“Being a member of the Ghosts wasn’t normal. It’s a far from that or a luxury, and everyone knows it. Their life would forever be haunted by the deaths they caused and witnessed. And if you don’t want to do one thing, it’s fuck with the Ghosts. Rorke did that.

But you're not focused on that, no one is. It’s if you were a little sooner, he’d be alive still… he’s dead. He’s fucking dead because you were slow and-

Calm down…”

«<June 7, 2027. Fort Santa Monica, Los Angeles, California, USA. 8:20 p.m.>

The ride back was silent. Not out of discipline—out of grief.

Keegan hadn’t said a word since they pulled Ajax’s body out from under that blood-stained floor. No one had the heart to press him. Not Merrick. Not even Hesh, whose temper usually burned hot enough to light the dark.

The safehouse door shut behind them with a dull clang, and the team dispersed like smoke. Logan dropped into a corner, helmet in hands. Hesh paced like a caged animal.

Keegan didn’t move.

Still in his gear, dried blood on his gloves, his eyes locked on nothing. His shoulders were set, jaw tense—but his eyes… they were hollow.

Merrick finally spoke. “We did what we could.”

Keegan blinked, slowly. “Did we?” His voice cracked, low and hoarse like it hadn’t been used in days.

Hesh stopped pacing. “Rorke did this,” he growled. “We’re gonna bury that son of a—”

Keegan snapped up. “And that’s gonna bring him back?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut. Sharper than any knife.

Hesh flinched, caught off-guard. Logan looked between them silently.

Keegan stood now, not quite steady. He pulled something from his vest pocket—Ajax’s dog tags, bloodied and bent.

“I was supposed to have his back,” he whispered, more to himself. “We’ve been through three hellholes together. This wasn’t supposed to be his end.”

Merrick stepped forward, calm but firm. “This isn’t on you.”

Keegan shook his head; eyes fixed on the metal in his hand.

Silence fell.

Riley padded into the room, sat at Keegan’s feet, and whined—soft, almost like a mourning cry.

Keegan crouched beside the dog, hand resting on the fur between Riley’s ears. “You knew, didn’t you, bud…”

He finally pulled off his gloves and set them on the table. The tags went on top, laid carefully like something sacred. Keegan didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But his silence screamed louder than anything else in that room.

Hesh looked like he wanted to break something. Maybe everything, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white beneath the grime and cuts.

“No fucking ceremony,” he muttered under his breath.

Logan looked up. “What?”

“I said no fucking ceremony. No medals. No folded flag sent home to a family that doesn’t even know what we are. They’ll just call it ‘classified’ and move on.”

Merrick didn't argue. He just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. He was always composed, always in control—but even he couldn’t hide the tired sag in his shoulders this time.

“We’ll do it ourselves,” he said. “Tonight.”

[AJAX'S BURIAL - REMOTE RIDGE, NIGHTFALL]

The safehouse backed into an overgrown ridge, far from any Federation eyes. Merrick had the team move out under darkness—no lights, no chatter, just shovels and quiet boots crunching over frost-dirt.

They buried him beneath an old tree, half-dead and twisted by years of wind and war. It felt fitting. Ajax had always liked places with character.

No priest. No flag. No salutes.

Just the Ghosts. And the wind.

Keegan stood over the shallow grave with his arms crossed, head down. Merrick stepped forward and knelt, setting Ajax’s tags atop the dirt.

“He died on mission. He died hard. And he died a Ghost.”

That was it.

No speeches. No drawn-out honors.

Just truth.

[BACK AT THE SAFEHOUSE - LATER THAT NIGHT]

The team sat scattered around the dimly lit room, silent.

Keegan was cleaning his rifle, but slower than usual. Every now and then, his hand would pause on the bolt, grip just a little tighter than it needed to be.

Logan was hunched over his own gear, but his eyes weren’t focused. Just going through the motions.

Hesh finally broke the quiet. “You think Rorke watched it?”

No one answered.

He kicked the edge of a crate. “He wanted us to find him. Wanted us to see what he did.”

Keegan didn’t look up. “He got what he wanted.”

Hesh’s voice cracked. “Then let’s give him what he doesn’t want.”

Merrick leaned forward from the shadows. “We will.”

He pulled a small, weathered journal from his pack. Flipped to a page. A single name, etched in pen so hard the page was slightly torn: Gabriel Rorke.

He handed the book to Keegan.

“You get first shot.”

Keegan stared at the page for a moment. Then nodded.

[JUST BEFORE THE DAWN]

Keegan stood alone near the burial site, staring out at the empty ridge. The first light of dawn hadn’t yet touched the horizon. He lit a cigarette, something he hadn’t done in years.

“You dumb bastard,” he whispered, a rough laugh breaking through his grief. “You always said I’d be the first one to go. Guess I owe you a beer when I see you again.”

He took one long drag, then crushed the cigarette out in the dirt.

This war wasn’t over. Not even close.

But for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just fighting to survive.

Now—they were fighting for Ajax.

[A longer memory/aftermath sequence] Featuring: Keegan P. Russ & Alex “Ajax” V. Johnson

[FLASHBACK – OPERATION: SAND VIPER]

Location: U.S. military makeshift camps in Tel Aviv, Israel Time: 2006, 1934 hrs

Keegan pressed his back against the half-collapsed stone wall, M4 hot in his grip. His forearms were slick with sweat beneath the sleeves of his desert cammies, dust clinging to every crevice of skin and gear.

“Contact, three o’clock. You see it?” he asked into the comms.

“No eyes—give me a sec.”

Thwack! A bullet slammed into the wall just inches from Keegan’s face, sending a spray of stone chips across his cheek.

