A/N: Well, I'll admit that I'm a bit of a nerd when it comes to certain things. My FanFiction is one of them. I did a little research for this chapter 'cause I wanted to make sure the guys had characteristic weapons, and I stumbled across a page from Ghost's comic book posted online (yeah, he has one of those). Apparently, my previous descriptions of him with my "artistic license" were close, but still off. According to the page I'm looking at, Lieutenant Riley has very dark brown hair and hazel eyes, though in the game, they're blue. So I'm gonna stick with blue eyes and dark brown hair from here on, kay? Kay.
GothicBandicoot: When I first read your review I was like: "Shit... Good 'wow', bad 'wow'?" And then I noticed the favorites. I'm a little slow sometimes. XD
MissPumpkinHead: It's not that I wasn't excited to continue, more along the lines of "One of these days, I'm actually going to finish a full-length fanfic instead of starting it and letting it die because I'm ADD". XD And there will be more of these oneshots, I can guarantee that. Why? Because guys with accents are hot. Guys with guns are hot. So accented guys with guns are ridiculous. :D
Auctoritas: I'm really glad you liked the past few chapters. And there really need to be more Soap/Ghost fics. I swear it's canon... XD
Soap had always heard that the only law SpecOps teams ever followed was Murphy's Law, the one that stated that anything that could go wrong, would go wrong. He never believed it. He wasn't one to leave his future up to fate or God or Karma; he controlled what happened to him and his team. But he was beginning to change his mind.
They were standing in the middle of Siberia, following up on a report of too many guns running through one little town in the middle of nowhere. If the Ultranationalists were setting up shop under the radar, this seemed the most likely place. There was nothing around for miles, and not in a sense of civilization either. The "roads" were just narrow swatches of snow that had been packed down over months of driving across it; they couldn't even be properly called trails, seeing as how there were no trees for miles either. Even the snowdrifts were pathetic excuses for cover. These Russians clearly didn't want someone to sneak up on them.
"I'm sending only you and Ghost. There's hardly enough cover for one man to hide in, but we can't send you without backup." Sheperd sighed.
The two of them had been dropped nearly ten miles from the city, dropped in the sparse trees in the hopes that the enemy didn't have an eye turned skyward. The trek to the town alone took them almost until nightfall, leaving them with only what their thermal scopes and heartbeat sensors could provide on the situation. As it turned out, their intel was correct, but that was the last thing to go their way.
"Hotel-six, you have new directives, straight from the top. You are to destroy all munitions you can before your pickup. Do you copy on new directives, over?"
"Command, this is Hotel-six. We copy on new directives. Is pickup still the same, over?" Soap wasn't happy.
"Pickup remains the same, Hotel-six. You have forty-eight hours to complete the mission, over."
"Copy that, Command. Hotel-six, out."
"They changed our orders in the middle of a mission?" Ghost wasn't pleased either.
"We can't do anything about it now. You brought Plan B?" Soap asked, returning his focus to the thermal scope attached to his Intervention.
"Never leave home without it."
"Good. We're going to need it."
They waited until the guards had changed and were mostly asleep before they made a move on the town.
"Ghost, you take the left flank, I'll go right. Look for any sort of intel that might come in handy." Soap ordered, his voice sounding painfully loud despite how he hardly murmured through the comms.
"Got it."
Soap found very little that was of any use. There were a few shipping manifests that showed there would be plenty of AK-47's passing to their enemies, along with a few other dangerous little party favors, but nothing else that proved much of anything.
"Soap, I think we've got a small problem." Ghost murmured.
"What is it?"
"I got three BTRs sitting in a warehouse."
Soap thought for a moment...
"I don't know how well this is going to work, but put some C4 in the control panels and the engines. If we can cause enough damage, then we'll at least have a chance to get out of here alive." Soap eventually sighed.
"Got it."
Soap planted his own half of "Plan B", more than a little pissed off that he was actually having to use it. He was nearly done with setting the detonation charges when he heard a series of sharp cracks coming from across the compound. He sighed. Of course they would get spotted.
"I have three tangos on my position." Ghost panted through the mic.
