#endlessghoap

Soap ducks behind the counter, propping up his camera to take a video of the super. The bastard is trying to break into the vault, his powers certainly fit for the job as he slices through the metal as if it's made of butter.

He hopes that is going to distract the fucker long enough for him to take a few photos and run away. If his camera doesn't get destroyed like last time, this might be his best work yet!

A loud crashing sound makes Soap flinch, the camera shaking a bit before he stabilises it. The super clearly hears it as well, turning around with a grunt and burning a wiggly line into the walls. Daft cunt doesn't know when to turn off his steamin' powers, it seems.

Soap can't figure out where that noise came from, and neither does the super, because he goes back to staring at the vault a few moments later.

A movement to his left catches his eye, and Soap watches the shadows near the entrance of the bank shift.

Slowly, he switches the camera's focus to the area, lens following the darkness twist and churn, a shape within it bubbling and becoming bigger. Like the fin of a shark in an ocean, it swims straight towards the super, whose unaware a predator is stalking him.

There's a foreboding sense of fear taking over him, an instinct telling him to run. Soap fights against it, and against the tremble taking over his hands. He's never seen powers like these.

The shadow shape reaches the super, who has just managed to get through the vault with a victorious laugh. The shape disappears under the super, and as he takes a step over the molten metal…

A lance of pure darkness stabs right through him. The super gurgles, clutching at his chest, eyes burning a smoking point at the shadow, but it shifts once more. Appearing out of it, is a giant of a man, clad in black. Soap doesn't realise it for a full minute, as the swing was so fast, but the shadow-controlling man slices the super's throat cleanly, ceasing his whimpering in a flash.

As the shadowy figure turns, Soap recognises him at last.

The Ghost. Named for his elusive nature, the fact he can appear and disappear at will, and for his mask.

A grotesque skull stares at him, or more accurately at his camera, and before Soap can protest it, a shadow made solid spears right through his very expensive equipment.

His curses fall on dead ears, because Ghost leaves as quickly as he arrived, taking with him the oppressive darkness that fell on the bank, and Soap's chances at getting a fucking promotion.

"I'm tellin' ye, I really saw him!" Soap pouts, leaning back against the uncomfortable office chair.

Price laughs, tapping his cigarette over the lip of the ashtray on the table, its light reflecting in the nameplate that reads "Editor-In-Chief".

"I'm sure you did, lad. He also had a full conversation with you, told you his full name and address, and gave you his number." He says, waving the smoke towards the open window. "Look, I appreciate your persistence, Soap, but some people aren't cut out for that type of work."

"Yer saying I'm not good enough to investigate crime??"

His boss scratches at his beard, sighing, "you're fine, Soap. Just maybe… Not the right type of journalist." Sensing his souring mood, Price waves him away, "but enough about that, you need to focus on your current job. There's this new café I need you to review for next week's paper…"

Roast & Toast is certainly the place the readers of "Manchester Mail" would enjoy. By that, Soap means the place looks like the kind you'd see in stock photos, brightly lit, cheery environment, that doesn't leave any kind of impression on the mind.

He'd need to taste the coffee to write anything good for the paper, because right now there's little to remark on. At least, until he sees the worker manning the till.

Steaming Jesus, does he not fit in this quaint little place at all. Tall, built like a fridge on steroids, and from what he can see of his masked face, absolutely not trying for the friendly smile most food service workers are taught to wear.

He notices the tail ends of silvery scars peaking out of his black mask and dirty blond hair, completing an intimidating image.

The bloke looks as if he'd rather be anywhere else but here, and Soap almost pities him, but as he's the only worker he can spot, he'll have to be his unsuspecting "victim".

"Hello!" Soap greets, and the man's dark glare lands on him, brows furrowing even more before smoothing out. A quick scan of his name tag tells Soap his name is Simon. "I'm writing a piece on this café for the Manchester Mail, I was wondering if-"

"Not giving away free coffee, sir." Simon grunts, cutting him off.

Soap blinks, "what? No, I just wanted to know-"

"Pick something from the menu or leave. We're not interested in free promotion for whatever tabloid you run."

Fucking hell, this guy is not made for this kind of job. Feeling's mutual, he supposes.

