Lt. Simon [Ghost] Riley

&. 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

                            THE NIGHT CREASES INTO Spock’s eyes, glinting off the veil of his second eyelids when Spock blinks and tries to ignore Simon’s presence too close at his back. Outside, the scent of rain is permeated with the flayed smell of the atmosphere, ozone bleeding into the dark.

Their mission should take precedence. Duty, order, logic. And this, moments and instances that Spock has no name for and has never tried to give — he has told himself that were never meant to last — allows his mind to betray him, treasonous of the strict expression that has locked down Spock’s face, an empty canvas that belies his internal fire.

His mind is filled with glances and brushes of skin, tight hands and a warm mouth, teeth against the strong line of a jaw.

He should feel nothing.

Instead, Spock feels anger.

He stands in the night, the starlight catching the fearlessness and the feralness in his eyes and teeth. He turns to Riley, fixing his stare to the pale shape of that skull, an image Spock once contemplated was an omen in the beginning, caught across the room and warning him like Simon attempts to do so now.

“ Do not think me so easily broken. ” He retorts, because what could the Lieutenant possibly do to ruin what was already ravaged?

A bold step takes them closer together, inches apart, and he makes it in challenge.

                            His mind is tattered, ripped and flayed by the severing of billions. Inside him, the red desert is barren and coarse, littered with white trees with desperate, bony spindles, branches reaching out and clawing against their own fragility. His mind is an all but inexhaustible wellspring of fury and darkness. It was amoral, illogical, boundless, and utterly beyond control. He raises his chin. Riley stands taller than him. But right now, Spock is as tall as a mountain, “ You can do nothing. I will not break. ”

By the third morning, he's memorised his nurses, and has his schedule down to a pat. (John pretends he lost his memories, tells them that he lived a lifetime in his own head. They don't doubt him, but he fears he'll start believing in his own lie.)

He's been trying to understand. This world, and the people. Johnny's journals helped—he left a lot behind, and they gave him everything he had. The kid rarely missed a day. But with every page he turned and each one dedicated to Ghost, the guilt grows larger, and threatens to consume him inside out.

John—- (he’s been corrected several times) holds his body a little straighter. All semblance of flirting is gone. He smiles far less. There’s something more coarse about him. And his goofy sense of humor is fried. Johnny’s gone… but in his place is a painful imposter.

And Simon feels guilty for wanting more. Soap’s alive. He survived. That should be enough. And yet… somehow this is more painful than death. Despite the guilt and hollow ache in his chest, Ghost is present n’ supportive. Today he supervises John’s stretches.

—I read ‘bout what we were supposed to be. Who Johnny was to you.

He’s working on a laptop, finishing a briefing. When John speaks, Ghost stills. His blood chills in his veins and he breaks into a cold sweat. He closes the laptop.

After a beat of silence—- “were.”

an underlying anxiety gnawed at his belly as he laid in wait [ ... ] TRIGGER FINGER held at the ready — only ever just a breath away. something primal? [SOMETHING WRONG.] all the while, the chilled earth beneath him flooded his senses with a siren song. a pretty little melody o' yearning. a plea to drink deep from the remaining warmth left in him after the hours wait. to take and take and take until there was nothing left, but the hollowed out bones of the man, John MacTavish, that Makarov told him he was ( a double agent - the one to fell the bastard ghoul of the 141 ). and, in the here &&. now of a makeshift sniper nest? if he were being honest with himself? it didn't feel as though there'd be much left to be stolen away.

memories of what felt like a distant past never nursed without a headache [ ... ] a once gaping head wound the obvious blame.

a slow inhale. the crisp morning air a steady reminder to stay alert. steady exhale a measured risk - breath a small plume. complete the mission. a mantra of his own. ocean eyes focused down the rifle's sight. just complete the mission and get home ( only one familiar face ever surfacing at the word, but an IMPOSSIBILITY all the same ).

there. "falcon-1 to czar-9-0 actual, target sighted." Ghost. an itch in the back of his skull. Simon Riley. "permission to engage?"

"permission granted, falcon-1."

and, with that? a single shot — .

and, an intentional MISS. rising up to one knee, slinging the rifle over the broad of his shoulder. the crimson skull mask an ominous, mocking silhouette. the direction of his shot relayed clear as day with a simple message as he stared downward from the rocky outpost: come find me.

It’s the wet sound of Johnny’s battered head hitting the concrete before he can intervene. It’s the rasping of his last breaths as Simon feels his pulse stop beneath his fingertips.

The moment replays in his head like a broken record. Soap’s life snuffed out before his eyes and every time he lays his head down at night— Soap’s gone again and again and again.

He’s gone.

He’s gone.

And there’s a festering void that’s been left behind— carved out in the center of Simon’s chest. He’s intimately familiar with loss— but this one cores him out and leaves him hollow. Grief sucks the marrow from his bones and steals the air from his lungs. It twists his beating heart and devours any semblance of rest. Simon’s left in pieces— barely put back together again by Price and Gaz.

A thirst for vengeance begins to fill the aching cavity. It slithers through the cracks in his psyche and threatens to consume him. Ghost spends the next several months living up to his callsign. Tracking Makarov and his men with every free moment of his time.

Despite his growing obsession, he’s still the lieutenant Price needs him to be in the field. Even now… as he follows a seemingly obvious trail, he’s sharp. Focused. Alone and a bit reckless. His rifle in hand and at the ready as he wanders carefully through the brush, certain he’s about to come face to face with the target from his intel.

A single shot zips by and misses.

