hej hej im erik

"Dead forest specter"

Svante and the Specter.

Me:

"Who the hell are you?!" Chloe shrieked, grabbing for her jacket pocket where, just half an hour ago, her pistol had been. Empty. The one time it might actually have come in handy, because some weird unshaven guy was sitting in her kitchen.

"Good evening, Miss Price," — Johnny took a sip of tea, clearly mimicking Simon, and nodded at the captain's niece with gentlemanly composure. And there was no doubt it was her: he knew Joyce and her new husband had no other kids, and that this definitely wasn't some girl Ghost had picked up at a local bar. Speaking of Ghost…

"What the hell are you doing here?!" — Chloe backed away, unsure whether to run, grab something heavy, or scream to wake her stepfather, who would more likely chew her out about her late-night shenanigans than neutralize the threat. — "Get the fuck out of my house!"

Meanwhile, Soap was soaking in the details. A cigarette burn on a knitted beanie, some dirty t-shirt with a cryptic slogan, checkered sneakers, chewed-off black nail polish, and… Holy hell, she reeked of weed a mile away!

"Are you, like, a punk chick, aye?" — Johnny blurted out, surprising even himself.

"Shit… If Santa Muerte sees her, we'll be looking at a court-martial and a funeral instead of a cliff dive." — Johnny quickly realized things were bad and he needed to hide the girl from Simon at all costs.

"Yeah, so what? This punk chick will kick your ass if you don't leave!" — Chloe didn't understand why the unshaven guy wasn't reacting to her threats at all, — "Did Frank send you to collect debts?!"

"Relax, princess, I'm your uncle's friend. Came to stay with him, aye?" — he took another sip of tea and nodded at the chair next to him, — "And I wasn't planning on robbing the place, just grabbing a pancake and hitting the sack, which is what I suggest you do too."

Johnny really did look exactly like Chloe imagined all of Uncle John's friends from his wild youth stories: old-school, buff, with some weird badge on his chest, a goofy country accent, and covered in scars.

"Johnny," — came an eerily calm, quiet male voice from the hallway, — "stop messing around, don't wake Mrs. Price."

"Speak of the devil!"

"Damn!" — Johnny instantly jumped up from his chair and grabbed Chloe's arm, — "Get up there, quick!" — Before Chloe could react, Soap hoisted her onto his shoulder like a crate of armor plates and lifted her toward the ceiling.

"What the hell are you—"

"Shut up and stay still!"

Chloe didn't even realize how she ended up lying on the shelf above the kitchen counter. What did this unshaven jerk think he was doing?! Still, from up there she had a perfect view of some giant white-haired dude in a skull mask walking into the kitchen and starting to chew out Uncle John's friend.

"Sergeant, have you no shame? They fed you and put you to bed, and you're clattering around like Nikolai's helicopter."

"Come on, L.T., you dreamed that," — Johnny subtly raised his head and winked at Chloe, — "Come on, let's go back to sleep… Big friendly Johnny's gonna tuck you in, yeah…"

Simon, as he was being nudged back toward the hallway, rolled his eyes with a sigh. And Soap was pulling it off, until he froze mid-step and sneezed.

"I'm nine years older than you…"

"Bless you, L.T.! And so? Can't I look out for a comrade's well-being?"

"You can, but, you know… Why does it…" — Simon sniffed, sneezed again, and instantly snapped awake, — "why does it smell like goddamn marijuana in here?"

The cabinet creaked, despite Chloe's best efforts not to laugh her ass off out of sheer terror.

"Well… Look, L.T., how should I know? It's not my house…" — Johnny turned a drowsy Simon toward the door and started shoving him out, — "don't rack your brain until you've memorized all the laws of this state, yeah? You like reading, don't you, yeah?"

"Yeah" sounded so colorful and expressive that Chloe finally lost it.

"Ooh, such noisy, bratty teenagers around here!" — Johnny grimaced theatrically as Simon started looking for the source of the sound, — "screaming all night long outside…"

As he left, the sergeant, nearly twisting his neck, winked at Chloe. Out of all tonight's adventures, that was the only thing that made Chloe's heart skip a beat.

***

"Hooray, sleepover!" — Johnny announced cheerfully, throwing his hands up toward the ceiling. Simon was watching TV with the sound off. They were showing a rerun of the captain's beloved Santa Barbara, but he was nowhere to be found.

"It's half past six in the morning," — Simon noted with minute precision, not even taking his red eyes off the screen.

"Aye!" — Soap waved him off, plopping down on the couch next to him. Joyce had recently left for work, and not knowing what to do with the lieutenant standing freakishly at attention in the corner, she'd sat him down in front of the TV, and he hadn't moved since, — "I haven't been to bed yet, so it's a sleepover."

"Why didn't you go fishing with Price?" — The same question could have been asked of Ghost himself, but everyone was too used to Ghost being the one asking questions.

"We clearly annoyed Price. Well, I annoyed him, aye." — Johnny beamed, clearly proud of himself, — "It's hard to get tired of you, L.T., you know. You don't say anything."

"I'll stick to that tactic," — Simon grumbled, unfolding a neatly rolled blanket, — "and I suggest you do the same. Behave yourself."

Captain Price hadn't been in contact for three years, and Joyce was too afraid to send any word. William's death, troubles with Chloe, debts: if she'd also learned about the tragic death of her late husband's brother, she wouldn't have been able to handle it.

"John!" — Joyce hugged Captain Price without preamble and teared up. They hadn't had guests since William's death, except for David, and Mrs. Price was happy to host John and his military family. Hearing the captain think of them that way, young John had walked around happy for a week.

"Nice to meet you. See you on the weekend," — David shook the captain's hand firmly, took his uniform jacket, and left. A pleasant surprise for Madsen was that Joyce's relatives were military, even if they were her ex-husband's relatives.

"David seems like a very reliable man," — the captain nodded, finishing his tea, — "I feel at ease about you now."

"I just trust men with good mustaches," — Joyce laughed and poured him another cup.

"Should I take that as a hint?" — Price quipped ironically.

"God forbid! Not at my age."

Not the captain himself, but Johnny, was slightly bothered by the fact that Joyce's new husband looked too much like him, but if it weren't for Soap, he wouldn't have even noticed. As his buddies would say, "like a fox in a henhouse?"