Relenting, Soap picks the first coffee he can recognise off the menu, and Simon silently gets to work, brewing up a simple espresso. His muscles nearly bulge out of the uniform he's wearing, and Soap would ask about his workout routine if he thought he'd get an answer.

After a few moments, his coffee is handed to him with a mutter, "that'll be 2 pounds."

Soap hands him his card, and once the transaction is complete, checks there's no one else in line. Luckily they're past the morning rush, so the place is quite empty.

"Thank ye! I also wanted to ask ye a few questions, if you don't mind."

Simon turns his back to Soap, cleaning the coffee machine, "I do mind."

Ignoring his prickly demeanour, Soap barrels on, "what's your thoughts on working here in Roast & Toast? Anything good, bad?" When he receives no response, Soap sighs, "look, my boss really wants me to write a review on this place, but it's the most generic coffee shop I've ever stepped into, and I've seen most in the area."

Simon's eyes fleet to look at him for a moment, "that's your title then, 'most generic coffee shop in Manchester'?"

"Unless ye can change my mind." He puts on an air of haughtiness, smiling when it gets him a huff, "what, ye don't have any rumours to tell me, nothing weird about the owners?"

"Nothing. Well…" Simon crosses his arms, and Jesus are they big, "pretty sure the old lady that owns the place has ties to some gang."

Soap's eyes widen, "yer joking."

"Dead serious. Think her grandson is some hotshot in one of them, half of the "friends" he brings show up on the news a week later."

A laugh bubbles out of him, Simon's deadpan tone making it all the more absurd, "I can't-" He temps down his chuckling, "there's no way Price will accept my article if I add that!"

"His loss." Simon hums, "you don't seem like the type to be interested in reviewing coffee, anyway."

Soap takes a sip of the coffee, which is unsurprisingly also painfully average, "I'm not. Didn't go into journalism to help people decide where they'll get their next breakfast. I want to make an actual change, uncover the injustice in this city."

"Tall order if I've ever heard one, plenty of crime to go around here."

"Aye, but that's why it's important! Ye said it yerself, gangs can just pop into any place they want, do whatever they want, and not be stopped!"

Simon leans against the counter, gaze drifting to the entrance as a group of students comes in, "you're quite the bleeding heart, aren't you?" he says with a sarcastic tone, but Soap gets the feeling he doesn't mean to offend him, "right, get the fuck out of here then, I got work to do."

With another chuckle, Soap takes his cup, waving to Simon, "thanks for the chat, even if you didn't give me much to work with!"

Right as he's about to leave, he turns to call to Simon, "name's Soap, by the way!"

He catches Simon muttering, "who the hell calls themselves Soap…" before Roast & Toast's front door close shut.

Price isn't too pleased with the final draft Soap submits of the review of Roast & Toast, but has agreed that it'll likely suffice for their demographic of older middle-to-upper class ladies with a lot of free time to spend in an inoffensive café.

What's odd is that Soap also found himself returning to the café, not for the "atmosphere" or whatever shite he wrote in the article, but for Simon. His harsh attitude to everyone has captivated him, what can he say.

Soap spends a few minutes every morning with him, mostly exchanging insults (Simon's preferred way to tell him goodbye is "get the fuck out of here", truly a sweetheart) and it's a better way to start his day than moping about his boring job.

Despite what Price had told him, he hasn't given up on getting promoted to write on supers and criminal activity. Hence his presence here, speaking with a frantic lady.

"Ma'am, yer alright now, please calm down-"

"Calm down?! That psycho could come back!" A frazzled blonde woman in her mid-40s nearly yells in his ear.

Soap internally sighs, figuring that the woman will not cooperate with him, "can you explain to me what happened? All I heard was a scream."

The woman huffs, fixing her ponytail, "I was going about my business in my back yard, when this tornado of a man comes in and knocks me flat on my bottoms! I look over and I see him, running off with some bag!"

Sounds like a wind-manipulating super, he read that there are a few in the gangs around Manchester… "Do ye know what he had in the bag? And which direction he went?"

