A/N: Well, here it is. HOPE. This isn't really defined in the way you would think, and this is more of a look at how our favorite Brit keeps his cool when things are going terribly, terribly wrong. Really pretty light on the slash, but that's just the lay of things.
ItestedGarus'Reach: I hide in the bathrooms when I get an update at work too, so don't feel bad. :P I've actually been planning on expanding the high school scenario, and once I do, you'll realize that where Kira is like a mother-hen who's still your best friend, Talon is more like that older sister that beats your ass so you know what it feels like so it doesn't take you by surprise when you get into your first fist-fight. XD
xStealthxSniperx: The interactions were surprisingly easy for me to write because a lot of it is based on personal experience. And I like to imagine how all the guys got their call-signs, because, well, let's face it. There's gotta be some kind of story behind it. :)
GranBoy: The school was based American because I've never been anywhere else. XD I just like to take the preemptive because there's always someone who's gotta comment on how "unrealistic" it is. The 'as gaelige' was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. I was listening to Slacker Radio and "Dulaman" by Altan came on and I was like, "Why the hell not. I'm writing them as brothers. They need their own 'secret' way of communicating, and Stray's Irish." P: Congrats on your Irish exams! Yeah. I like making Makarov the bad guy, because everyone needs someone to hate, and he's already their bad guy. :P Stephen King is just a really entertaining guy. He's sarcastic and kinda mean, which makes everything hilarious.
xGhostxStealth: I tried to keep them in touch with the whole "bad-ass" thing, just toned down a bit because they're still teenagers. I really enjoyed making Roach kinda paranoid-cautious and sarcastic. Because when you move to a town and you get your ass kicked just 'cause, that's gonna make you hella salty. :P Yes, the high school thing will inevitably continue, and I've figured out ways to work in everyone's favorite characters. ;D
Strude: See, I love taking topics that may or may not crash and burn and making them fucking epic. Because it inflates my ego like you wouldn't believe. XD Glad it turned out so well.
Reeserella: Yes, more high school in the works, post Seven Holy Virtues. You diabolical fiend! Stealing my ideas? Never! I will not tolerate! Lol jk. The idea of putting them in high school is just kinda there for you to take, but if you use Kai and Alex, I'd just like a heads-up and credit for their creation. :)
Beyond-Society: I don't look at it as nit-picking dear. To be honest, when I initially started writing this series of oneshots, I hadn't quite done all my reading up on Ghost's description, and was kinda winging it, hence the reason he had black hair and green eyes for the first few chapters. Official description stands at brown hair and blue eyes (thank you, Wikia...) The names of the background characters like Archer and Royce and Meat and Worm will change, because I don't write them very often and, as many of these can be read as stand-alone stories, I don't really find it necessary to write the characters the exact same way every time. It offers a little more room for creative license, if that makes sense? (Yeah. I'm really tired and writing this at work XD). But anyway, I'm glad you're enjoying the stories, and if you notice anything else you feel the need to mention, let me know. :)
In the field, there is never enough cover. I crouch behind a low brick wall and listen to the thudding of bullets as they bury themselves in the bricks and I contemplate my next move. To my right, Roach is very calmly taking inventory of his ammunition and he looks to me for further orders. I motion to him that we need to move up and he nods. We break from cover, firing at the few enemies in our way, running towards more cover and our way out of here. We duck into a small restaurant and take a few moments to regroup behind the counter.
"How's your ammo holding, Sergeant?" I ask, more to check his mental state than his ammunition.
"Fine for now, Lieutenant. You reckon the helo'll be there?" Gary asks, similarly to just check my reaction.
"No indication that it won't be." I murmur.
We slip back out into the street and force our way through barricades and terrified militia men. It takes us nearly two hours to clear a single kilometer and we're both frustrated, irritated, low on ammunition, and approaching exhaustion. But we are still several kilometers from our destination and we know that much of that ground will be infested with the enemy. We are not working fast enough to make our rendezvous time at the landing zone.
"India Two, what's your status, over?"
The coms crackle and I growl under my breath. There are bullets flying in our direction and I don't have time to handle this bullshit. Roach covers me and my hand moves from my weapon to my throat-mic.
