Ellie🐊

Soap shifts behind Price. His weight moves from one foot to the other, arms crossed tight across his chest. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t meet your eyes either. 

Price exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re sorry?” His voice cuts like a knife, and he opens his mouth to say more—but Ghost steps in.

He looms over you, shoulders squared, eyes like storm clouds. His mouth moves beneath the mask. And your heart sinks. You can’t make out a single word. You’re left grasping for context, trying to read his body language, his eyes. All you see is anger. Disgust

He jabs a finger into your chest. That, at least, you understand. You fucked up.

You flinch, recoiling like he struck you.

Then Gaz is there. He steps in fast, swatting Ghost’s hand away, shaking his head at the man like he’s gone too far, “Ease up, Mate..” He says, sparing a sympathetic glance at you.

Ghost throws up a hand in frustration, then turns and stalks away from the group, muttering under his breath.

You’re shaking now. You can’t tell if it’s because you’re fighting tears, or if your brain is swelling. Part of you wants it to be the latter. At least then you’d have an excuse to leave. To get away.

Soap’s voice cuts in, not sharp, but uncertain, “Cap.. maybe let ‘em speak?” 

“Had the chance,” Price mutters, and you lose the rest of their conversation under the wave of noise in your eardrums. 

Price waves a hand in front of your face.

You flinch again.

That’s when he really looks at you, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing like he’s seeing you for the first time. Your chest caves in. Tears sting your eyes. Your lip trembles. You finally speak, but the words catch.

“I can’t... I can’t hear you guys,” you choke out. “I’m sorry-”

It’s like a dam bursts. Your tears come fast and ugly, full-body, breath-stealing sobs, and you turn your head away, desperate not to meet their eyes.

You don’t want to see their anger. Worse, you don’t want to see their pity.

Once you finally calm down, and your cries turn into sniffles, a soft hand lays on your shoulder. Through your tears, you meet Soap’s blue eyes, a small, sympathetic smile quirking his lips. 

“Oh, lass,” He says, before pulling you into his chest. It’s not a comfortable hug in the slightest, with his hard vest digging into your body. But you’re grateful for the closeness, the reassurance that they didn’t hate you that much. When you pull away, Soap’s gaze doesn’t meet yours. He’s staring at his hands. You blink, confused, before the stinging pain in your side makes itself known once again. Right, the cut.

You flinch when he touches the wound lightly, and he immediately backs off, "Sorry, sorry. Yer hurt, love.” He says, ensuring you could see his lips. That’s when Gaz steps up beside you, face tight with concern. He lifts your tac vest gently, just enough to see the wound properly.

“Bleedin’ Christ,” He says, “That’s not nothing, [+].”

You look down. The gash along your side is red and angry, blood oozing slowly, “It’s fine…” You say quietly, “Just a scratch.” Gaz quirks a brow at you.

Though that’s when Price approaches, slowly this time. His jaw is clenched, in thought this time, not anger. And it’s like he really sees you. Your shaky posture and distant, glassy look in your eyes. And his face changes into something you’ve never seen from Price before. Something sharper than anger, guilt. 

“We haven't got time to treat it here,” he says, his voice measured and calm, “Soap, help me get her in the truck.”

You’re too tired to protest, your eyes heavy from crying and the stress of the mission. You let them maneuver you into the truck, sitting between Soap and Gaz. Ghost doesn’t spare a glance back at you from the front, and your heart clenches at the thought that he doesn’t care. 

You’re distracted from that thought when Gaz runs a hand through your hair, coaxing you to lay your head on his shoulder. His warmth, combined with the soft rumble of the truck, is enough to put you to sleep, letting your aching body relax for the first time in hours.

(Part three )

00:53.

“Please,” the woman whispers, her voice trembling. She’s sitting against the wall, back pressed to cold concrete, sweat dripping down her forehead.

You crouch beside her, eyes scanning the vest.

Wires. A blocky device strapped to her chest. A countdown flashing red. No way to tell which wire leads where.

You’re not trained for this.

00:48.

Your earpiece crackles. Price is yelling your name, maybe orders. You can’t hear it anymore. You stopped focusing on the mission when you ran in here. You had to. You couldn’t leave her.

“Don’t move, alright?” you say, voice cracking. “I’m gonna try to–fuck–I’m gonna try to get it off you.”

00:41.

You fumble for your knife, hands slick with sweat. No time to call for help. No time to hesitate.

Price had said something once, back in training,

“If you have to cut it, look for the power line. You cut the trigger circuit, and it might still blow.”

You don’t know what that means. You’re not a bomb tech. You just know you can’t let her die.

00:34.

“Do you know who put this on you?” She shakes her head violently. You peer closer. There’s a tiny blinking light near the timer, maybe a receiver. Remote trigger? You’re guessing. All of it’s a guess.

00:28.

You steady your hand, blade hovering over the yellow wire. Or should it be blue?

Your heart is pounding. You could throw up. The woman is crying now. “Please,” she sobs. “I have kids.”

There’s no time.. You go for the blue wire, which was the only visible wire that was connected to both the timer and the actual bomb.

You pinch the wire on each side of the knife, cutting through it with a small snap.

00:24.

For a moment, nothing happens. You let out a breath.

Then the timer speeds up.

00:23- 22- 21-…

“No no no- fuck!” You scramble backward as the woman lets out a gut-wrenching scream.

You turn and throw yourself to the ground just as the world erupts around you.

-----------

Dust and smoke curl around you. You open your eyes, quickly finding that blinking stings. Your ears ring, the sound grows distant, as if it were being swept away by an ocean’s current.

There’s no screaming anymore.

Just heat and the burn of failure.

And the realization that you’re still breathing, when she’s not.

You have to… You have to find your team. The mere thought of seeing them gets you to push your aching body off the ground, a silent scream escaping your lips as a piece of debris slides from your back, leaving a jagged cut along your side.

You let out a cough, dry throat feeling like sandpaper as you hunch over. But you don't hear it.. "Fuck.." You croak, before hauling yourself up.

You stumble out of the room, tripping over your own feet. Leaning heavily against the wall, you slowly make your way outside to the exfil point.

A weak smile curls your lips as you spot the figures ahead in familiar gear, silhouettes you've memorized over months of training and missions. They turn at the sound of your stumbling steps on gravel, and you raise a shaky hand in greeting.

Price storms forward. His mouth is moving. Fast. Too fast to possibly lip-read. But you can tell he's angry by how his brow furrows and his jaw clenches between sentences.

"Sir..?" Your voice is hoarse. You don't hear it yourself, but you can feel the way it scrapes against your sore throat.

He's yelling now, you think. You open your mouth to explain, but nothing comes out. Or maybe it does. Maybe your voice is just gone, too.

You don’t know what they’re saying. You don’t know why they’re yelling. All you can hear is the ringing in your ears and the sound of your own quickened heartbeat.

Then the realization hits you all at once:

They think it's your fault.

They don't know what happened

They don't know you tried.

And the worst part is, no one's asking.

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