"I'm making my way over there now."
Soap stole through the compound, finding resistance surprisingly light until he encountered a particularly large warehouse. There were at least fifteen men outside and gunshots ringing out from inside.
"Ghost, I got eyes on a back door. Hurry up and get out before they remember they installed one." Soap ordered.
"I tried. The door's locked."
Soap could've screamed, but it would have only given his position away. He growled and examined the door. No deadbolt that he could see... He kicked the knob a few times before it broke away from the thin metal plating that held it in place.
"Door's unlocked." Soap said.
"Little busy, Captain." Ghost said, just barely heard through the com and over the sound of the gunshots coming from inside.
Soap unholstered his USP .45 and slipped through the now open door. He saw Ghost crouched behind a crate marked with the word "EXPLOSIVE" in red stencil down the sides. He was taking cover there hoping they wouldn't shoot and get themselves blown up.
"I'll cover, you move back this way." Soap said through the communication system, not yet wanting to reveal his presence. He saw Ghost nod and he signaled that he was headed out.
The first three rounds startled the Ultranationalists into turning away from Ghost and seeking cover behind a pyramid of bright red gasoline barrels. Ghost stole out the door while Soap fired a few more rounds in the direction of their enemies. He soon followed suit.
"How did we manage to land ourselves in this mess?" Soap demanded as they sprinted across the open ground. The wind was calm, hardly kicking up even the most pathetic of flurries. They would need to put more distance between them and the compound before their white cammo would offer any protection. A mechanical roar sounded behind them and Soap felt his blood run cold. They had started the BTRs. He saw Ghost's hand tighten around the detonator.
"Do it before they can get rid of all the Plan B!" Soap ordered.
Ghost didn't like the concept of setting off that amount of plastic explosives from this close a distance, but he had to agree. They didn't have the time to waste. He pulled the black plastic trigger and the world behind them went up in a wave of heat, pressure, and light. Something white-hot cut through Soap's left side and he stumbled. Ghost grabbed his Captain's right arm, threw it around his own shoulders, and pulled him along. They didn't have time to waste. Eventually, the novelty of their munitions being on fire would fade and the enemy would be twice as pissed and headed in their direction.
"Command, this is Hotel-six requesting immediate extraction!" Ghost yelled as he ran, still half-supporting Soap.
"Hotel-six, this is Command. What is your situation, over?"
"We've been compromised! Munitions have been destroyed the best we could do, but Captain MacTavish is injured. I repeat, request immediate extraction!"
Ghost was met with a crackling, static-filled silence before Sheperd's gruff voice filled his ears.
"Son, our nearest friendly helo is two hours from the rendezvous site." Shepard sighed.
"We have to move the site closer to the compound! We've eliminated their BTRs and most, if not all of their heavy weaponry, but we need to get out here now!" Ghost yelled. Soap stumbled, only further proving his teammate's concerns.
"We're sending two Black Hawks your way. They'll be there in an hour and a half. Pop red smoke when you hear them. Command, out."
"We have an exit ticket." Ghost chuckled grimly. Soap only winced as his boots slid over a patch of ice. Ghost's laugh died and he scanned the area. He vaguely remembered seeing...
"Come on." He murmured. There was the burnt-out shell of an old Abrams tank, another left-over from some half-forgotten battle. He pulled the Captain over to the wreckage and climbed up onto the top, helping Soap inside. As an after-thought, Ghost set up three or four claymores a few yards away from the tank; might as well hear their welcoming committee. He closed the hatch up as best he could and was suddenly glad the Russians had cannibalized the inside. There was nothing left; even the seats had been removed. Soap was leaned against one of the walls and had a hand pressed to his blood-slicked side.
Ghost crouched next to him, coaxed the digi-cammi jacket off, and followed it with the stiff Kevlar and the blood-soaked undershirt.
"Looks like you've fucked yourself over." Ghost muttered.
"Watch it."
Ghost ignored the warning and rooted around through their supplies.
"I got nothing to stitch it with, but that's probably for the best, eh?"