Ghost’s rifle is up in seconds, directed toward the shot’s home. Looking through his scope, he scans the rocky hills for the sniper. Knowing damn well he has seconds before a second shot is fired and he might not get lucky next time. And then his sights settle on the crimson skull and Ghost’s stomach cartwheels. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and shake what he thinks he sees.

Dark eyes peer through the sights a second time and he’s still there. Staring back. Waiting, haunting. Scarlet skull glinting in the rocks, a beacon. Come get me. Ghost realizes then as they stare at one another that the shot had missed intentionally. It was an attention grab. His mind races. Johnny’s dead. It’s someone taunting him.

Makarov.

The rifle is flung over his shoulder and Ghost races through the brush, toward the rocky outpost. There’s little thought in his chase. It’s reckless anger. Each quick stride fueled by the near taste of vengeance and the heady prospect of coming face to face with Makarov. Ending him. Slowly.

" My my, Casper, you are just violent, aren't you? " CLA a backhand. Nice n' juicy, didn't pull it this time either. Really, he had to reel it back a lot lately. Can't really do much when you run the risk of makin' one of his eyes swell shut, oh but he liked it when Ghost was a little tender. He might be shut like a clam, but the body can only handle so many pokes n' prodes, n' punches against a still-healing bruise. Speaking of still-healing. . HE GRIPS the base of Ghost's shoulder. The sheer heat of his body screaming was enough to force it to tense. Graves might've had some fun with a red-hot poker. He was having a lot of fun these days. " Gooooood! We can't have you makin' this easy, can we? Whaddya' say, today you n' me? Just us two. No extras, I can show you this little fancy drops that if you put in your ear, you go deaf for about three hours. Almot mimics waterboarding. But you know what else feels like that? Waterboardin'. " Graves makes his way right behind 'em, ol' Ghostie was strapped up nice n' tight. This machine was pretty good at a lot. Graves called it The White Room, cause it just drags the meaning outta' everything. Sure, there were more efficient ways, but. . . there's a method to the maddness, just trust 'em.

" Now, I'd tell you the safe word, but. . " He yanks over Simon's neck, pullin' it to the side, angling him just right. . plop. Give it a second, it should all stop. Graves nearly moves to the other ear, but he has a certain moment of. . " ah. " He did consider how much fun it'd be to completely fuck half of Ghost's senses. Oh, that minor in psychology's finally gonna' do somethin'! Does he have a hop in his step? Oh yeah. The way he bags Ghost is evident. He's got such a way with his fingers, doesn't he? Oh, don't try n' do nothin' naughty now! He just might BZZT. A nice little shock to the skull. Just in case he tries to bite. " Whoopsy! Sorry, Casper. Forgot t'tell ya' I got an upgrade. " If his brain feels a little frazzled or fried, just shake it off! Ghost is built different anyway. A tough boy. Can't wait to see 'em crumble. Give it a minute, and. . there. " Hmm. Remind me to get you a hood with a skull mask on it. I don't feel like hittin' this one. " But, he does feel like just giving that handsome face a little squeeze through the sack. Mm. Good cheek bones, nice jaw, pretty eyes that he just wants t'pop open, but. . ! Mmno! Bad Graves! Stop spoilin' your dinner! Mm! Huff.

If Ghost’s eyes could roll any harder, they’d be lost to the back of his fucking head. His vision swims with the sudden burst of oxygen after struggling for hours. And Graves’ manic, giddy voice is enough to drive him insane. Sick bastard didn’t need any coffee either. Just as Simon didn’t need the fucking torture—- this man’s presence was enough. The real challenge was staying neutral. Giving Graves nothing to work with usually frustrated him— made shit worse. On his best days, Ghost refused to give him an ounce of satisfaction.

His actions and behavior usually depended on how he felt. Did he want to drive Graves to kill him? Sometimes. Sometimes the deep-seated masochist in Ghost won and he'd poke the rabid bear. Rile Graves up and watch him go.

The pat to his jaw, followed by a little pinch just fuels the brewing vengeance. His blood boils hot and churns like a vicious sea. It makes his heart thrum in tandem to the abuse. Adrenaline keeps him going, keeps him fighting. “Why don’t you cut these ties n’ I’ll show you how personal I can be.” He purrs, voice raspy and laced with hatred.

A quick, solid backhand sends stars flashing behind dark eyelids. Ghost’s neutral facade breaks a little and he laughs. His head rocks back and he flexes his hands within their restraints as Graves' digs into the burns along his shoulder. "Just us sounds like a date, Graves." The near deranged laughter cracks at the mention of waterboarding. Ghost wets his scarred lips and he breathes, "lackin' creativity. Thought you promised me a good n' original time?" Footsteps curl around his body and he can feel Graves' presence behind him. "Somethin' tells me you don't have much original 'bout you. Jus' a copy n' paste."

Taunting, taunting, taunting.

His head is jerked to the side and Ghost snarls against Phillip's touch. A coolness spreads in his ear and he feels lopsided in seconds. His hearing slowly dulls within that ear until it fades to black. There's a panic that rises in the lieutenant's throat, but he keeps it swallowed back. "Do the other ear n' I won't have to hear you--"

It's sudden and zips through him like a strike of lightening. The burst of electricity that sizzles through his body rips a groan from Ghost and he bites his own tongue as his muscles seize and lock with the jolt. When it stops, he goes limp in the chair and takes a stuttering breath. His head throbs and his heart races. A fine sheen of sweat slicks his body. In the moment, he's too dazed to bite at Graves as he grips his face through the sack covering his head again.

[ txt : riley ] truth be told, we won't know until we try

[ txt: Nat ] sounds like we've business to settle

[ txt: Nat ] croc of dawn. christ.

[ txt: Nat ] your crochead energy is unmatched