Shadow Gallery

I SCREAMED INTERNALLY WHEN I SAW THIS SCENE. I LOVED THE IDEA OF A BATTLEMAGE-LIKE GALE BUT IT DIDN'T MAKE SENSE BEFORE.

The radio has been static.  Silence.  Dead.  It hasn’t left Price’s hand and Soap severely doubts his finger has left the button, either.  Not since promising that they were on their way, two whole days ago.  Too long ago.  Anxiety coils tight in his chest with each second of tense silence, a ticking time bomb.

Seven days.  Over one-hundred hours Ghost and you have been stranded in this fucking country, a number that only grows by the moment.  The more time passes the bigger of a chance he’ll find you both dead in a ditch somewhere; and the thought bothers him more than he’d ever admit to anyone.  Ghost: dead—for some reason his mind just won’t compute it.  Can’t happen.  Impossible, even.  

And all Soap can do is sit and fucking wait while the man who’s saved his life time and time again is out there somewhere.  It makes his throat feel tighter than he’ll ever admit, more than even he predicted.

Not that he ever predicted this—Ghost being stranded and half-dead, of all people.  Soap thinks he’s only ever seen the Lieutenant injured a handful of times; less so than his own Captain.  A ripped sleeve from a stray bullet, a busted glove from a wrong punch.  But nothing serious.  Nothing as damning as blunt force to the head, nothing to get him discarded into a ditch like he was just any old soldier.

It was unsettling.  Disturbing.  Right fucking terrifying, seeing Ghost get distracted and injured.  Seeing him hesitate at the sight of air support they hadn’t accounted for, open firing at the armor supporting them.  The armor you supplied them with.

Soap watched Ghost’s eyes flicker with panic when he realized, watched him completely change course and abandon everything to bolt in the opposite direction.  Watched him abandon mission and run full-speed towards the tanks. Soap had called for him, but hell reigned down on them before anything could be done.  In the moment he’d been pissed, but now?

Now just thinking about that moment he saw Ghost’s eyes change makes Soap’s jaw clench.  Makes his throat tight and stomach uneasy. 

Bleeding Jesus, Simon, what the fuck did you get yourself tangled into?

A torrential downpour assaults the helo, a constant muffled rumble outside the gear that covers Soap’s ears.  To his right is Gaz, clutching a rifle close as his foot taps erratically against the floor.  Expression tense, he stares out from under his hat at the fog and the rain. 

In front of Gaz is Laswell, hunched over a laptop.  Wisps of blond hair beginning to fall out of her bun, a nasty cut still remains on her cheek from the battle a week prior.  Everyone is beat up, running on fumes, painkillers, and anxiety from the fiasco—but no complaints leave anyone’s mouths.  No words at all.  Soap shifts, the arm he keeps in a sling aching dully with the movement, fingers twitching.

Tension weighs like a heavy, hot, suffocating blanket.

“‘Better not be fuckin’ dead,”  Soap mutters to the other sergeant to his right, just loud enough to speak through the rain.  The first thing anyone has said in twenty minutes.  “Or I swear I’ll lose it.”

Gaz takes a breath, sitting back in his seat.  

“Gotta stay optimistic,” he says.  “He’ll be fine.  He always is.”

“And the Colonel?”

Gaz sends a loud glance Soap’s way.  From all the information Price got from Ghost—it was unlikely you’d make it.  With that, plus the radio silence, and the very real idea that Ghost may be underplaying his injuries—whatever lay ahead of them won’t be good.  Nobody said so, but everyone was thinking it.  Gaz doesn’t say anything.

Soap only met you a few weeks prior to the fight—right there on the tarmac as he stepped off the plane into Mexico.  A wave of deja vu overcame him, inhaling his first breath of humid, warm air since that disastrous mission in Las Almas.  The one that brought him and Ghost together—taught the stubborn, aloof lieutenant to trust someone.  Soap swears he’ll bully the lieutenant into spilling his guts.  Filling the gaps of the story he’s only heard bits and pieces of from Price.

From the second he left that plane, Ghost wouldn’t stop staring at something off at the end of the room.  Following his gaze, Soap’s eyes landed on you.  The laptop under your arm and the men you surrounded yourself with.  Beside you was Laswell, here to introduce you as the new member of the team for the mission at hand.

Anyone who Price trusted immediately held his respect, but he finds you’re a special kind of scary.  A pretty thing, one of the few women on the base other than Laswell, but strong and reserved.  Tired eyes jaded, permanently focused.  Uniform, hair, posture all scarily perfect, disciplined.  You were straight to the point and didn’t fuck around—traits he also admired in his Lieutenant, who was conveniently missing for your introduction.