"And how's the little pirate?" — John rarely saw his niece, but William, as far as comms allowed and as often as the captain got his hands on a phone newer than a Nokia 3310, sent him photos, and he felt very warmly toward the mischievous and kind Chloe.

"Won't lie and say it's good," — Joyce sighed bitterly and rubbed her forehead, — "since her father died, she's gone completely off the rails. Now it's boys, girls… Alcohol, weed… Maybe even something harder, I'm exhausted from trying to keep tabs on her," — she finished her tea and set the cup down with a trembling hand, — "parties, shady company, anarchism… Yeah, a lot of teenagers go through that, but she got expelled from college! You're my only hope," — Joyce couldn't help it and started crying, despite trying to keep her composure and joke it off, — "As she put it, 'great, now Uncle John's gonna bring order to our stupid barracks.'"

"Joyce," — the captain pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Price, firmly taking her free hand, — "as long as I'm still alive, you can trust my gut. And it tells me everything's going to be alright."

"You've been kind of jumpy lately," — Simon reported in a sepulchral voice, just as Johnny was about to pass out on his shoulder, — "and you're running off to parties faster than usual."

"Santa Muerte, are you always this observant, or only when I'm trying to sleep?" — Johnny started mentally replying, but all that came out was a grunt as he turned to face Simon.

"Me? Nah, no way!" — Johnny forced a smile and gave the lieutenant an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder. Johnny was sensing some very fun vacation days ahead, and for the same reason half the trouble in his life happened: he and Roach had made a bet.

"I just need to…" — he yawned and closed his eyes again, — "It's… Find someone, yeah…"

Johnny MacTavish wasn't very good with American geography, and all he knew about Arcadia was that the Rangers had held WWIII-scale exercises there, and that Captain Price's relatives lived there.

"…just got off the plane!" — Johnny grunted expressively, stretching his stiff back, — "can you believe it, Simon gets airsick on commercial flights!"

"And he doesn't have a driver's license either," — Sergeant Sanderson's tired face flickered on the screen.

"How do you know?"

Roach turned the camera over his shoulder, and among the pixelated interference, Johnny spotted piles of paperwork up to the ceiling.

"They really did lock you up!" — Johnny exhaled, wide-eyed, — "man, you're something!"

"I'm a happy cockroach, I write-write-write," — Tony tapped his nails ominously on the phone case, — "and I'm about to lose my mind in here! You've got it easy, swimming, hiking through the woods, drinking, picking up girls…"

"You bet!" — at the mention of girls, Soap noticeably perked up, — "There's no one who won't fall for my irresistible Scottish charm."

"Yeah, right, show-off," — Roach's laugh was cut off by interference, — "really no one?"

"Really no one! Wanna bet?"

Somewhere deep down, Soap knew this wouldn't end well, like all the gambling he'd ever tried.

"Thai?"

"Been there. Oh, she was something! But mine is still bigger."

"Twins?"

"Triple combo!"

Roach whistled, starting to doubt his truthfulness.

"Married? Nah, that's not cool."

"Milfs were involved, no clue about their marital status."

"Alright then, let's bet," — Tony smiled slyly, — "a new scope. That you can't score a lesbian."

Johnny yelled something in Scottish, sensing fun times ahead.

"Deal!"

***

Chloe was walking along the shoulder, having kicked a beer cap a couple hundred yards ahead of her, feeling the smoke and alcohol mixing in her blood. Again, she was haunted by the vague feeling that she didn't get punched in the face for her attitude not because she was tough, but because all these brutes just treated her like a kid, playing villains the same way she played a cold-hearted rebel, and it was so frustrating it made her want to cry, so getting high was just a matter of time. Chloe kicked the can, feeling like she was kicking her own life away, right up until a car stopped right across the road in front of her… Her car.

"Fuck… Stop! You bastard!" — she sobered up instantly and dashed onto the road, not even looking both ways, — "That's my ride! I was gonna go to the movies… Tonight!"

Chloe ran up. The pickup made such awful noises you couldn't tell it had been in the shop for a major overhaul just half an hour ago.

"I don't know where you're driving this thing in your bad trips, but replacing the floor mat didn't fix your timing belt, aye?" — Johnny honked and pushed the passenger door open. Chloe was so furious that steam practically came out of her ears, but she got in anyway.

"Don't lecture me!" — David's face involuntarily popped into her mind with his attempts to befriend her by giving auto-mechanic lectures. Were all military guys the same?! — "You think you're some tough guy? And I, like, can't figure it out without you?"

"Pretty much, aye," — MacTavish laughed and pointedly glanced at his pants, — "You can check, of course, but I'm not sure you're legal."

"Been legal for a year," — Chloe proudly waved her driver's license.

"Getting a license on the civilian side is a real pain in the ass," — Soap nodded respectfully and released the handbrake, — "that dumb theory test… You'd never guess you're always puffing away."

"See? Convinced?" — Chloe didn't know why she was shaking so badly, — "now get the hell to the passenger seat!"

Chloe was still saying "get the hell" as they started moving.

"Sorry, princess," — Johnny shrugged, — "but you reek a mile away. I'm doing this so you don't lose your precious license, aye?"

"I've got nothing left but this junk heap…" — Chloe turned away so hard her neck hurt, — "Dad signed me up for driving school. He went over the rules with me. Drew the road from our house to Blackwell on a big sheet of paper, bought a bunch of Hot Wheels, and rolled them along it…" — she was only glad the tire noise hid her sobs, — "and explained everything while he was behind the wheel himself…"

"Look… I'm sorry that happened. I didn't mean to take anything away from you," — Johnny pursed his lips awkwardly, — "it's just you're really drunk and high!" — He genuinely felt bad, and sincerely hating such situations, the sergeant tried to lighten the mood, — "What movie were you going to see, anyway?"

"Blade Runner," — Chloe sighed sadly, seemingly already resigned to not going anywhere, — "Our theater shows old stuff for a few bucks, nobody goes anyway, everyone wants that crappy War of the Worlds."

"You like old stuff?" — If she weren't the captain's niece, Johnny would've winked charmingly and bragged about the one gray hair in his mohawk, but he dreaded to think what Price would do if he found out Soap was hitting on his little Chloe.