"Probably some drugs or guns, you know what these punks usually have. And he went that way, but why do you need-"

"Thank you, that's all I need! Go back inside, I'm sure the police will be here soon!" Soap takes off running, knowing the police will take around 20 minutes at best to respond to her call. She screams something that is lost to the wind rushing past his ears, and he refocuses on finding the super.

From the woman's description, he doesn't think this is a high ranking gang member of any sort, but he might be able to lead Soap to someone else.

As he runs through the grimy alleys, he can't help but think of Ghost. Now that's a super whose image is worth more than gold - the amount of records on the man number in the single digits, the only solid proof he exists is eye witness accounts and the destruction he leaves behind.

Soap skids to a stop as he hears a hushed voice talking, and peaks around the corner.

"No, I didn't let her see the goods! Of course- I don't know, cops don't really come to this neighbourhood, no?" The super appears to be talking to someone on the phone, probably their boss, "No, no, please-! I-I'll bring everything, just- Today, yes, today! Just don't add that to my ma's debt, please-"

Whoever was on the call with them hangs up, and the super shoves it back into his pocket with a frustrated growl, "fuck…"

He's obviously young, his voice and face tell Soap he's no older than 20. Probably got into bad waters with the various drug dealing gangs, his family finding themselves unable to pay mounting debt.

Exactly the type of story Soap wants to shed light on. Not to get this young man imprisoned, he's clearly not the one holding power in this situation, but to make sure no one falls into the same pit he did. But to do that, he needs information on who called him.

The super looks up, searching for a quicker way out of the alleyway, and Soap sneaks closer. If he could maybe nick the kid's phone, he'd be able to-

Shadows shift on the ground beneath his feet, a feeling that makes shivers run up his spine. It can't be, there's no way he's that lucky…

But there's no other super that can materialise a hand out of darkness, and tackle the young super like that. The kid shouts, probably having the scare of his life, and Ghost looms over him, his hand firmly grasping the backpack.

Soap grapples his camera, pressing the record button with shaky hands.

The super shoots forward to take it back, but Ghost shoves at him roughly, and he hits the wall with a pained grunt. "Wait-! You can't just bloody steal that, fuckin' bastard!"

Ghost ignores him, ripping the zipper of the bag open, and a few blocks of some sort of powder fall out. It's not hard to guess what they contain.

Soap barely suppresses a gasp when Ghost drops it, and the shadows in the alley darken.

Is he going to do what he did to that super in the bank? But- This kid doesn't deserve that, he's obviously being threatened!

He comes out of his hiding place shouting, Ghost's chilling mask turning to gaze at him, "stop! Don't kill him!"

Ghost tilts his head, the young super groaning on the ground. Soap fumbles around his words, "uh… Please?"

With a flick of the head, dark lances shoot out of the shadows, and Soap yells, but…

All they do is crush the powder blocks into nothing.

"Thought I told you to stop with that shit, Jamie." Ghost says, and fuck, his voice is deeper than he expected.

The super, Jamie, cries out, "you don't get to tell me what to do! I don't- I don't need your bloody help!"

"Clearly." Ghost murmurs, "who is it this time? I need names."

Jamie's eyes fleet to Soap, "you really gonna do this in front of this fuckin' guy??"

"If I need to."

"…Carter. He's not leavin' my ma alone, I had to do something-"

"He won't bother you anymore. Should've taken care of him a while ago anyway." Ghost rolls his neck, and picks up Jamie like he weighs nothing, "go home to your mum."

"… Fine." Jamie gives Soap one last look, and uses his powers to scale the wall, leaving him alone with Ghost.

The shadows flicker around Ghost as he exhales roughly. Soap might be mistaken, hard to tell with the mask on, but Ghost looks genuinely upset that he caught Jamie, again by what he said. It comes at odds with everything else he knows on the super, the swift but brutal death he gave the bank robber the first time he saw him.

He wasn't nice about it, but it's clear Ghost cares for Jamie, in a way a policeman likely wouldn't have.

Unfortunately, that same care doesn't apply to Soap, and with a few steps Ghost pushes him against the wall, agitated shadows surrounding them. He barely has enough time to gasp before a glove-clad hand grasps at the front of his hoodie, a skull mask leaning down to growl at him.

"How much of that did you see?"

Soap swallows thickly, "everything?"

