ghost who never escaped roba being captured and interrogated by the 141
cw allusions to torture, past noncon, expected (but no actual) noncon
they mostly just ask him questions which amuses and annoys him in equal measure; he isn't some boy who's never been tortured before, if they think investing this much time on the buildup will make him afraid of the pain, they're wasting their time and his. he won't break from a little anticipation
the annoyance is starting to outweigh the amusement when a few days pass and still all they do is talk at him. they don't even threaten him, not really; warning him about the timeline for a deal creeping closer, the window where they can guarantee certain things closing, it means shit to him. what deal could he possibly make? he's a ghost. he has nothing. he wants nothing
he learned that a long time ago
he thinks his insults have finally reached the captain when he lets out a long breath and asks one of the men over his shoulder to bring in someone called soap, pulling out a camera from inside his jacket
there's only so many reasons a man could earn a name like soap
honesty: his work is clean and thorough
irony: his work is filthy and thorough
it won't be the first time a man has forced ghost onto his back in an attempt to break him
the man who walks in isn't quite what he expects; he isn't cold and removed, good at his job through pure lack of emotion, not judging by the way he holds the door for the men to leave. he doesn't carry the air of sadistic pleasure he's used to seeing in roba's halls either, doesn't tremble with poorly withheld anticipation, eyeing ghost like a piece of meat he can't wait to bleed
the red eye of the camera is a familiar witness. ghost breathes and waits
"it doesn't have to go this way," βsoapβ starts, and there's a tone in his voice that could almost be regret
a good actor, this one. or maybe he's the type to pretend he doesn't want it, that he's being forced, that ghost made him do it; he was too pretty, he couldn't help himself
no one could say he was too pretty now
"i want work with you, i really do," he continues, approaching the table, and ghost flexes his wrists in a tight circle. "you aren't like the others, i can tell. i'm good at reading people like that."
"are you?" he replies flatly, can't help himself, and hates the way his voice comes out curved with a mexican accent in the wake of once familiar british voices. just another thing about him that's been taken; that's been perverted
"you haven't been sayin' the sun shines out of roba's arse since you got here," he shrugs. "haven't been beggin' us to let you go back to 'im. haven't been beggin' us to kill you, either. seems to be the most common reactions. you've been real chill."
"and what does that tell you?" he asks, his eye roll clear and apparent; a gift to the camera
"you don't give a shite βbout him," soap answers, cocking a hip against the table. "but you still don't want to help us. why?"
"i thought you could read people," he drawls
"i can," he says easily. "s'why i want to know; do you not care what happens to you? or do you just think it's hopeless?"
ghost consciously keeps his jaw loose, keeps his teeth from clenching. this one is an interrogator. a good one
"let's just get started," he spits, smooth and unaffected
soap lets out a sigh and dips his head in an almost dejected nod. "okay."
he pushes off the table to a laptop waiting on a short bench, typing out a short command before coming back to the table, rounding it to stand behind ghost he wonders if the camera is tilted high enough to catch soap's face, if he likes to see himself when he watches these videos back, if he's the type to pretend it's someone else
the faux reluctance makes him think it's the latter
"it doesn't have to be like this," soap repeats, like the warning is just that; a chance to change his mind and not a reminder that he has no choice
"get it over with," ghost grunts, staring straight ahead at the camera. he won't give the bastard the pleasure of his fear, now or in the future
soap sighs again. "so be it."
fingers curl in the top of his mask and ghost braces himself; for the yank, for the shove, for the drag over the table. instead, another hand fits under the hemline, helping the cruelly slow pull of his mask up over his head, not so much as a strand of hair catching in his fist
ghost swallows the wince, swallows the fight; doesn't want the camera to see how desperately he wants to lunge up and catch his mask with his teeth and drag it back on. he's been waiting for this, he has
that doesn't make his face being bared hurt any less
that hand comes back to fist in his hair, the other coming under his chin, the gentle touch making his skin crawl, and together they force his head up to face the camera head on, no shadows left to obscure him. ghost doesn't fight it, glaring down the lens, as soap holds him for a few moments before letting go
he sucks his tongue hard to the roof of his mouth in lieu of gritting his teeth and keeps his eyes flat and empty. he hears soap play with the mask behind, the shifting of fabric as he turns it over in his hands. maybe he'll put it on, make it look like ghost is doing this to himself
he needs to work harder; ghost's been through that before too
but when soap steps out from behind him, his mask is still in his hand, his chin scar and warhawk still free to the stale air. he doesn't look back at him as he crosses back over to the laptop, setting his mask beside it and typing out another command before just... waiting. his eyes never lift from the screen, never look back at him
ghost was wrong. he thought this was gonna end up as a home video, prerecorded and coveted. lives are harder
he clenches his fists, tied to the arms of the chair and hidden by the camera, flexes them and clenches them again. how many people are already seeing his face? committing the scars cutting through his skin to memory, hands already wrapped around their cocks, envisioning how they were made?
they were quick to resort to this for their solution. so much for their precious "deal"
soap pushes away from the laptop and ghost will die before admitting his next breath comes out slightly shaky. he can endure. he has before, he can again. there is no life outside roba. there is no escape
"i told you i didn't want to do it this way," soap says again
but he doesn't come back behind him. doesn't card those sadistically gentle hands back through his hair or pet them over his skin; a vicarious touch for all the bastards watching them to live through. he crosses back to the camera, blocking it from ghost's view
and when he steps away, the red voyeuristic light is gone
soap drops into the seat the captain vacated and leans back, taking up space that suddenly seems so much smaller without the dark web broadening it
ghost stares at him and knows he isn't hiding his confusion well enough, isn't smothering the mixed relief and dread at the camera being turned off
"so, tell me- simon riley," soap says and it's almost apologetic as ghost's heart seizes in his chest, "what kind of man are you? apathetic? or hopeless?"