"Not really. I like that I won't run into anyone from college, and… there's hardly anyone there."

"Got it, I know why people go there, aye!" — Johnny was staring at the coastline and almost missed the turn, — "Do you at least have company?"

"Yeah…" — Chloe didn't like how unsure she sounded, — "Max is coming with me. We've made plans three times already; hopefully this time they won't spring some 'important test we have to study for' on her," — Chloe mimicked the principal and quickly wiped her face with her sleeve.

"How long have you two been together? Hope he's not a junkie."

"She," — Chloe puffed up demonstratively, her whole demeanor saying "yeah, so what?" but no objection came, — "we've known each other since childhood. She moved to Seattle with her parents when we were in middle school, and now she's at a university nearby. I went there too, but I got kicked out for 'disorderly conduct.'"

"So you're, like… a lesbian?" — Johnny finally asked. And, as if on cue, Chloe's house came into view around the bend.

"Well, well! What a setup!"

"Yeah, so?" — Chloe finally answered.

"She shouldn't flake on you a third time, trust me. But if she does, change your tactic. Give her time to figure out where and how to hang out herself. Or, I don't know, invite her to a café or a girls' night out… Does anyone even say 'girls' night out' anymore?" — Soap pondered, scratching his head. Somehow it suddenly hit him that all his knowledge of civilian life was based on some stuff from the nineties, and talking to people born around then made him feel out of his depth. Even though he himself was from '90, — "If she likes girls, don't try to act like a guy around her, yeah?"

"I… I never thought about that," — Chloe even slowed down as Johnny parked and cut the engine.

"Well… It's obvious, aye!" — he got out and tossed the girl the keys, — "Even messing around should be done with soul. But speaking of messing around – you better go to your mom looking like that…"

"'Messing around'?!" — Chloe immediately bristled and slammed the door with all her might, apparently forgetting it was her own car, — "What do you think you are, a victim of Republican propaganda? You gonna decide what's 'messing around' for me and what's not?"

"Princess, take it easy, I didn't mean to offend you!" — Johnny was thrown off balance and even took a step back, — "I was just trying to say, like…"

"You were trying to say I'm an idiot who's a punk today and will be married with twins in a year?!"

"All I meant was…" — Soap really didn't mean anything offensive; on the contrary, he meant that teenage stuff is more serious than a pretentious date for people in their twenties, but the more he explained, the worse it got, — "I mean, you guys shouldn't be so tense around each other!"

"Shove your homophobia up your ass, you piece of meat!" — Chloe, not holding back at all, grabbed a flowerpot and hurled it at the unshaven guy who had become unpleasant again.

She hit him.

"Stand down!" — commanded the captain, who had very conveniently opened the front door, not yet fully seeing what had happened, — "what the hell is going on out here?!"

He was met by a furious, stoned niece and a sergeant covered head to toe in dirt with a petunia hanging off his prominent ear.

"Sir, this lady is being uncivilized," — Johnny shrugged, and the captain immediately had to grab Chloe's hood to keep her from lunging at him.

"This asshole stole my car and says I'm an idiot!"

"I was trying to help, yeah!" — Johnny insisted, brushing off the dirt.

"I don't care what you were trying to do – why should I listen to some fat freak with a stupid mohawk?" — she jabbed a finger at the sergeant, — "You don't know anything about me!"

"Hey!" — Soap would have liked to say he wasn't offended, but that wasn't true, — "I'm not fat, I'm bulky, aye!"

"Stand down on insulting MacTavish," — Price patted Johnny on the shoulder in support and immediately wiped his palm on his pant leg, cursing quietly, — "like little kids! And you, Chloe…" — he wagged a finger, — "I know all about your antics. And mark my words – any more of this, and the games are over. But you two could certainly learn a thing or two from each other," — the captain decided not to back down, — "and stop running around with an empty vest or smoking weed!"

The captain already knew that, in reality, this meeting wouldn't end well.

***

"You're nobody to me! I'm not listening to your army bullshit!" — Chloe was already furious, on top of Max flaking on her again, not having enough money for even gum, let alone paying Frank back, and David criticizing her appearance, — "Get lost, this isn't your house!"

"Chloe, stop talking like that! I'm your stepfather!"

"Stepdouch!"

Chloe slammed the door in his face and locked it. God, he was so annoying! She'd thought things would get better with Uncle John's arrival, but they only got worse, because David felt silent support from the higher-ranking officer. On the other hand, she was just embarrassed in front of Uncle John. He'd always been some mystical and very positive figure, like Santa Claus, and also brought great gifts. This time, adult little Chloe got a new phone and fancy perfume. The taste of some girlfriend of Uncle John's who helped pick it out was good, but a bit old-fashioned, and she wouldn't wear that stuff anyway. Way cooler to spray yourself with some dude's cologne and hit the parties, and the phone… The phone should be all beat up, covered in stickers from gum wrappers, and with a knife keychain. Chloe generally liked everything beat up and smelling like guys' cologne.

And at that thought, she got really scared.

She replayed the past day, and her heart was pounding so hard the drummer from FireWalks would be jealous. On one hand, she'd put another dumb soldier-boy in his place – and "another" because the flowerpot shattered over the sergeant counted too – but on the other, she kept replaying it in her head, knowing she'd done it because she was scared.

What did she even have to be afraid of, after all the trouble she'd been in?

Chloe stared at the ceiling and lit a joint.

"Of course, I'm the baddest of them all," — she said, trying to calm herself, as if she didn't quite believe it herself, — "who the hell is he to tell me my life is nothing?"

She heard contempt for herself so often it should have become background noise, but for some reason, it was the sergeant's words that made her so angry she wanted to punch the walls.

"He's nobody to me, I've got my own crew. For some reason, Uncle thinks that just because we're less than ten years apart, we'll get along!" — she almost dropped the joint on herself, coughed, and sat up, staring with empty, reddened eyes at the graffiti on the wall opposite, — "I didn't fall for this soldier-boy, did I, to have a crush on him? He's just as boring and annoying as the rest."

Chloe looked at her phone. The phone was silent, even though Max had promised to text.

"Whatever, 'Super-Max'!" — Chloe flipped off the dark screen and felt uneasy again.

What if she was just starting to doubt herself?