Darkness envelopes them both, sunlight nearly blotted out by Ghost's shadows, "and how much of that did your camera catch?"

"Oh for the love of- Ye better not destroy my camera again! Do you know how much that costs?!" Soap blurts out without thinking. He regrets it a moment later, when he sees that by Ghost's eyes, the only part of his face visible, he's not very impressed.

"I mean- Ye don't have to destroy the whole thing, I can just give you the SD card…"

Ghost's fist tightens, "and that will delete all the data you got?"

"everything I got today, aye."

They stare at each other, Soap praying to whoever would listen to save his poor camera from Ghost. His pleads are answered when Ghost's hold on him relaxes, and he motions with his head to the camera. "If you try to trick me, I'm crushing it."

"I'm not daft enough to try that…" Soap grumbles, quickly ejecting the SD card from his precious camera. He hands it over to Ghost, who throws it to the ground and lets his shadows grind it to dust.

Soap slumps against the wall, tentatively saying, "I, um… I'm just gonna leave ye be, then-"

"One more thing." Ghost stops his escape, "stop fuckin' following me. Won't end well."

And with that, he melts away. Soap stays put for while, trying to put together what happened right now with what they know about Ghost.

With so little pieces, he has little chance of figuring out the full picture yet. But that never stopped Soap, no.

It just makes him want to know more.

Chapter 2 - Ghost

Soap is proving to be a problem.

Not that Ghost doesn't have any others - every day mounts new issues, new responsibilities. But unlike most of his problems, he doesn't know how to go about fixing it.

He didn't think much of him the first time he saw him, trying to get footage of a super robbing a bank. Labelled him an idiot, adrenaline junky. A quick look and his damn camera was reduced to scraps, can't have him spreading around videos of him, and that was that.

At least, that's what Ghost thought until the same bastard walks into the café he works in as a civilian, flashing bright smiles and brighter laughs. He was furious, thinking the fucker is on him, but as they continued talking it was obvious Ghost was simply very, very unlucky.

Soap kept coming back. Chatted with him every morning, before taking his mediocre coffee off to work. The journalist is charming, he has to admit, and somehow despite his best efforts to chase him away, keeps coming back.

It means that, when he inadvertently meets him again as Ghost, he's inclined to listen to what he has to say. That, and the fact he decided to reveal himself to protect Jamie.

That was a waking up call for Ghost, the fact he bothered letting the man keep his camera, talked with him in the first place. He doesn't do that, doesn't give a shit about anyone that isn't in need of his help. And that's when Soap was promoted from "minor annoyance" to "problem".

He then decided to look into the man, know what exactly he's dealing with. After combing through the journalists working at Manchester Mail, he finds those same troublesome blue eyes staring at him, Soap's face shining with a smile at the camera. Under it is a short biography, noting he studied at the University of Glasgow, before moving to England.

Above it was the name of his newest problem - John MacTavish.

Ghost shakes his head, sighing to himself. He needs to focus on his current problem, which luckily he knows exactly how to solve.

Robert Carter.

Carter is the definition of a shithead - he's the leader of a drug-dealing gang in the southern neighbourhoods of Manchester. Ghost has killed off his predecessor about a year ago, when the police didn't do anything to stop his reign of terror, but like a hydra, cutting off one head just allows two more to pop up.

Unlike his predecessor, Carter isn't as cunning, and likes to flaunt his money far too much for a man that deals with illegal substances and forces teenagers to do his bidding. Ghost held off on killing him outright because of that, figuring he's better than the alternatives, but he's starting to cross the line.

So he decides to pay him a visit.

He finds the bastard in his own home, smoking some expensive looking cigars. Cigars that, from what Ghost knows, he shouldn't be able to afford, with how poorly he manages his business. In fact, the more he observes the room, he finds signs that Carter has recently stumbled upon some wealth, with new car keys laid on the table, a few bottles of aged whisky that costs over half a year's worth of Ghost's rent, and some caviar just expiring on the kitchen counter.

While it's true Ghost has a lot of people of interest to keep track of, for Carter's business to boom like this… Either he's been hard at work selling drugs at a rate yet to be seen in Manchester, or…

He's got a new client.

