#konigbabe

Beeping reverberates through the metal, menacing red light flashing in regular intervals. Rough fingers enclose her wrist, tugging upwards with startling force. The material of the gloves is rough and unforgiving, scratching her delicate skin as someone keeps their firm grip on her.

Everything feels slow as the hand around her wrist lets go soon afterward, accompanied by a gruff voice commanding her to move. To take the jump.

Freefalling, her eyes fixate on the burning ball of fire above her, a gentle breeze kissing the exposed flesh of hers. The force of gravity pulls her downward, stealing the air from her lungs.

One last breath.

It all becomes blurry.

Numbness follows the utter chaos.

The chill of the night air wraps around her body like an icy embrace, the sky slowly darkening under the canopy of trees above. Before she can drift back into a peaceful slumber, a voice calls to her, and the calmness is quickly replaced by a dull ache that grows until it feels like a thousand needles pricking her chest, her back. Everywhere. A firm hand presses against her collarbones, intensifying the pain that radiates throughout her entire being.

A low, raspy croak leaves her lips as her eyes peel open to the world of confusion and ambiguity that surrounds her. A dark figure looms above her, crouching down just barely enough for her trembling hand to shoot out in a desperate attempt to grab it; but before her fingers can touch the silhouette, a cold grasp wraps around her wrist, halting her motion in its tracks.

It takes a moment for her eyes to focus on the person before her, and then the reality of the situation sets in. The rough fabric of his glove glides over her cheek. The sudden glare of the light is almost too much to bear, and then with a gentle smack, his palm connects with her cheek, awakening her sense.

A ringing echoes in her ears as she hears the murmurs of the people around her.

“What the fuck,” she utters, quiet and confused.

Eyes focused on the man before her, recognition hits her the moment his face turns back to her. The sergeant from the chopper. The one that wasn’t supposed to be there. Keegan, they called him. The Ghost, some mentioned.

“Can you walk, kid?”

His eyes, topaz blue and so clear that it seems like the ocean's depths are reflecting back at her, a hue that seems to have been plucked right from the clearest of summer skies; it takes her by surprise how close he actually is now that she’s fully conscious.

Clenching her hands tightly, she wiggles her toes. Feeling the tightness in her muscles, she pulls her knees up. With a deep breath, she sits up, and with a determined voice, she answers with a firm, "I think so."

Keegan's eyes survey her intently; quick examination, seems to pass as he stands up with his arm extended toward her.

Taking it, he supports her weight momentarily. The voices grow louder, torch lights shedding light all around. Foreign, that much can she deciphers; Spanish, she figures soon enough, listening to the shouting.

Look for potential survivors! Hostiles in the area! Bring them to the compound! They all blend together into one big mush but that one word sticks out—hostil; hostile. Enemy forces.

“We need to go,” Keegan's gruff voice interrupts the incoming voices. Securing the sniper file on his shoulder, he stands tall next to her. His shoulder slightly pushes against hers, sending her forward. Pain shoots up her whole body as if she’s just been punched in the stomach by a battering ram. Hand laying flat against the flimsy material of her torn jacket, the dull ache intensifies with the pressure.

The night air feels still and oppressive as if it is waiting for the next move.

One last glance at the unsuspecting soldiers and she follows in Keegan’s footsteps, unsure what to do next.

The frigid air bites at her uncovered digits, each icy bite sending a jolt of pain through her sensitive skin as she vigorously rubs them together in a feeble effort to warm up. The snow melts in her shoes, boots clearly not designed for cold weather. It reaches her knees almost. Hopping in Keegan’s footsteps, who is seemingly unfazed by the bitter cold, she feels like a rabbit scurrying to keep up.

“We need to find some shelter,” the sergeant speaks, back toward her. The broad expanse of his shoulders shields her from the front, providing relief from the frosty breeze coming his way.

Looking at her almost frost-bitten fingers, she tucks them back underneath the jacket as she mumbles, “No shit.”

Keegan’s head turns to the side, the darkness of his mask almost imperceptible against the snowflakes that seemed to dance in harmony with the skull pattern, the beanie protecting the rest of his head as only the black-painted eyes shine through, piercing through the night.

“What was that?”

“Yes, sir,” her voice grows more determined and resolute despite its quavering tremor; lips too numb from the cold, making it hard to form words.

“Keegan,” she thinks it’s only in her head as huh leaves her mouth in a cloud of vapor.

“Call me Keegan, forget the formalities,” he repeats.

Leaning against the tall, sturdy cedar tree, her skin is met with a harsh, rough texture. Pain spreads through her body like liquid, back burning as she lets the cool air soothe the lasting ache.