***

Johnny stared blankly at a group of teenagers, having left the house half an hour ago and missed the loud scene with David. The kids were laughing, fighting over a speaker blaring something rebellious and angsty, tossing a Sprite bottle around, and clearly heading somewhere. Where – Soap couldn't even guess: he'd never had anything like that and never would. And there was no one to ask, and even if he did, what good would it do? Simon was right – they were all already ghosts.

The friendly ghost Johnny watched as the kids got into some beat-up Volkswagen and drove off out of town. And he himself should stop looking for something unknown and just age 20 years ahead of schedule and go fishing with the captain.

"And what the hell did I even bet with the cockroach for? What was the point?" — Johnny lit a cigarette, his eyes stinging before the first smoke even reached them. The sun was finally setting for as long as the sun was supposed to set, not like in the damn Middle East – blink! – and it's off like a lightbulb. The sun slid lower and lower, sinking and dissolving into the ocean. Just like Johnny.

And really, why was he so set on hitting on the captain's niece just because she'd said she liked girls?

"I'm always in the middle between two lives, when you think about it. In other words, screwed!" — Johnny, pleased with his dumb joke, rubbed his sore knee and stared at the lighthouse in the distance, — "For Simon, who's completely given up on civilian life, I'm too cheerful, and for those living that civilian life, I'm too out of touch."

And his player, which he carried all over the world, and the CD he'd dubbed "The Great California Meta-Depression," hadn't been relevant for fifteen years, and it was a good thing at least he hadn't been wrong about "girls' night out," even though he still got punched for nothing. Talking only to the captain and Auntie Kate, he seemed to live in their youth, not his own right now, and even that damn stoner punk girl was a more realistic element of society than he was.

"Why do I even have to keep a straight face, bust a gut showing this is all just for laughs…" — the sergeant muttered, finishing his cigarette. Somewhere deep inside, a spark of desperate, reckless hope for something unknown flickered, — "Maybe all I really want is to fall head-over-heels for some crazy chick, then spend the rest of my vacation crying and feel alive because it hurts?"

At the club, by the way, he'd struck out again. From the rare posts he saw online, it seemed like bright non-traditional personalities were all over America, as Nikolai would say, "like sand on the beach," but in reality, Soap, no matter how many discos he went to, couldn't even tell if the crowd changed from night to night, let alone find any bright personalities.

The only bright personality remained the captain's niece.

"Well then. Time," — Johnny stood up, stretched, squinted at the setting sun, — "to make," — he smiled so sadly it scared even himself, and flicked the butt away, — "some trouble!"

***

Johnny had just dozed off on the couch when something crashed on the stairs from the second floor, and turning his head, he saw Chloe sprawled on the floor.

"Sleep!" — Chloe hissed, eyes wide, and jumped back to her feet, — "sleepy-time, bye-bye-bye…"

"Princess, what's wrong?" — Johnny didn't really understand what happened, but Chloe looked so lost and angry she was almost pitiable. And he thought the captain, leaving in the morning, had mumbled something like "keep an eye on Chloe"…

She wanted to tell the sergeant to fuck off, but the situation was so hopeless that complaining to him about her life couldn't make it any worse.

"Uncle teamed up with stepdouche, and they both told me to stay put as punishment, after searching my bag for weed," — she frowned and hugged herself, — "and Max is waiting for me! She definitely won't want to see me if I text her I'm under house arrest!"

"What kind of friend is that, who'll ditch you if she has to wait a day?" — Johnny even felt offended for the captain's niece, even though he habitually bet they'd break up within a week, like girls usually did.

"It's happened before… We promised to write each other, and she bailed, and now we finally met up," — Chloe plopped onto the couch next to MacTavish, momentarily setting aside her punk nature, — "totally by chance, can you believe it? She, like, saved me."

"So she'll wait, seriously. You know, I often say Simon's a grim bastard, but really…"

And very inconveniently, Johnny heard the familiar footsteps of the lieutenant heading out into the yard to stare at the fence boards. All this time, MacTavish had managed to keep Simon and Chloe from meeting even once, and he planned to keep it that way.

"…Who's stopping us from having a little fun anyway!" — Johnny instantly snapped out of his half-asleep state, grabbed his backpack as taught for nuclear war, and ran to the front door, nodding at Chloe, — "I won't tell a soul, yeah!"

Chloe herself didn't know why she was still accepting help from this unpleasant unshaven guy, but a date with Max was on the line (it was a date, right?) and potentially another small chance to try and find Rachel. Damn it, he was military, they must teach them how to find people!

"Gimme a ride, princess!" — Johnny winked cheerfully at the girl as they approached her beat-up pickup.

"Don't call me that!" — Chloe punched the sergeant in the shoulder and jumped into the car, — "and…" — the pickup started like new and they drove off, — "and… Thanks for helping with the repairs."

Still, Oregon was really beautiful, and Johnny was just glad to be in the passenger seat so he could enjoy the view. After all, he risked his life way more constantly than during a ride with a young driver.

"Ah, what did I do?" — Johnny finally responded to Chloe's comment with an embarrassed snort about ten minutes later, — "I didn't fix it myself, just took it to a car repair."

"I could have done it myself, just…" — Chloe honked at someone for no reason and flipped them off, — "It's just the assholes there said they wouldn't serve me because I was, like, getting in their way! I just needed to buy oil, and they started pushing a replacement! They just want to rip people off."

Johnny was going to stay quiet and not comment, being above teenage squabbles, but since she'd brought it up…

"They were right to push it," — MacTavish noted with such a pompous air it was almost overkill, — "your filters were so bad, no matter what you pour in, it won't get better!"

"Like I don't know?!" — she was already starting to repeat herself, as if she didn't really want to prove anything to anyone anymore, — "You think I'm an idiot too?"

Since Uncle John's friend arrived, Chloe had been swinging from hatred to trust and back so often she felt completely drained. Sure: he's good, cool, and understanding, despite being military, and then – he says something from stepdouche's repertoire and laughs at her! And things couldn't get any worse, until her phone buzzed in her pocket. She looked away from the road for a second and Johnny had to grab the wheel, her heart skipped such a beat.

"sorry, can't make it today. I have to help Kate"

"Again!" — Chloe, knowing she couldn't hold back tears, pulled over to the side of the road, — "Again, just like then! She'll feed me promises and disappear for a hundred years!"

