, Price took a deep breath and turned, signalling Gaz to continue with the mission, to take away the others because Price knew neither of his boys would like to be watched in this moment of vulnerability.
He'll stand here and guard them… His mind's eye still locked firmly on the two masks and all they represented.
"I can't go back there anymore Simon, please, don't make me go back there." Soap choked out, his body giving out and curling further into Ghost's embrace. He felt small and flayed open like a bug under a microscope… but he was safe here, safe in Simon's arms. "Please Si, I can't."
Simon swallowed harshly as he pulled Johnny closer to him, tears silently trailing down his own cheeks as he listened to this man cry and beg for something Ghost doesn't know how to really stop. He pressed his forehead to Soap's, to his Johnny's and brought up his hand to gently rub away the blood and grime.
"I cannot promise that you'll not go back Johnny, it pains me, but I will never lie to you." Ghost started softly, bisected lips grazing soft across Soap's own clumsily. "But I swear to you that you'll never have to face that battle alone, I'll be there beside you always and if we shall be buried in the sands that rebirthed us then it'll be together or not at all."
This was a promise that Ghost would kill to keep, an oath to the one man who shattered and rebuilt him in such a short time, who held Ghost's cold, broken heart in his own bloodstained hands…
Ghost was a broken man, and many people knew it, only one didn't care and it was the same man who had been through the same hell as his own, albeit differently, but knew the taste of grave dirt and clawing forth to be free. Ghost never realised how lonely he was till now, till he no longer felt it.
"Simon?" Soap asked breathlessly, shattered but more cemented in the here and now.
Grey-blue eyes scanning every inch of Simon's bare face with confused disbelief, a shaking hand coming up to cup Simon's scarred cheek in a mimic of his own pose.
"Johnny." Ghost replied with a breath, letting the relief slowly sink in as Soap started to come back to him properly, no longer drifting in the memories of the past.
They stayed like that for a while longer, breathing in each other as they held on to their only life preserve in this maelstrom of memories, neither wanting to let go… but reality would eventually catch up and shatter their bubble.
Too many lives were at stake still and needed them.
But for now they just continued to exist, just Johnny and Simon while they still can.