Soap chuckled at the sentiment. Ghost had steady hands, but no skill with a needle. He poured a bit of water over the wound and Soap hissed.
"Doesn't look like there's anything in there." Ghost examined the surprisingly deep wound that was easily six inches long. He pressed gauze to the wound and winced when it was almost instantly stained through with crimson. He helped Soap lean forward, the Captain leaning a little too heavily on his comrade. Ghost bound the wound tightly and grit his teeth. Was MacTavish's breathing that short and heavy because of the run or because he was bleeding to death?
"Oi, John." Ghost tried. He needed to get some sort of reaction, needed to know Soap was still in the land of the living.
"You're never going to let that die and just call me Captain, are you?" Soap chuckled.
"We've known each other too long for that one." Ghost leaned him back against the bulkhead and Soap winced.
"I hope you're not thinkin' about closing your fucking eyes." Ghost warned.
"You gonna stop me, Simon?"
Ghost responded by taking off his red-tinted sunglasses and his white mask with it's black skull facade. Soap ignored the gesture and leaned his head back against the cold metal. He reacted only when the Lieutenant straddled his hips. He bolted upright and stared into Riley's cool blue eyes.
"You have to stay awake. Between the cold and the blood-loss, you doze off now and you aren't waking back up." Riley reminded him.
MacTavish just nodded and pretended this behavior was normal. But for the two of them, it was. Danger was as common for them as breathing, and so was falling back on their inclinations towards each other when they were wound up. He knew that this was not only Riley's way of releasing the tension that came with being stuck in the middle of a frozen goddamn desert with no clear way out and a small militia after them, but also trying to show that he was worried. It was a fucked up relationship, but they lived in a fucked up world. If Soap were an idealist, he'd swear they loved each other.
Riley leaned forward and his lips barely traced those of the Captain.
"Just because we call you Ghost doesn't mean you gotta act like one." MacTavish smiled.
"I have a reputation to uphold."
Soap growled and wrapped his calloused fingers in Ghost's dark hair, pulling him close. He didn't feel quite so cold with Riley this close, even without his insulated jacket on. Of course, kissing Riley made the cold seem like something from a vivid dream, rather than something on-going.
But Murphy wasn't done with them yet. As with the rest of the Task Force, they became very single-minded when it came to getting whatever it was they were currently after. They both forgot that one of them was dangerously close to bleeding to death until John choked on a pained cry. Simon's carelessness had pressed his gloved palm firmly against the open shrapnel wound. He grunted an apology and Soap glared. Before either of them could make another move, an explosion was heard from outside.
"What the hell was that?" Soap demanded.
"Fuck. Claymore set up around the perimeter."
Ghost pulled his mask and glasses back on and pushed a full clip into his M4A1. Soap similarly reloaded his USP .45.
"You just stay put until I tell you I need help." Ghost growled. Soap flicked him off, but didn't try standing.
Ghost was suddenly a little pissed at himself for deciding to hide out in an Abrams. The steel shell was too thick for his thermal and heartbeat sensors. He was going into a situation with no idea how many enemies were outside. He slowly raised the hatch, gun first, and pressed his eye to the thermal scope. There were four heat signatures outside, all on the ground, one of them was cooling rapidly. The took careful aim and eliminated the other three. He dropped the M4A1 and asked Soap to pass up his SCAR-H with the heartbeat sensor. Soap grudginly complied. Shouldn't he be the one tossing orders around?
"It looks clear for now. Probably just a small search party." Ghost sighed as he dropped back inside and closed the hatch back up. He eyed the captain warily.
"While I'm not usually one to complain about you walking around half-naked, I doubt this is the appropriate environment." Ghost said slyly.
MacTavish agreed. He reached for his clothes and pulled the undershirt on with a groan. Riley rolled his eyes, muttered something about "helpless Captains" and helped MacTavish redress.
"How much longer before those helos arrive?" Soap demanded.
Ghost checked his watch, but a crackle of static and half-formed commands stopped him. Once again, the steel shell that was protecting them was putting them in a bad situation.
"It sounds like command. I've got to go outside so I can get a good signal."