Johnny, not understanding what was happening or what to do with a crying girl, carefully placed his hand on her trembling shoulder.

"Come on, princess… It's not forever…" — Johnny's uncharacteristic sarcasm immediately softened into the tone of an awkward, kind older brother, — "She'll help her Cassie, or whatever, and you'll hang out… I'll talk to the captain, tell him you've been a good girl – and maybe you can even invite her over."

"Not forever! And maybe… Maybe when she finally agrees, I'll already be tired of it all and won't want it anymore!"

Chloe was afraid of losing herself, and Johnny was so stuck in himself that they could understand each other better than anyone else in the world. Chloe dreamed of stopping falling for those words, and Johnny dreamed of finally believing them in hindsight.

"Listen…" — the sergeant stood up, got out of the car, and opened Chloe's door, — "Forget your movie theater. Out there," — Johnny nodded toward the beach, — "is real life."

And Chloe surprisingly didn't argue, so much did the sergeant, through his strange smile, infect her with the feeling that it was easier to just let everything go. They climbed over the guardrail, went down the slope, and reached the ocean. Johnny kicked off his sneakers, stripped down in three seconds flat by military regulation, ran, and splashed into the sea.

"You think I want to watch your wet underwear clinging to your ass?" — Chloe protested, but laughed, and finding a shell at her feet, threw it at MacTavish.

"I didn't say that, mind you," — Johnny dodged, stood up, laughed, and slapped the water with his palm.

Chloe was half-daring herself to swim, but the feeling that she should be here with Max, not with this shell-shocked golden retriever in human form, ruined everything. Plus, it was really cold. And he really did look good.

"You think if I showed up at her place like this, she'd appreciate it?" — Chloe threw another shell. Johnny dodged again and dove to find his own ammunition.

"Nope!" — Johnny threw his and also missed. A shell, after all, wasn't a grenade, — "I think American Pie is the wisest movie ever!"

"Yeah, right, sex-crazed teenagers will save humanity."

Heavy thoughts churned in Chloe's head like giant whales, so heavy that even if she smoked all her stash now, it wouldn't help.

"Of course," — she didn't notice Johnny get out of the water, covered in goosebumps, trying to get water out of his ear.

Why not jump in with both feet?

"Sure, soldier," — Chloe waved him off, barely holding back laughter, — "prove it."

Johnny, who had been walking slightly ahead, stopped abruptly, spun around, and Chloe bumped into him.

"Nice tits."

Johnny, barely even thinking about what the captain would do to him for this, put his hand on her chest.

"Are you out of your mind?!" — Chloe jolted back as if electrocuted.

"No pick-up line, just an observation!"

"Don't even think about it!" — she snapped back, — "Why do you guys always think the world revolves around you?" — Chloe wasn't even angry, but scared again, and not even that some potentially unstable giant was groping her, — "The second you find out I like girls, you immediately need to prove me wrong?" — Why not jump in herself? — "You know what…"

Chloe grabbed MacTavish by his wet shoulders and kissed him on the lips. Damn, his cheeks were scratchy!

"I don't care!"

Johnny hadn't expected this at all, and wasn't even sure if his bet counted, or if it had any point. Chloe, on the other hand, reveled in her own recklessness and the fact that up close, the thrown-off-balance sergeant looked even older than his years.

"Well, well, princess," — Johnny rubbed the back of his head, shocked far more than he could have imagined when thinking about another random kiss, — "someone's lucky. I'm gonna…" — he waved his hand, — "I'll be right back. No peeking, aye?" — Johnny winked at Chloe and went behind a rock to change. Chloe stood there, honestly not peeking, and slowly calmed down, enjoying the goosebumps from the craziness of what she'd just done.

"Sorry about the 'fat' comment," — she exhaled when Johnny came back, — "I'm not fat-phobic, and you're not really fat, it's just… First thing that came to mind."

Johnny snorted and shook his wet mohawk.

"I'm not offended… But I'm not taking back what I said about the tits."

Chloe slammed the pickup door and they headed toward the college. Johnny didn't know they were going there, but with some almost supernatural sense of anticipation, he felt it. Maybe he should really enroll? As an art student. Why not? He'd lie about his age, wear a cool football jacket – not without reason, because he'd be the best player on the youth team, he'd join everything and…

Johnny was snapped back to reality by the screech of brakes and the thud of the bumper against a guardrail.

"Keep watch!" — Chloe pulled a can of blue spray paint from her bag in the truck bed and looked around. It was getting dark.

"Listen, princess, I don't want to be an accomplice if you get busted for vandalism," — Johnny looked around. In plain sight, who does that!

"Come on!" — Chloe slapped her thighs and rolled her eyes, — "I'm not going out with a loser who's afraid to spray some graffiti, no matter how many terrorists you've taken down."

"Wait, going out?"

"I'm, like, the punk of punks!" — Chloe drew a stick figure with a camera on the wall, — "While they're all taboo about anything not anarchist, I'm gonna give a damn and date my military boyfriend. Screw Max! I don't even like her! Or that manipulator Rachel!"

Johnny was totally unprepared for this turn of events, and the romance of a one-time vacation fling had already evaporated. In its place appeared the inscription "MAX IS A LOSER AND A VIRGIN."

"Radical, yeah…" — Johnny nodded with a strange smirk and immediately slapped Chloe on the shoulder in his spec-ops way. Someone was walking on the sidewalk across the street, and they had to run to the next parking lot.

"You know, I almost envy you," — Johnny said sadly, looking at the Blackwell building when they stopped, — "I'll never go to college, never be the coolest guy on the student football team…"

"Come on, you Scottish ass," — Chloe seemed to be going through some strange emotional crisis from what MacTavish said. So much so that looking at him, she immediately wanted to get it together, — "you haven't missed a thing, trust me. It's full of assholes there, and you're out here saving the world like some Captain Not-America. And anyway… Imagine we're both students here, just cutting class."

Johnny didn't have the strength to imagine anything anymore, and even less to admit it.

"I thought we already were, yeah?" — he rubbed his palms awkwardly, as if they were covered in paint from art class, — "but I'll lose it as soon as I leave here. In two days. It's that, you know… Postmodernism. Simon told me about it. Like, when you're playing at something, not really doing it."