Ghost leaves Carter to smoke his cigar, for now, deciding to comb through his office before tackling that shithead. It's an unorganised mess, and he nearly gives up on finding anything among the clearly fabricated receipts, until he sees a name he doesn't recognise.

"Lone Star", a generous soul who apparently donated several thousands of pounds to Carter over the past few weeks, for his definitely real construction business.

Ghost tucks the document into one of his pockets, mind churning. He has noticed an uptick in criminal activity around the same time these "donations" have started, and he has a feeling this Lone Star might be a contributing factor.

Question is who is he, and what interest does he have in the gangs of Manchester…

He'll have to investigate it further at another point in time, for now, he has a man to remove from the equation.

There's something beautiful in seeing men that think they're at the top of the world squeal like pigs as Ghost materialises out of thin air. Carter stumbles off his chair, landing his arse right on the floor with a heavy thud. After cursing for a few seconds, he gets his wits about him to pull out the knife he had on his belt.

The puny weapon makes Ghost nearly chuckle, and with a nod of the head a shadowy spike slices Carter's hand, making him scream and drop the knife.

"Wait-! I'll give you anything you want, j-just don't- Don't kill me!"

Good to see Carter is smart enough to be afraid. Ghost leans down, catching Carter's throat with a rough hand. The man squirms, tries to get his uninjured hand under his, but Ghost only tightens his hold.

"I'm feeling gracious today, Robert, so I'll give you two options." Carter nods, his face white as a sheet, "one, you let Jamie and his mum's debt go, and you don't bother them again. Two, you die."

Carter instantly yells, "t-the first option! I'll let them go, I-I won't even talk to them!"

Ghost hums, letting the man drop. Carter whimpers pathetically, nursing his wounded hand. "Good. Oh, tell me - Who's Lone Star."

At the name, Carter's eyes go wide, and he starts shaking his head in jerky motions. "I- I can't tell you, he'll- He'll kill me!"

"That so?" Ghost hums.

"Yes! He's- I can't tell you, please-"

"Enough." Ghost rises to his feet, "I see you are useless, as you've always been. Enjoy your friendship with this Lone Star. It won't last."

He walks towards the window he came through, Carter's cries the only sound in the apartment. He gets a foot on the window seel before turning, "oh, and one more thing…"

a dozen lances come out of the shadows, piercing Carter's pitiful body. As blood pours out of his mouth, his eyes rolling back into his skull, limbs twitching uncontrollably, clinging to the few seconds that remain of his miserable life, the last thing he gets to hear is:

"if you thought I'd ever give you the privilege of a choice, you're wrong."

Several nights into searching for this elusive Lone Star, Ghost is reluctantly beginning to admit this may be over his capabilities. Give him a target, and they'll be dead the next day, but to uncover a mysterious man's identity with only two words to go off of, that's a little harder.

Meanwhile, the more he roams the streets of Manchester, the more he notices this man's influence - the amount of guns he had to destroy would be unheard of a few weeks back, and the gangs are daring to operate out in the open as if no one can stop them.

Ghost takes care of as many as he can, but it leaves him with little time to spend on Lone Star, not to mention he still needs to be at Roast & Toast most mornings.

He's cleaning the coffee some idiot spilled two minutes earlier at the front of the café when Soap comes in for the day.

"Simon, my favourite barista! How are ye doin' this fine day?" How does anyone have that much energy at 07:00, is the real question.

"Bad." He answers, wringing the rag he's been using into the bucket beside him. "What's so fine about this day anyway?"

Soap chuckles softly, leaning against the counter, "well, I can't tell you just yet, but I have a new lead!"

"A lead." Ghost picks up the bucket and mop, carrying them to the back, and Soap follows him as far as he's allowed to.

"Aye! If I manage to catch it, I might finally be able to get a promotion!"

Soap having any kind of lead to chase is bad news, he fears. The bastard seems to always stick his nose far too close to Ghost's business.

"Congratulations." He grunts, "you gonna order anything?"

"Yes, the regular, please!" Soap slaps 2 pounds on the table, and Ghost gets to work. His behaviour reminds him of an overeager pup, and the thought makes Ghost snort.

He gives Soap his coffee, "go on and chase that lead then, get the fuck out of 'ere."