It takes her a few quick strides to catch up with Keegan, the sound of the snow crunching beneath her feet as she goes. Even though the coldness of the air prickles against her skin, Keegan strides forward with a confident gait, seemingly unaffected by the wintry chill.

“Where are we going anyway?” her curiousness seeps through her.

The soldier doesn’t respond; long strides distancing himself from her form before stopping by snow-covered bushes. A hiss escapes her lips as she steps on a jagged rock hidden beneath the icy layer of the ground, the pain jolting through her body and awakening the frozen cells of her soles.

Keegan's head snaps around, his gaze fixed in her direction, and even though his expression is indiscernible underneath the mask, she can feel the intensity of his eyes as they look through her.

“You sure you’re alright, kid?” his voice remains stern despite the almost touching question.

“Yeah,” is all she can muster; trying to push aside the throbbing pain in her leg. A few steps forward and she stands just a foot from him, eyes drawn to the sniper rifle slung across his shoulder.

“Good,” he nods, reaching for the thigh holster, “then have this.”

With that, a handgun appears in his gloved hand. Its black, sleek design both beautiful and ominous; the irony of such a breathtaking thing being able to take a life with a simple flick of a finger.

His arm remains extended, his eyes boring into hers; the dark, charcoal paint smeared by the melted snow.

“I don’t do shooting,” she declines his offer, hands by her sides.

He stays stoic for a moment as if processing her words, “her’re military.”

Nodding, hands moving to her pant pockets, she agrees with him, “yeah—but I’m recon.”

An audible sigh leaves his lips, mask stretching to accommodate the open-mouth movement. Keegan looks at her momentarily before securing the handgun back into its place.

“Why are you giving it to me now anyway,” she asks.

“There,” he crouches down, an audible crack follows as his knee bend, and nods somewhere in front of him where she can’t see, “we need shelter, there’s a snowstorm coming.”

“Didn’t pin you as a weatherman,” she mumbles.

Following in his footsteps, she takes his side; a small cottage-like structure stands multiple feet from her hidden figures. It’s small, looks barely the size of one room, light hardly making it through the miniature windows decorating the side facing her. A man masked in white camouflage and a black vest stands outside, a cigarette between his lips, rifle by his side.

“Is that a guardhouse?”

“Safehouse,” Keegan lies down, almost hidden beneath the bushes; the black material of his uniform gets slowly covered by the incoming snow. With his rifle in hand, he aims it through the scope as he scans the surroundings.

The man, guard, stands facing her direction; if it was daytime, he’d surely see her, black amongst the white, now cloaked in darkness. Keegan shifts, bringing a small, torch-like device out, and handing it to her.

A laser.

“With all due respect,” she starts, fingers wrapped around the device already, “what do you expect me to do? Go in blind and catch a bullet?”

The man looks at her momentarily, eyes dancing across her face, boring into hers for a second before he answers, nuisance evident in his voice, “didn’t you say you’re recon?”

A simple yeah leaves her lips in a wisp of smoke.

“Then go mark my targets,” he bites back, irritation seeking into his otherwise calm, stoic tone.

It’s almost impossible for her to feel the hard material of the laser with how frozen her fingers are. Putting the device into a pocket, she wiggles her arms, blood warming up the cold limbs slowly.

“What’re you doin’?” Keegan’s voice stops her movement for a second.

Stepping to follow the tree line, she look back at him, “warmin’ up a bit, I’m freezing.”

He looks at her in disbelief, “move your ass, kid.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t dressed appropriately for chopper take down and snow patrol, sarge—my boots are wetter than the Pacific Ocean, it’s creepin’ up my legs, can’t feel my fingers but she still wants me to go into a lion’s den alone, unarmed—”

“Do you ever shut up?” Keegan stops her, adjusting his leg to lie more comfortably as he looks at her.

“In certain circumstances; yes, I do,” she reassures the masked sniper, moving further along the tree line, blending in the shadows but still within his reach.

That’s when she hears him talk again, “you weren’t that talkative out there.”

Turning toward him one last time, she responds with “I was frozen,” before making her way toward the safe house. The guard is barely visible as snow begins to fall heavier than earlier, his camo doing its job perfectly in hiding the man from her naked eyes.

Taking a deep breath, the familiar feeling of adrenaline floods her veins, fingertips tingling with excitement as she nears the building, heartbeat picking up.

A small transom window decorates the side of the house. Slight light shines through the glass; shadows move inside as she nears it, carefully avoiding the outside guard. One hand at a time, fingers hooked over the frame, a pain-filled groan seeps through her clenched teeth—the stretch of skin feeling as if she is torn apart.