"That's deep… You didn't look like you had anything in your head but beer and girls."

That's what everyone thought, and Johnny wasn't even offended anymore.

"I just… I regret things. Damn it, I regret things, princess! I don't know how to fix anything, but I'm so jealous of all this civilian life that…"

"You might think I'm crazy, but I know…" — Chloe sat on the guardrail, sniffed the spray can for some reason, and shook her head, — "that those who regret things really hard get a chance to rewind time. Just by taking a picture."

"I hope we'll regret each other," — the sergeant smirked. He… he really did believe what she was saying.

"Then we need to do even more stupid stuff!" — Chloe smiled and rested her head on MacTavish's shoulder. This was probably how you were supposed to look at the stars, and that was exactly what she'd demonstratively refused to do all through high school. So what if it wasn't forever. So what if she didn't know him.

Johnny couldn't stand the intensity of the moment, feeling that if he didn't ruin it right now, he'd just break.

"Yeah… But compared to your Max, I'm not in the same league of delusion," — he winked saucily at her and sprawled out wider.

Chloe didn't like that and jumped to her feet. Johnny followed.

"I get the feeling that not only have you already hooked me, but you're also trying to prove something to me! Why? So I have nothing to hold on to?!"

He could have said "then hold on to me," but Chloe wasn't that kind of person.

"Yeah," — Soap grabbed her waist firmly, sliding his other hand under her shirt, — "Name's Johnny 'Conversion Therapy' MacTavish!"

"Go ahead, try!" — she pressed his hand even tighter and looked him defiantly in the eyes.

It wasn't Johnny's first time dragging someone into the bushes, but these were the most magnificent bushes ever, right across from the college.

***

"Does it hurt?"

Johnny nearly jumped when Simon appeared silently behind him, holding a bag of frozen vegetables.

"Hurts like hell," — Johnny moved his lips, and it throbbed in his bruised cheek. Even frowning made his eye ache.

"Was it the captain?" — Simon sat down next to him on the mattress and pressed the bag to the sergeant's face. Johnny laughed for some reason.

"By the power of my mind hitting a joint, yeah! He gave me apology flowers, a bag of pharmacy stuff, and told me to tell her I won't do it again."

"Asshole," — Simon snorted, — "I expected nothing less from you. And – you brought it on yourself. You didn't have to act like a stupid teenager."

Johnny smiled through the pain, taking it as a compliment.

"Guilty. But you know, I learned a lot," — MacTavish was glowing, standing ramrod straight like a recruit. He was trembling, he was so nervous, and he didn't know why, picking at the hem of his shirt with cold fingers, — "at least that you're coming with me on the next vacation."

"Anything more substantial?"

Johnny didn't know what to come up with, so he played dumb.

"I'm pansexual!"

"What the hell does that have to do with fucking pans?" — Simon blinked in genuine confusion.

"Uh, L.T., you're too young to know about that stuff."

The rest of the vacation passed so easily Johnny barely noticed it. He and the captain went hiking, Simon found a companion in Joyce, surprisingly, and as agreed, the whole little Task Force 141 jumped off the lighthouse.

Time flew, and the Captain, Simon, and Johnny packed their gear with typical military speed. Simon was genuinely surprised the captain had a niece of such a dubious appearance all this time, and she, for her part, was glad she'd caused so much mischief. Now Max would definitely be jealous, if she ever replied. And if she didn't.

"Chì mi thu a dh’ aithghearr, princess!" — Johnny blew Chloe a kiss and picked up his suitcase.

"Fuck you, Scottish ass!" — she flipped him off, and while no one was looking, winked back.

"Chloe!"

***

"Fuck…"

"Fuck!" — Johnny sprawled contentedly on the mattress – or rather, mattresses, which he and Roach had carefully laid in two layers on the warehouse floor to create either a giant bed or a private asylum, — "awesome scope. You really picked it like it was for yourself!"

"You bet!" — Tony winked at his buddy, — "A deal's a deal."

Johnny studied the scope, chuckled, and then suddenly looked utterly dejected.

"What, you're not happy?" — Roach asked, shaking his friend by the shoulder.

"I am, aye! But you know, cockroach, besides the scope, I got something way cooler, and it's not even gonorrhea."

And he really can do anything. He can really pretend to be anyone and create the coolest civilian adventures for himself, and he doesn't need college or a formal number on his ID.

"Next year," — he pulled a crumpled Polaroid photo from his pocket, — "my vacation's gonna be even better than the Arcadia vacation. Nothing can touch me now."

The disposable camera flashed an instant before the lightning outside the tent. Kennedy winced, sighed, turned over onto his other side, but didn't wake up.

It came out well. His face so gentle and serene, like a dead man's.

Krauser was big and heavy, but he stepped so quietly that even the fabric on the tent floor didn't rustle—only the rain outside. After two steps, he knelt down next to the sleeping Leon and looked through the viewfinder again: dark, with only the little light on the receiver glowing with a dull, bloody gleam, but he knew the shot would capture exactly how his disheveled bangs fell across his forehead. But before the major could press the button, the light reflected off a wide-open eye.

"Jack!.." Kennedy barely had time to cry out before a strong hand pressed him down into his sleeping bag, preventing him from jumping up.

"Not good, rookie," Krauser immediately let go, hid the camera, and flicked his lighter to show that it really was him. "You should always be ready."

"You told me to 'go jerk off and hit the hay,'" Leon smirked in his usual insolent manner and rubbed his neck. "And you sat down to fiddle with your bow. I thought you were keeping watch."

"I am keeping watch," Jack stood to his full height, as much as the tent allowed, frowned, and sighed. "I was testing you."

"On the first point, right?" Kennedy asked venomously, knowing the major wouldn't do anything to him anyway.

Krauser released the button on the lighter, and it went dark again.