Soap gives him a mock salute and a "yessir!" before practically skipping out of the café.

Ghost returns to his station, mind mulling over the conversation. If Soap is out and about searching for crime, it's certainly possible he has noticed the difference in the streets. If he's looking into it, if his lead is related to Lone Star…

No, there's no chance Ghost is going to willingly work with Soap out of all people. He drags a hand over his tired eyes, massaging his eyelids until colours pop over the darkness.

He won't work with Soap, but there is one person he could ask about his mystery man.

"Heard you offed Carter." Garrick mutters around a cigarette, hands crossed over his chest.

Ghost stays in the shadows, eyes narrowing at the small light at the end of the cigarette, "nobody will miss him."

Gaz exhales, smoke curling around his face, "that's for certain. Though I do have a feeling he's related to what you need me for."

He doesn't need anyone, he nearly growls. But Gaz already knows that, he just likes poking at Ghost, probably because he knows he's allowed.

If he wasn't so useful as a domestic SAS operator, Ghost would've left this conversation a long time ago.

"Carter was receiving donations from someone. Does "Lone Star" sound familiar to you?"

The expression Garrick makes tells him enough, "half of the brass doesn't believe he's real, fucker drops money and guns everywhere we look and leaves no trace behind him."

Great, so even the SAS is stumped. "Anything outside of Manchester?"

"Not yet. My theory is he's testing it on a small scale, and we're just unlucky to be the first. No idea what he's gaining from it, beside making us run around like headless chickens."

Some people like watching the world burn, but realistically, Gaz is right in that Lone Star must have some motive. Panic can be useful to some, if you want to divert attention from other happenings, or frame yourself as the saviour, the solution.

"Any politicians that could be behind this?"

Gaz scoffs, giving him a side-eye, "first thing we checked, mate. We found nothing, unless it's not a high-ranking official, and then it would be pointless anyway." He shifts, taking a half step towards Ghost, "look, I know you don't like working with the police, but we both will benefit from it, in this situation. We both want to take Lone Star down."

This is why he likes Garrick. He doesn't try to appeal to any morality to manipulate Ghost, doesn't posture and say it's his duty as a citizen of the UK to help the SAS.

He knows exactly what Ghost cares about, and that's the people of this city suffering under the hand of corruption and injustice.

"I'll keep you updated if I find anything," Ghost says, "I'm not talking with anyone else beside you, though. Don't need to deal with fuckers with sticks shoved up their arses."

Garrick snorts, "if only I could say the same… I'll tell you if we find anything as well, as much as I'll be able to."

Ghost rolls his eyes, "red tape can protect criminals too."

Gaz's face darkens, his gaze drifting to the ground, "if the SAS can't be trusted anymore, we can't trust anyone."

"Now you're catching on," Ghost murmurs, straightening, "cheers, Garrick. You know how to call me."

He hears Gaz hum in response, before melting back into shadows.

Ghost lets himself drift in the darkness, his form existing nowhere and everywhere. His mind spreads as equally wide, memories from both yesterday and 20 years ago floating about.

He thinks of the scrawny little boy that was terrified of the dark, who never felt safety in his own home. Of the boy's brother, that tried to be different than their father, how much did he try, but never succeeded. How drugs pulled him down a dark path, from which he never returned.

How the little boy found himself part of that which he feared most, powerful for the first time in his life, and how it didn't matter.

It didn't save his brother. It didn't save his mother. And of his father, there was nothing worth saving.

His thoughts glide over the gravestones of his family, among them the essence of the little boy, and they find… Blue eyes.

Why they find those eyes, he doesn't know. Their owner became part of his life, embedded in his memories.

Ghost wants to find him annoying, hate his cheery demeanour and prying camera. The truth is, no one in Ghost's life smiles when they first see him. No one greets him, wishes him a good day.

He feels stupid for finding comfort in that. Falling for the most base instinct of the human kind, craving connection.

Feels like a fool for wanting more.

Ghost drags himself out of the shadows, gasping. He grunts, gripping at the wall behind him.

From afar, he hears gunshots, and he pretends it erases all his previous thoughts.

In reality, as he rushes to its source, they stay and tempt him to yearn.