"This is India Two. Engaging multiple enemy targets, over."
There's a pause and I return both hands to my weapon and begin shooting at the troublesome tangos on the other side of our cover.
"Ghost, this is Archangel, do you read?"
I recognize the voice. Archangel is a pilot we've worked with before; a cool-headed woman who knows a thousand different ways to blow an enemy aircraft out of the sky mid-flight using only a crescent wrench and a string of Christmas lights.
"I read you, Archangel." I grunt. I'm a little too occupied to bother with a formal response, and she knows that.
"I got word from command that you're in a bit of a patch." She almost laughs.
"Always am."
"How far from the El-Zed?"
I check my coordinates before informing her that we're still five kilometers from the exfil-point.
"Do you have an ETA on arrival?"
"At the rate we're going? Another few hours."
"That time frame is no good. Rendezvous will need to be adjusted accordingly. New exfil point will be safe house Whiskey-Echo. Be there by 2300 hours local time."
"Solid copy, Archangel. Ghost, out."
"We've got a long walk to Whiskey-Echo." Roach grimaced.
"We'll make it."
My muscles ache and burn as we continue pushing through wave after wave of enemy forces. We are low on ammunition and grenades and we scavenge whatever we can from the corpses of our fallen enemies as we press on. I'm eventually forced to discard my assault rifle and lift an AK from a corpse and I mourn the loss of my favorite weapon for a few moments.
"Christ!" Roach ducks behind a rusted pickup truck as gunfire starts from the building at the end of the street. I take cover on the opposite side of the street.
"Can you tell where it's coming from?" I ask.
"No fucking idea, Ell-tee!"
I make a dash over to his side of the street and share cover with him. We crash through the front door of a tiny shack passing for a home and we run out the other side, hoping to have found a blind spot. I see a trench with a trickle of water leading up under a bridge before continuing along our path that should offer us an opportunity to slip past the enemies in the building. I tell Roach as much and we slip and slide through the thick, barely-there mud and fall into the ditch. Our boots leave behind clear imprints as we run, keeping our heads down as we go. There is no indication the enemy has seen us, and it's something I'm thankful for.
"How long you think our luck's gonna hold out?" Roach asks. His breathing is growing ragged and I know we're going to have to stop soon, if only for a drink and a quick reload and inventory check. I know that he won't say anything about it, and it's something I can respect.
"It'll hold as long as we need." I shrug.
We continue moving forward towards safe-house Whiskey Echo, and our time does not improve by much. There is heavy resistance as we go, and we're scraped, bruised, battered. We duck behind a small tool shed made of scrap metal and held together by prayer, and then our luck wavers.
"Sweet fucking Tchaikovsky!" Roach yells. His hand clamps around his arm as he tries to control his bleeding. I look it over quickly and tell him that the bullet just grazed him, but it will likely need stitches. It takes a flash grenade and a few lucky shots, and we are a meters closer to our goal.
We soon find ourselves hiding in another poor excuse for a home and the gunfire is coming from all sides. There is no back door for us to use, and we don't have enough ammunition to waste it firing blindly. The gauze around Gary's left arm is tinted red and he's favoring it as he moves and fires. He's beginning to worry that we won't make it out.
"Ghost, I got a question for you." He murmurs as he looks out the small window cut into the front of what might as well be wet cardboard for all the protection it offers.
"Ask away, Sergeant."
"How the fuck are you so calm? I mean, I understand you've been at this a while, but fucking-a..." He glances back over his shoulder at me and a smile behind my balaclava.
"Do you know what the definition of hope is, Roach?"
"Yeah. It's like a wish made on faith."
"Hoping is defined as expecting with confidence, or to desire with expectation of obtainment. We've pushed through three kilometers of enemies with virtually no ammo and less cover, and the worst we've suffered is a graze. Think that's reason enough for us to 'expect with confidence' that we can make it to Whiskey Echo and bide our time until Archangel arrives."