As for the "first point," Jack himself had problems. Weakly and dully, he could still feel it, but never in the presence of a living person. The kid's too-pretty face might as well have had a sign saying he only drank tea with girls, and Krauser, as feral as he'd become after nearly fifteen years of service, could see the kid glancing at him in a certain way, but he couldn't and wouldn't do anything about it. A photograph, especially of a sleeping person, didn't count as a living person. Jack stared at the photo paper with its nauseating glare of blind spots, bit his free wrist until it bruised, forced himself to breathe so rarely and silently that he grew dizzy. In the last seconds, he'd jolt as if electrocuted and collapse right where he sat. It was painful, more painful than a flashbang at his feet, as if a discharge had been sent straight through his brain, leaving convulsions in individual small muscles for another minute. But what was far worse was that the same photographs inevitably grew boring, and this camera was the last one.

Jack wanted more.

***

They often joked about him—it's good to be a pessimist: either you're always right, or you can always be glad things turned out well. Krauser was always certain that he would be discarded like spent material as soon as something happened to him, and all that would be left for him would be to wander the streets begging like countless other veterans—and that would be if he was lucky enough to still have legs to wander on. He told everyone that this would definitely happen to him, with no irony at all, like a madman. Believing it so deeply that it happened.

***

The crimson beret melted over his face in sticky, thick blood. Salty, poisonous—it stung his eyes and the small cracks in his skin. In his ears was the wet crunch of his own cartilage, and no creature he'd seen on this mission scared him as much as the fact that he could no longer move his fingers. No fairy tales about recovery, no lying whining about how there was always a way out—it was all over.

Everything was over for him, unless some goddamn miracle happened.

He had been a bad person but an excellent soldier: Krauser felt no remorse about killing people. Composed, effective, perfectly executing the task of "eliminate"—no one ever had any questions for him, and it never occurred to anyone that he did it with such pleasure, that in his time off-duty, he didn't rest but worked as a mercenary.

Now, not even a mercenary anymore, Jack wasn't bound by any humanitarian law, let alone morality, but he didn't even feel regret that while he had been, it had protected him in no way. No one had protected him, including Leon, who, so kind and compassionate, couldn't afford to stop and turn back for a wounded comrade. It wasn't his fault; further on, where the virus still threatened humanity, he was far more needed, but no matter how much Krauser thought that this was the only correct course of events—it stung, he was angry at him, to the brink of total hatred, but he never threw away a single photo of him.

As Leon said, for reasons completely inexplicable, genuinely believing his own words, he could continue to be an instructor for recruits and handle army logistics, but it was easier to fake his own death than to wait for them to find something for him, crippled and useless, to do. After recovering, he found an occupation that at first glance seemed unusual for a man of his past—he got involved with a cult. Why, if his country could betray him, should he himself remain submissive and loyal? It wouldn't have been loyalty anyway; only someone endowed with a higher consciousness could be loyal, and Krauser, if he left everything as it was, would have no consciousness left. Everyone dies once, and it doesn't matter whether you continue to exist aimlessly afterward—but Jack miraculously rose from the dead.

All the time until he met Albert Wesker, he could hardly sleep, not because of the pain, but because when he fell asleep, he couldn't let go of himself, couldn't forget what had happened to him, that he could no longer do anything, that his life was over. He'd close his eyes, hoping to relax a little, to forget, but his own severed arm, the moment he stepped into a place where everything was still fine, would grab him by the scruff and throw him into a nightmare indistinguishable from reality. His life was over, yet for some damn reason he continued to exist.

Krauser couldn't sleep, but he finally went mad when, in rare exceptions to his paralyzed semblance of sleep, it wasn't his own mutilated reflection that appeared, but the one who had been lucky enough to get out of that mission intact.

Leon Scott Kennedy occupied all his thoughts. And the thought that he might meet him again struck Jack with such excitement that he found the strength not to end it all.

***

Jack silently dropped his head to the side, exposing the largest vein. The needle stopped a millimeter from his skin.

"Are you sure, Mr. Krauser?" Even through the thick black lenses, Jack could feel how mocking Wesker's gaze was. It crawled under his skin, dissected him vein by vein, tried to burrow so deep into his brain that nothing would be left of him. Krauser clearly interested him; otherwise, they wouldn't have taken a good half-liter of blood and every possible sample. "Good genes"—he'd heard that fragment of a conversation through the anesthesia, either with someone or with himself. And ironically, the joke about good genes, combined with his German roots, had stuck to Jack like a brand since school. And it was all true about him: tall, strong, healthy—if not for the scars, even his face was good—but that wasn't what interested Wesker.

"NSAIDs contraindicated"—one nearly invisible note in his medical file, which Wesker had bet on and hadn't lost.

"Or is something weighing on you?" Jack saw a restrained, arrogant smile reflected in the deactivated medical panel. "For everything you've done, you should have been executed last millennium—if not under military code, then under civil law. 'Sexual assault of minors with particular cruelty'…"

Jack didn't feel pain well. Not others', not his own. He was angry at himself, looking for some line he wouldn't cross, while Wesker was only looking for his analysis of the PTGS2 mutation.

"Basal plasma prostaglandin E2 levels significantly below reference values," Wesker momentarily left Krauser with his thoughts about what he'd done and turned to the printout. "The hyperthermic phase of viral rejection will be skipped."

Injection or electric chair? Jack had long ago decided for himself that he would choose the latter. But the choice was made for him.

Or was it?

"You're clearly not here to lecture me on morality," the former major smirked, wincing at the touch of cold, tentacle-like fingers.

"And you were so waiting for this, weren't you? To finally clear your conscience and get what you deserve." Wesker quickly grew tired of dry calculations, and it was far more interesting to switch to a living specimen. And Krauser had gotten used to being just a biological unit back in the army. "This injection won't kill you. But to gain one life, you must pay with one death. I know what you want." He pulled Jack by his sewn-on arm, forcing him to stand, and sat him in the electric chair. "Get ready. You will become something better than human." Wesker slid the needle into the vein with a soft whisper and pushed the plunger. Krauser felt nothing. Right up until Albert pressed a button on some panel to the left, and Jack was jolted with such electricity that it felt like his bone marrow was sizzling. Everything flashed before his eyes like the flash of a disposable camera. "Welcome."

***

Injection or electric chair? Or maybe neither? Treating him, and then trying to convince his paranoia-inflamed mind that the treatment had worked—it would be easier to just shoot him. A bullet to the head, and it's done. Easier for everyone.

And someone he didn't know wanted to help him, without even realizing it.