“Yep,” Ajax’s voice crackled back, followed by the clatter of return fire. “Got him. That guy had an awful haircut anyway.”

Keegan rolled his eyes. “This mission was supposed to be recon, not a damn shooting gallery.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the jackasses lighting us up like it's the Fourth of July.”

The two Marines regrouped behind a battered Humvee, wind kicking sand across the bullet-pocked surface. Ajax was bleeding slightly at the eyebrow, nothing serious—but enough to sting. He wiped it and grinned.

“This op's cursed, man.”

“Beginning to think we’re cursed,” Keegan muttered.

“Not cursed,” Ajax said, popping a fresh mag into his rifle. “Just too stubborn to die.”

They pushed forward again, side by side, like they always had. Clearing alleyways. Sweeping low homes. It was brutal urban warfare, hot and close, nothing like the clean fantasy training simulations back at Pendleton.

[LATER THAT NIGHT – TEMPORARY FORWARD CAMP]

The air had cooled, but barely. Their squad was digging in for the night, and Keegan sat outside his makeshift tent, cleaning his weapon.

Ajax approached with two MREs. He tossed one at Keegan.

“Got us the good stuff.”

“Chili Mac?”

“Hell yeah.” Ajax flopped down beside him. “Told the new guy I’d trade him my gun cleaning kit for it. He actually believed me.”

Keegan cracked a small smirk. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m your ass.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Then Ajax looked up at the dark sky, stars barely visible through the orange haze of distant fires.

“You think any of this’ll matter in ten years?”

Keegan looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this—boots in the sand, blood on our hands. You think history’ll even remember Sand Viper? Or us?”

Keegan was quiet for a moment. “I’ll remember. That’s enough.”

Ajax chuckled. “You gonna write my memoirs?”

“Only the embarrassing chapters.”

[PRESENT – SAFEHOUSE, FORT SANTA MONICA, HOURS AFTER “STRUCK DOWN”]

The lights hum. Night has fallen. Silence drapes the room like a burial flag.

Keegan sat at a table in the corner. His gloves were off. His gear lay stripped piece by piece, as if he could surgically remove the grief.

In his hand, a weathered photograph: at base in the sunset. The one Ajax always carried. His thumb ran over the crumpled edge.

He hadn’t spoken since they’d brought Ajax’s body back. He’d washed the blood off his friend himself—his best friend—meticulously, as if trying to undo what had been done. But no medic’s hands, no Ghost’s skill, could bring him back.

“You were right,” Keegan finally whispered to the photo. “You were too stubborn to die.”

He swallowed hard.

“So why’d you go and prove me wrong?”

There was no answer. Just the hum of the lights and the muted footsteps of the others in the next room.

Keegan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Memories flickered behind his eyes—chili mac, dry jokes, firefights in foreign sand.

“I’ll remember,” he said again, this time to no one.

[POST AJAX'S DEATH AFTERMATH]

The steel door to the briefing room creaked open as Keegan stepped in. He was already geared up—vest fastened tight, sidearm holstered, rifle slung. His helmet rested under one arm. The others weren’t even fully dressed yet.

Merrick, standing at the holographic table, raised an eyebrow. “You’re early.”

“Need a favor,” Keegan said without ceremony. His voice was level, clipped, colder than usual.

Logan glanced up from his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. Hesh, sipping black coffee, paused mid-sip.

“I want point on the next op.”

Merrick’s gaze narrowed. “That’s not how we do things.”

Keegan stepped forward, the hollow of his boots echoing on concrete. “I wasn’t asking.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

Hesh leaned back, arms crossed. “You thinking with your head right now, or your heart?”

Keegan turned to him, expression unreadable behind his balaclava. “I’m thinking with what's left.”

Merrick exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly. “You want front. Fine. But you stick to protocol. You go solo, you die solo.”

“Understood.”

The tone in his voice said otherwise.

[LATER – ARMORY, 0632 Hours]

Keegan moved with precision. Each weapon he checked, each mag he loaded, was part of a ritual. Controlled. Methodical. He wasn’t just prepping for war—he was purging everything that made him hesitate.

He picked up Ajax’s old breaching shotgun, still scratched from Sand Viper. The armorer gave him a look.

“You sure?”

Keegan’s answer was simple. “He’d want it used.”

He strapped it to his back.

[SCENE TRANSITION – NIGHT, MISSION ZONE: COASTAL FEDERATION OUTPOST]

Rain pelted the ruins as the Ghosts breached a Federation blacksite. Keegan took point, silent as a shadow, efficient as death.

He moved fast. Too fast.

“Keeg—slow down,” Hesh hissed through the comms. “You’re blowing spacing.”

“Then keep up,” came the icy reply.

Merrick’s voice cut in. “Focus, all of you.”

They advanced room by room, but Keegan’s intensity was unnerving. He wanted an encounter. He was hunting, not patrolling.

And when they cornered a Federation officer—one with intel on Rorke—Keegan had his knife at the man’s throat before anyone could stop him.

“Where is he?” Keegan growled.

The officer stammered something in Spanish.

Keegan didn’t wait. Crack!—the butt of his rifle broke the man’s nose. Blood sprayed the wall.

“Keegan!” Merrick barked. “Stand down!”

But Keegan didn’t move. His eyes were locked, his voice like steel. “You tell me where Rorke is, or I swear to God, you’ll wish Ajax killed you.”

The room froze. Even the soldiers stopped breathing.

End Scene Cliffhanger Possibility:

The intel officer gives a name. A city. A date. Keegan steps back, drops the knife. His hands shake—but not from fear. From restraint.

Merrick walks up beside him. “You want him that bad?” Keegan doesn’t look up. “I don’t want him. I need him.”