He shrugs again and he detaches one of his last grenades from the front of his vest. He pulls the pin, holds the metal death-ball for a moment, and tosses it out the window in the direction of the most dense gunfire. There is an explosion and the shots stop for a few moments. When they begin again, they are coming from only one direction. I give the order to break from cover and Sanderson does it with a general air of nervousness.
The resistance is surprisingly light as we continue our push through, and it looks like we're reaching the outer edges of the militia's influence and have passed beyond even their patrols. I can tell by the way Gary's gait is more of a stride and less of a limp that he's beginning to have that hope of making it to the extraction point with no more issue or injury.
We are battered, bleeding, wounded, winded, exhausted and ready to collapse when we finally make it to the small farmhouse designated Whiskey Echo, and we are finally clear of the stronger arms of the militia. We barricade the doors and windows and set up antipersonnel mines wherever we believe they may be needed and we take a few moments to catch our breath.
"So what's got you hoping we make it out of here so bad?" He asks me.
"Last drink I had was a cheap, lukewarm beer. I don't want that to be the last alcohol I ever taste." I tease.
"Haha. I'm being serious."
"Soap."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, but I know better than to think he's confused about why a cleaning product could give me hope.
"You two..." He shakes his head.
"What about us?"
"You're both fucking psycho." He grins. I don't take offense to the comment. Sanderson is not someone adept at putting his thoughts into words. For a while, I assumed he was just a little slower than most. But after flipping through his dossier with John, the opposite proved to be true.
"So how is it a genius like you can't define 'hope'?" I'm not necessarily in the mood for small-talk, but we need to do something to stay awake and alert.
"How is it a cynic like you can still believe in it?"
I laugh and shake my head, knowing there isn't much of a comeback for that. He smiles along with me and the conversation falls into a lull.
"So your hope of seeing MacTavish again is the reason you didn't flinch away from anything that happened to us?"
"Believing confidently. You're still looking at hope as, how'd you say it? A wish made on faith? It's confident belief, Sergeant. I believe, with confidence, that I'm going to drag my sorry carcass home and drink gin and watch television with John as soon as we can get ourselves our of here."
He thinks for a moment and I know he's going to say something blindingly brilliant, as he's prone to doing around people he trusts.
"You know, the definition you use makes sense, given the word's traditional usage. But there's still that ideological connotation attached to it. So, technically, it's society's fault I keep thinking of it as a wish made on faith."
He's entertaining, in an enigmatic, shocking kind of way. During the heat of a mission, he almost refuses to speak unless it's deemed absolutely necessary, and around those he doesn't know or trust, he's similarly silent. So when he grows comfortable with the people and the situation, he reveals just how quick-witted he is, often taking people by surprise.
"What about you, Roach? What's got you running through this backwater country so fearlessly?"
"Hope. Same as you I suppose. Well, except it's not the Captain I'm looking forward to." He smirks.
I don't get a chance to answer or question him.
"Ghost, this is Archangel. I need you to ring in with a SitRep, over."
"Archangel, this is Ghost. We're at location Whiskey Echo and awaiting exfil."
"Is the El-zed cleared for landing?"
"El-zed is clear for landing."
"ETA is five Marks."
"Solid copy, Archangel. Ghost, out."
The conversation comes to an abrupt halt and we're both listening for the sound of the approaching helo. What we hear is nowhere near as comforting.
"Awh, shit... Ghost, we got a fuckin' problem."
I look out the window and see a truck stop in the driveway. Men armed with assault rifles exit the front, and men with heavier weaponry drop from the rear. They drag something writhing and squirming from the truck and by the cries, I can tell it's a woman.
"Mother fuckers..."
I glance over to Sanderson and I can see he's tense. He has no qualms of taking or ruining a life, as long as it's not an innocent one.
"Stay frosty, Sergeant." I warn.
"If they come in here, there's no fuckin' frosty about it."
I ignore his comment and reach for my mic.
"Archangel, standby. We have hostiles in the El-zed, unsure of what they're packing, over."
"Clear it quick, Ghost. I've got extra fuel, but not that much."