She could swear she’s heard a rip when her legs tangle in the air momentarily. Letting go, she lands softly, expertly on the soft snow. A shadow is cast on the edge of the safe house, the guard coming around. Swiftly moving to the wall, hand groping her side, a wet sticky texture clings to her exposed flesh.

Fuck—

The guard’s footstep echo near her; breath hitching, her form freezes.

Thud.

The white of his mask turns burgundy red. Chestnut hair sticking to his face, glassy eyes mirroring the same color stare at her. His empty body screams death, murder—Keegan.

She moves back, careful not to step on the body that lies in the way, taking his transmitter in the process as she makes her way toward another window, this time much lower, easier to access compared to the last one.

Single room, three men; big, burly, she’d call them intimidating in the past, now they don’t scare her that much (and it’s not because she has a sniper on her six). Lightly armed, rifles recklessly laying in the far corner of the room.

Turning to face the direction of Keegan, she points the laser at the ground and presses the button three times. The transmitter in her hand crackles, a stream of Spanish echoing through. her gaze shifts to the window as she sees one of the men talking through it, calling for his comrade.

Putting the transmitter on the ground, heart pounding in anticipation as she prepares herself.

Quick run toward the door, she hides behind the near wall the very same moment the handle starts going down. He steps out, the warm air colliding with the freezing cold outside, creating a mild mist behind his back. Slow deep breaths fill her lungs, she swears that if he decided to look just a little bit more to the right, his eyes would stare straight at her silhouette.

After searching the dark, eerie environment illuminated only by the faint light emanating from the building, he reaches for the transmitter—only to stop midway as he hears a faint crackling in the snow to his left. A confused What…? gets mumbled beneath the white mask.

Laser on, she aims it at the back of his head, careful not to raise suspicion among the guards, and turn it off when he reaches the end of the wall.

The moment his broad figure reaches the end of the front of the building, his back towards Keegan, he falls. Head first, she sees his back disappearing behind the safe house. Laser in her hand, she puts it on twice again and slams the opened door shut with tremendous force, the wood around the frame quivering from the impact.

Both guards exit the building right away. Backs toward her hidden figure, the laser flickers from one to another. Keegan doesn’t waste any more time; bodies drop on sight, vivid splashes of crimson red staining their white uniforms.

His figure looming from the shadows, he comes towards her position; strides confident, rifle loosely hanging on his shoulder, the sniper’s eyes scan the environment once more while she stands by the door, between the two bodies.

“Good shots,” she says, her voice a reverent murmur of admiration as she grips the lifeless body of the smallest soldier tightly. Keegan’s hands wrap around the other guy’s arms, dragging the body behind the safe house, a sinister trail of red left behind a stark contrast to the peaceful winter landscape around her.

The bodies pile up; the smell of death is pervasive, and she can almost taste the metallic tang of the spilled blood in the winter air.

Stepping into the safehouse, its warmth immediately welcomes her in its embrace. Slight relief washes over her, finally able to feel the blood circulating in her system.

“By the way,” Keegan steps inside, layers of white camo in his hands, “you should work more on your pull-ups. That was straight-up embarrassing, kid.”

The comforting scent of cedar permeates the room, a welcome respite from the actual situation she’s found herself in—even when knowing that this safehouse isn’t that safe for her; just a fleeting safety until the snowstorm passes.

He’s been quiet ever since their last conversation;

The crackling of wood fills the room as Keegan moves around, his movements lithe and graceful with her offering a small helping hand.

“Clothes off,” he commands.

“If you want to see me naked that much, you can just say it,” chuckling, she manages to silence the moan clawing at her throat as the adrenaline wears off—a dull ache returning to haunt her bruised flesh, stinging pain on her back.

Keegan notices.

Of course he does.

She has a feeling he’s known for some time but now he looks almost fed up with her escapades. Striding towards her with determination, he stands in front of her in a flash. Hands firmly on her jacket, he meets no resistance, unzipping the jacket and gripping her shirt, pulling the material up—her struggle useless against the mass of the muscle.

“It’s not internal,” she twists away from him, but with a firm grip, he holds her still. Gloves long gone, Keegan’s fingers trace the most visible bruising, and each touch sends jolts of pain through her entire body. She can feel the heat of his hands, and the cold of her skin; it's a strange sensation, one that feels both uncomfortable and oddly comforting.

The cuts don’t escape his attention either.

“You’re not a medic,” he disregards her attempts to reason, examining the drying blood.

“Neither an idiot, Keegan,” she basically growls back at him, snatching his hand off of her, “if it was internal, I’d already be on the ground, in pain…or dead.”