Ghost didn't wait for a reply. He lifted the hatch, scrambled outside, slammed it shut again, and slid down the side, keeping the tank between himself and the direction their four would-be-attackers had come from.
"Command, this is Hotel-six, repeat last communication, over." Ghost murmured, keeping his eyes on the endless expanse of frozen tundra.
"Hotel-six, this is command,"Ghost almost smiled. At least it was Sheperd, at least they knew that they were getting the truth, "There's been a delay on the Black Hawks." The half-smile faded.
"Then send something else. The captain's losing a lot of blood. We don't have time to wait for delayed Black Hawks." Ghost was losing his patience. He didn't get a response for several agonizing seconds.
"We're scrounging up some transport. Twenty marks. Can MacTavish hold that long?"
"I hope so. Hotel-six, out."
Ghost climbed the tank and dropped, only slightly surprised when a UMP .45 was leveled in his direction.
"Gettin' jumpy, John?"
"Only when I'm behind enemy lines and bleeding to death inside a half-forgotten Abrams with no sign of rescue." He snapped.
"The Black Hawks were delayed, but they said we have something else coming our way. We have twenty minutes, give or take."
"That sure as hell beats two hours."
Soap didn't want to admit it, but he was having one hell of a staying awake. The blood stain around his ribs was slowly over-powering the white and gray of his jacket and he could feel every jagged millimeter of the wound. Ghost straddled his hips again and Soap nearly rolled his eyes. One-track minds and all... Riley pressed hot fingers against MacTavish's cold neck. The pulse was there, slightly irregular... But it was the cold of John's skin that worried him. His hand slipped around the back of John's neck, his thumb tracing a stubble-ridden jaw-line. Soap shuddered at the contact; he knew he was in bad shape if Riley felt that hot against his skin, especially given how the Lieutenant had to be cold.
"You're not looking too good, John." Simon murmured.
"Tell me something I don't know."
Ghost pulled the mask away before he rested his forhead against Soap's. His left hand still curled around the back of the Captain's neck, he raised his right to rest on the side of his face. It was usually Soap who initiated kissing between the two of them, be it from some sort of habit of Ghost taking orders, or be it some sense of respect between the ranks, but not this time. Simon winced at how cold John's lips felt. He smirked, but only a litte, when strong hands curled into his hair, hair that Sheperd would undoubtedly make him cut when they finally got back to base. But for the moment, he was going to enjoy it. John pulled him closer, ignoring the slight protest coming from his wound. Simon pulled away.
"If you get your heart rate up too high, you're not doing anything but bleeding out faster." Simon murmured.
"Says the one who fucking started it."
Ghost didn't retort. He instead reached for his balaclava and glassses. Soap didn't ask what he was doing. He heard it, heard the heavy thwack of helo blades. Ghost threw the hatch open and tossed a smoke cannister into the open and watched the search beam highlight the plume of red. The Little Bird started its descent and Ghost ducked back inside.
"That's our way out."
He helped Soap to his feet and watched the Captain pull himself up the short ladder slowly. Ghost followed him out and helped him down the side, pulling him across the snow and the ice towards the awaiting helicopter. They both stumbled and ducked as a spray of automatic gunfire exploded from behind them.
"Fucking... We're not gonna catch a break, are we?" Ghost growled.
The two of them continued to run, sprinting towards the waiting helo and their way out of this. AK rounds glanced off the sides of the Little Bird, showering sparks and small metal shavings over the snow. Soap and Ghost were pulled on board and their exit ticket took to the sky, wavering a little uncertainly as it hit unseen turbulance. The jerking of the helo knocked Soap against the hull and he groaned as pain radiated through his side. Ghost regarded him warily.
"When we get back on the bloody ground and I can finally move properly, you're going to have hell to pay for getting found out like that." Soap growled.
Ghost raised an eyebrow, a motion that was almost completely lost to his covered features, but Soap knew him well enough to catch the slight expression and fixed Ghost with a level stare. Riley chuckled to himself. He could tell by the icy look the Captain was throwing in his direction that he wouldn't walk away from this "encounter" without a limp and a nice collection of bruises...