The knob turns, the door swings inward. The woman is shoved in first, her clothes dirty, blood-stained, torn. She falls to the ground and tries crawling away from the men on the porch, and she freezes when she sees Roach stand. Lifting a stolen SPAS-12, he fires a single shot, point-blank, into the chest of the man who shoved her. There is a moment of stunned silence from outside and he kicks the door closed. Gary grabs the woman and pushes her into the kitchen, telling her to stay low. Gunfire erupts from outside and I drop to cover.
"What the fuck was that, Sergeant?" I demand.
"They were on their way in here already. At least now we're not stuck in a goddamn firefight, out numbered and enclosed!" He yelled in response.
I make a mental note to argue that with him later. I rush over to the door and rig an antipersonnel mine and order Roach to take the woman upstairs and find a vantage point. He coaxes her up the rickety stairs and I set another mine at the base, carefully stepping over the tripwire. Our escape is going to be very tricky.
The woman is at the far end of the upstairs, cowering in a dingy-looking tub and sobbing. Roach is in one of the bedrooms, scouting out the men who are shouting things at the broken windows downstairs.
"Ten total. Two are on their way up to the front door, likely to check and see if we're dead. Mostly AKs, looks like a few have shotguns, at least one Thumper..." He growls.
"Hn."
"Still got hope that we're gonna make it out of here with no more problems?" He almost sounds cynical as he asks.
"Plenty."
I pick up my ACR and take steady aim at a cluster of men near the bonnet of the lorry and wait. The house shakes as an explosion sounds from downstairs, and I begin firing. I, unlike most men put in a situation of command and control, do not tell the Sergeant when to go weapons free or when to fire. We have received the same training and he is every bit as adept at this as I am. I trust his judgment and abilities. The men on the ground begin realizing they're being fired on from above and they change their tactics. A stray bullet cracks into my Kevlar, sending me back a step. I growl at the pain and retake my position.
Another explosion from the ground floor, this time closer. Roach sneers at the advancement and takes grabs one of my grenades, pulling the pin as he runs into the hallway. He throws it down the staircase and screeches and screams greet its landing before there is an explosion and everything falls silent. Gary remains in the hallway, aiming at the landing, waiting for signs of advancement. I remain looking out the window. We wait for several long minutes before I meet him in the hall and motion that he should advance, and I'll offer cover. He doesn't bristle at the notion of taking point, doesn't protest or give any indication that he cares. We hear no footsteps, no reloading, only the faint moans of the wounded and the sobbing coming from the bathroom.
Roach moves slowly down the stairs, "eyes first", ensuring there is not an ambush waiting. The few men still clinging to life on the floor in the main room are dispatched and I check the exterior of the farm-house. All the men we had counted were accounted for and appropriately dead.
"Archangel, this is Ghost. El-zed is clear, but make it quick. We don't know if they had friends on the way."
"En route, Lieutenant. Two marks."
I go back upstairs and find Sanderson coaxing the woman out of the bathroom and telling her that she needs to go home. She seems simultaneously grateful and terrified, but nevertheless made her way from the house as she was told. We follow her down. There is a sharp crack, a sharp pain, and I stumble. Roach yells something and he shoots at the one man we missed.
"You alright, Riley?" He asks. I nod, even though I know that's not completely true. What are the odds that a dying man's blind shot would hit the exact place where a frantic man's bullet was already lodged in the Kevlar?
"Drag what's left of the sofa in front of the door. We don't have much of a wait time, but we don't know if these bastards have more friends coming to meet them." I pull open my jacket as I speak, jerking the Kevlar vest over my head. Sanderson digs around in his pack for a moment before bringing out a medical field kit. He rummages around in the relatively shallow wound for a few minutes until he can wrap the forceps around the bullet well enough to pull the jagged bit of metal out of my chest. He hands me a square of gauze and reaches for the medical tape. I tape the gauze over the wound and redress quickly; we can both hear the telltale sounds of a helo rapidly approaching.
"India Two, exfil's arrived." Archangel calls over the comms.
Roach kicks the sofa out of the doorway and we move quickly towards our exit ticket. As Angel smoothly guides the bird up above the tree-line and away from enemy territory, I believe, with more confidence than before, that John will be at home with a bottle of gin and a cheap science fiction film when I finally make it back.