A woman who’s seen shit.

“You must be MacTavish,”  you said, giving Soap’s hand a firm shake—a small smile gracing your lips.  It suited you, something unexpected out of someone so intense.  “Price speaks highly of you, yeah?”

He nodded.  “Aye.  Likewise, Colonel.”

“Angel,” you corrected politely.  “No need for formalities, seriously.”

“Angel?”  He says, feeling bold.  “For your looks or your attitude?”

You only huffed, shaking your head in an amused manner.  “Depends on how well this goes over.”

“Aye.  Call me Soap.”

“How’d you get tacked with that?”

“Long story,” he replied, though it really isn’t.  “Wouldn’t mind telling ye over a coupla drinks, though.”

At that, you laughed, deciding to humor the younger sargeant.  “I might have to take you guys up on that offer, Sarg.”

Soap decided he liked you.

When Ghost reappeared a few minutes after you busied yourself rounding up other soldiers; he was pretty sure that opinion isn’t unanimous.  The lieutenant paid close attention to Price for only a few minutes before his eyes were back on you again, off at the very other end of the room.  His grip on his pack was white-knuckle tight.

Soap could probably count the number of times he’s seen Simon this uneasy on one hand.  But this?  This was different.  There was something else there; something that made his eyes dilate.  Something nervous.  He remembers scoffing at Ghost the first time he noticed his lieutenant’s lingering eyes, jabbing his side with an elbow.  Giving him the benefit of the doubt, he kept his skeptically lighthearted.

“Pretty one, ain’t she?”  He teased.  “Name’s Angel. ‘Invited us all out for drinks after the debrief; seems like another close friend o’ Gaz and the Captain.”

Still, Ghost’s gaze didn’t leave your face.  Dark eyes unreadable through the skull mask and day-old eye black.  He grumbled indifferently, dropping his pack with the others.

“Won’t be there,” he muttered.

Soap gave him a look, confused.  “Why not?”

He didn’t reply.  Confused, Soap lowered his voice, leaning in to speak over Ghost’s shoulder.  

“L.t.,”  he said, low and serious.  “You know ‘er?”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, still locked on where you stood across the large room—escorting a handful of your batalian out somewhere.  Ghost isn’t tense in the way he gets around enemies, and if he had a problem with working with you the team would’ve heard about it before the flight.  Yet, still, he stares.  Uneasy for a reason Soap can’t read.

Soap realizes his Lieutenant might actually be shocked to see you: a stranger—as far as he knows.

Then, Ghost turns and walks off to follow Price.  That strange, foreign look in his eyes disappears as he grunts; “mind your own, Johnny.”

Knowing better than to pry, he does just that.  He figures, if anything, he might get some answers out of Ghost after everything is said and done—if he’s still alive.

Soap is pried from his memories as the helo lands and everyone scrambles for their gear.  Gaz taps his shoulder and he jumps to his feet, hooking his pack over a finger and hauling it over his shoulder as Price barks orders. 

“Search the area, keep your guard up.  We don’t know what's out there—what’s got ‘em staying quiet.”  Price is tired; voice raspy and hoarse from one two many nights awake, a few too many cigars—the way it always is when missions go tits-up.  “You see anything out of the ordinary, report it immediately.”

“Copy!”

Just as Soap goes to step out behind Gaz, Price’s hand taps his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“You stay,”  he says, patting his vest.  “Watch Laswell’s six.”

Soap blinks, heart dropping to his feet.  “what?”

“You can’t shoot with that arm, Sergeant.  Stay and keep watch.”

Soap’s heart beats hard in his chest.  Just the thought of leaving Ghost out there, leaving him abandoned again in this godforsaken country leaves a sour feeling in his mouth.

“Simon could be dead out there and you want me to stay?”  He growls lowly to his Captain before he can stop himself.

Price sighs in that way he does when Gaz questions his orders.  Understanding the frustration, but also needing the cooperation with so much to worry about,  He squeezes Soap’s shoulder.  Jaded eyes are sincere and tired under his hat.

“We’ll get ‘em back, Soap,”  he says.  “Stay.  Here.”

Soap bites his tongue, only watching as the others step out and disappear into the billowing underbrush and pouring rain.  First Price, then Gaz—who sends an apologetic look Soap’s way as he jumps down into the grass.  The fire of anxiety in Soap’s chest only coils tighter now that he can’t find you or the Lieutenant himself, stuck inside the helo as backup because of his arm.

“Fuckin’ bullshite,” he growls to no one in particular as he ducks back inside.