As he heavily knelt before the cult leader, Krauser felt the familiar tickle of someone else's scope on the back of his neck—a feeling that had never failed him since his very first operation. And just a moment before he released his mutated hand, bones outwards as a shield, Wesker regretted the effort he'd invested, and the aim shifted away from him.

He had saved him.

If the major had known what happened back at the tower, he might have silently said thank you, but as he rose, Krauser held onto his bitter rage against anyone who might do anything out of pity for him.

***

Jack got scared when he realized that besides rage, paralysis, and the anticipation of danger, he could feel something else. Something unsettling and prickling, but so warm that he didn't want to get rid of it. That he worried about his rookie, that he cared what happened to him, that he wanted to protect him.

He wanted to split his eyes with an axe into one black wound, making the bones crunch. The boy had thin wrists—he remembered well, he knew, he anticipated the sound they would make when they broke. Flexible as willow branches. He'd fall backward from the blow, blood gushing from his face, he'd grope around helplessly and scream, he'd want to cry but wouldn't be able to.

Leon, when no one was watching them, was very attentive and—unusually for not just a soldier but any man—tender. He'd put bandages on every scratch as if they weren't trivial, always catch moments when he was starting to lose his temper, and even give him his water on long marches. He had such kind and clear eyes that it made your heart ache: he wanted to help everyone, even after seeing an entire city die.

Jack would have had the strength to pull his joint out with his bare hands. Even back when his own hands were alive. Not just wrench his arms behind his back, already showing his superiority and strength, but dislocate them unnaturally so that his elbows bent outward, dangling by skin bruised blue from ruptured vessels. Then cut open the swelling hematoma with a knife and take his limb, pulling it off as easily as a leaf from an autumn tree.

He wanted to do something nice for him—even just buy him ice cream, but that was about all Jack remembered from civilian life. Once, as a joke, he'd sat Leon on his shoulders, lifting him at arm's length like a puppy. The boy got flustered, laughed, and said something about how if they saw each other in five years, it would be the other way around. And it was so bitter that they would part and nothing would remain except those creepy, stained photos and good memories that Krauser wanted to kill him.

He was obsessed with him, but he never did anything to him.

***

Or he didn't remember.

Or maybe he dreamed it?

"I want to cut you," Jack leaned so close to Leon that he could hear his pulse beating in his temple. He snatched the knife in a lightning-fast movement and pressed the blade to his cheek. Sickly sweet as a girl, so unsure behind all those jokes… He didn't even have proper stubble yet, and they'd already thrown him into the thick of it.

"Jack! Let me go!"

There was nothing to grab onto; he had not a millimeter of maneuverability. One breath, one twitch, and he'd be cut.

"Don't be afraid to get close to the enemy," Krauser had always taught him. "They can't hit you if they have no room to swing."

Leon was pinned to the barracks cot by a heavy, hot body. Jack breathed noisily and threateningly, examining his face and neck, every small mole and the speck of dust clinging to him from training.

"So nimble," Krauser loosened his grip for a split second, then painfully drove his knee in its hard armor into Leon's thigh. "I wonder how you'll move…" Jack sliced open Leon's shoulder, along with his T-shirt, with a single touch and pressed his face to the cut, smearing himself in his blood. The boy jerked. "…if I cut off your legs?"

"Leave me alone!" He thrashed, tried to escape, turned his face away just to avoid looking Jack in the eye, but it was useless. "You're crazy!"

Krauser moved his knife hand closer to Leon's ear and bit his neck. The knife trembled, leaving small, inflamed points, and it took a tremendous effort for the major not to drive the blade in to the hilt. Jack was drooling with perverse rage and the desire to lunge at him, to bleed him, to hurt him so badly he'd lose consciousness—but he had to hold back. He had to do everything to keep the rookie alive.

"Let me go!" Short fingernails clawed at Krauser's crooked scars on his forearms. Leon shook his head, unsuccessfully tried to throw him off, and seemed to press even closer.

At some random moment, Jack just let him go and left. They forgot about it because on the mission, there was a far more serious problem than a moment's weakness. At least, they pretended to. Jack knew he wouldn't go unpunished for this. He should have been in the electric chair already.

***

"I died two years ago… That's what they told you, rookie?" Jack, seeing Leon for not the first time that day, couldn't suppress a crooked smile—God knows what it expressed, but Leon could guess it was nothing good.

"You're repeating yourself, Major," Kennedy hid behind his knife and raised his pistol. "And you'll give an encore performance if you don't let the girl go."

"Haven't learned a thing," Krauser waved his hand, and from it, with the wet crunch of breaking cartilage, emerged a crooked cage of bones wrapped in loose, mutated flesh. "Puppy."

Krauser fought without tactics, without any automatic assessment of the combat situation drilled into his head over so many years of service—just pure rage, unclouded by either the virus in his blood or Las Plagas. Rookie Kennedy had never grown up, and could never forgive someone who acted like a traitor and stopped at nothing to achieve his goal. Jack's goal was to once again find himself in the suffocating, hot humidity of the Brazilian jungle—to have everything like it was back then.

And everything was. And Leon was there again. And, disinhibited by the parasite, with no orders or objectives, he wanted to destroy him and could let himself go, not thinking that he was far more fragile than he might appear.

And Leon was there. A few blows in exchange for knife strikes that didn't even cause Krauser pain, and the rookie, breaking wooden barrels with his body, went tumbling.

"Stop…" Leon got up, grabbed his side, and suddenly began to limp. "I believe you, Jack… Let's make a deal, the easy way!"

Leon had become craftier. But just like Jack himself, he hadn't learned to forgive, even though he was sure that was nobility. And Jack had no reason not to fall for it. He had already done everything he could, and looking into his disgustingly honest eyes, he understood that what he had wanted—he would never do now.

"What, rookie, don't learn from your mistakes?" Krauser let his guard down and took a step forward. "I always told you that you'd better…" Without waiting for another greasy comment about his appearance, Leon was behind Jack in an instant and pulled the shotgun's trigger.

His last eye burst, the sounds around him merged into a deafening screech and faded, and again a bright, painful flash flickered before Krauser's eyes, like from a disposable camera.

After all, Wesker had given him a lot. He'd shown him a lot and confirmed his oldest, most obsessive thoughts. Having ended up the only survivor of the electrocution in the world, Krauser could say that his third death felt exactly the same.