He glares at her, unwavering.

The shirt still bundled around her ribcage, he speaks again, “turn around.”

And she does just that without as much as a bite back.

It’s somehow consoling, the way he takes care of her; even if they’ve known each other for less than a day.

The warmth of his fingers returns to her skin, feathery touches kissing the painful flesh, following the curve of her spine—bottom to top, top to bottom, then along the sides.

It stings, sometimes. Light jabs, like needles, sending jolts through her skin.

“I think I fell on a rock or something solid,” her eyes follow the dancing flames of the small bonfire Keegan managed to set up to warm their bodies. Turning her head to the side, she can see his eyes glazing over her exposed, naked back; focused, concentrated as she feels his fingertips glaze over each cut deliberately.

The bonfire casts flickering shadows over his masked face, marigold flames blending with the topaz color like a sunset over the horizon.

“It’s from the tree branches you fell through. Looks worse than it is,” Keegan says in a low voice, his hand slowly moving away from her back, “still needs some cleaning though.”

Walking toward an old, rusty box hidden by the wall, the man turns his head to look at her, “take the shirt off.”

“Y’know,” she starts, fidgeting with the bloodied material between her fingers, “I don’t usually take my clothes off for someone whose face I’m yet to see.”

Keegan simply stands there, expressionless; a sigh leaves her lips, silent incoherent Whatever as she gives up with his staring, simply following the order given to her by the sergeant.

His hands move with cunning adroitness, slowly cleaning the cuts and scratches. The pain slowly ebbs away, replaced by the cool feel of water poured over the irritated skin; drying the wounds with her now ruined shirt, she sits on the table, his body at a perfect height to match hers, making it easy for him to help her; the tension of her muscles subduing away with each gentle touch.

“Where are the others,” she asks into the silence of the room, the outside snowstorm creating a white noise that encases the building like a cocoon, “The rest of my team?”

“KIA.”

Seems like history’s repeating itself.

Hissing at the sharp pain in her shoulder, she attempts to wriggle away—only for her escape to be halted by his hand on her shoulder; the length of his slender fingers lingering over her exposed collarbone, barely grazing the top of her bra; yet he doesn't seem to realize the intimate position of his hand placement and she doesn't attempt to do anything about it, finding it rather strangely comforting, despite the vulnerability that comes with it.

“Do you ever take the mask off?”

“No.”

“Not even in the shower?” she persists, lips curling into a teasing smile, “are you ugly underneath that? Nah—doubt that.”

“You talk too much,” he brushes her off, hand leaving her collarbone; and suddenly, the room feels too cool, chilly as she sits on the table, shirtless, with her back toward the Ghost; vulnerable. Turning around, knees bend over the edge, legs hanging loosely, she watches Keegan throwing the used material in the bonfire—no evidence of her presence to be ever found once they’re gone.

A realization hits her as she gazes upon the man, now clothed in the garments of hostiles, as his own now lies burned in the bonfire’s pit. “Are you okay?” she asks, tone laced with slight concern over her companion.

Keegan looks at her; a second passes and she could swear he looks slightly taken aback by the sincere question but soon enough, he nods with a simple “yeah”.

Weapons spread on the table before him, the same one she occupied an hour ago, her eyes follow the movement of his fingers; slender and punctilious—an almost poetic grace, carefully and precisely placing each piece in its rightful place. Like a master of his craft, Keegan quietly prepares the weaponry; the bonfire between them casting a nearly enigmatic aura onto his figure.

The soldier's cargo pants hang low on her hips, staying in place only with the help of the belt. It's a much more comfortable and warmer feeling than her old snow-soaked uniform and blood-stained uniform. The snowstorm has finally died down as well.

Tugging one gun in her thigh holster, she puts on the black thick vest, taking it off moments later.

It’s too big; made for a man.

“I don’t think that’ll help me blend in,” she mentions while going through the plan again — find a compound, get in, get a car, get out — Keegan thought of every detail as he’s told her the plan before; his sense of precision showing up as he spoke—slow and clear, ensuring both of them are on the same page.

The sergeant looks up at her drowning in the uniform, his stare lingers for a moment; then he goes back to finishing his handy work, preparing for the mission.

“Just wear it, they won’t question it.”

“I have boobs; I think they will notice I’m not a man,” she replies, a hint of defiance in her voice.

Her remarks don’t go unnoticed.

His eyes bore into hers, gaze unflattering before moving down, unbothered, right at her chest, deep in thought, “no, they won’t.”

Mouth hanging open in silent resentment, the Ghost goes to secure a thigh holster on himself firmly, putting a loaded handgun in.

“If you get shot I’m not saving you.”