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the reaper | part iv

as far back as human memory can recall, the origin of flower marks remains unknown. if perhaps they came during or after the birth of humanity, or are benevolent gifts from the gods to aid ones navigation in life— milestones to remember and learn from, a north point on a compass lest you stray from your path. regardless, they have always been. and while flower marks remain an important aspect of ones journey, there is none other more significant than the soul flower mark. wherein the moment someone is born, this mark blooms above ones heart, as it is considered a pure reflection of who that person is and will be.

part i / part ii / part iii / part iv / part v

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

the freezing siberian cold, a bullet still lodged in her person, and now indirect orders to head into enemy fire for the relief of evac on the other side, with the (useless) konni soldiers 7 minutes out from their location.

ugh

the reaper had dealt with a lot worse with a whole lot less, however, that didn't mean she couldn't feel annoyed at the hard deviation her handler so graciously handed her—

silence.

the shooting had stopped.

perfect.

they must be spreading out to try and search for her, now that their prisoner had finally bled out. in their eyes, capturing the shooter would be the next best thing for a failed op. as much as she’d find it amusing to tango with the notorious taskforce, the reaper was no fool; her energy reserves were running low already with blood loss.

taskforce 141 and their close associates were no average soldiers. not just a bunch of meatheads from the dossiers she’d memorised of each operative, each lethal in their own respects. and then there was commander farah karim, a far more resolute and clever individual her enemies failed to give her credit for. but alas, war is war. and the reaper knew she was capable of handling any of them.

as if sensing what was to come next, the now absent burning of a new rhododendron returned. albeit as a warm thrumming sensation; no new flowers to add, rather it was in anticipation of how it earned its place on flora’s skin. or as her teachers liked to call them, “reassurances” that this is what she was born to do.

time to move—

combat suit partially blending into the stark whiteness of the snow, save for the deep crimson staining the lower half of her suit. the reaper opted to handle one of her well-used karambit blades, the handles’ ring fitted reassuringly around her pointer finger, the steel blade reflecting the blinding white surroundings; a weapon superior in close combat.

stealthily creeping through the increasingly denser landscape of trees, the reaper kept a crouched position, as the the unforgiving wind whistled through the trees and over her (tired) body. the reapers steady breathes filtered out in faint white puffs through the hard cover of her face mask.

another step—

and then the reaper was but a handful of feet away from the commander herself, comically paralleled crouches. both of their heads snapping to one another at the same time, the commander also seemingly sharing her wild disbelief from the widening of her dark eyes. only for them to steel over and swivel her guns’ aim at the reaper, yelling into her mic—

"!!—ON ME! HOSTILE IS—"

now that wouldn’t do~

the reaper immediately ducked out of the commanders range of fire as she took a shot that flew by the reapers shoulder.

close—

the commanders brows scrunching in determination—

not close enough though—

the reaper using the downward momentum of her dodge to sweep the commanders legs right from under her; abruptly landing flat on her back in a flurry of snow, a grunt escaping the commanders clenched teeth as her gun now laid a little more than an arms length away. only for the reaper to continue pushing forwards in a violent thrust, the blade in her hand arcing through the air, aimed towards the commander’s exposed throat—

— only to stop short less than a centimetre away. the woman's gasping breaths the only sound ringing in the otherwise frigid air.

plumes of lilies of the valley trickled from the direction of her left collarbone, up towards the underside of her jaw. a lifetime of pain and suffering, so much of it—

just like little flora.

"... you're not the target."

passed the reaper's usually still lips, the mask deepening her usually soft voice. but the meaning of her words were still understood if the confused and disbelieving expression of the commander’s face were anything to go by.

as if sensing the change, the reaper felt her own tapestry of pain thrum louder over the now hushed state of the rhododendrons.

... she does not deserve any more pain

no longer moving, the reaper was now able to register the renewed pain her injury was screaming at her; that moving too fast and too much out of her already limited range was definitely not optimal.

... but the commander is still a threat

just as quickly as her injury reminded her of her limitations, the reaper flipped the blades handle in one smooth move and butted the end against the commander’s temple; her eyes fluttering shut and the tension of her body immediately disappearing. the reapers eyes drawn back to the overtly familiar flower mark decorating the commanders throat; and then unbeknown to her own reasoning, flora gently covered the commanders exposed throat (flower marks) with her loosely tied neck scarf.

the distant crunching of snow under multiple pairs of heavy boots in multiple directions broke the reaper out of her thoughts, the world snapping back into sharp focus. the taskforce heard the commanders yell through their comms and were closing in on her— the reapers location, and fast—

“Сосед по сбору, вы некоторое время не перемещались со своего места.” (“compound to reaper, you have not moved from your location in some time.”)

the fucking patience—

“преследование вражескими силами, конец.” (“multiple hostiles in close proximity, over.”)

they didn’t need to know the reaper had gotten distracted on the field.

slightly swaying to her feet from her kneeled position, her eyes still locked on the commanders relaxed face, the reaper willed her focus back onto the present; the thrumming of rhododendrons surpassing the lilies’ cries of (familiar) agony—

it was too quiet—

the reaper closing her eyes and inhaling a deep breath of cold air through her concealed nose—

they’re here—

.

*crunch*

—only for the reaper to release the expanse of cold through the hard mask covering her mouth, her body twisting a perfect 180 degrees to face the bearlike form charging at her—no weapons in his hands, with the intent to knock her down to the ground and immobilise the reaper with sheer force. which would have been quite effective, given the reapers current (bleeding out) state, however—

you’re too loud captain—

and by the surprised look on his face as the reapers’ marble-sized smoke bombs connected to the center of his dense tactical vest, he figured it out a second too late as well.

*BANG*

The sharp cracking of the bombs’ shell shattering immediately followed by thick silver plumes of smoke covering the captains entire front and line of sight; momentarily stunning the captain—

until he continued charging forward, albeit with less coordination.

not bad—

a flicker of intrigue passing the reapers mind, as most recipients of the reapers’ petite smoke bombs succumbed to disorientation and coughing fits, thus a perfect opening to strike.

although, captain john price isn’t like many other captains after all…

but just as fast as the intrigue came, it was immediately replaced with the reaper ducking onto the ground to deliver two swift round kicks to the captains jaw, finally collpasing to his knees in a disgruntled mass of surprise and anger:

“what in the bloody hells—“

the reaper securing the glock in her right thigh holster into her hand, intent to eliminate the captain of taskforce 141; good news for her handlers allies if what her eavesdropping of their whining was anything to by.

only failing to move out of the way of the mountainous mass with skeletal features barreling directly towards her. one large hand entirely encompassing the hand holding the glock, roughly rearing it towards the ground, away from serious harm, squeezing it into submission as the reaper felt the delicate bones in her hand and wrist creak in protest—

but the reaper knew better than to drop her weapon - least of all within close proximity of lieutenant simon riley, the infamous ghost.

and by the increasingly livid —and disbelieving— look in his dark eyes, ghost also figured out the reapers (stubborn) resolution.

so the lieutenant grabbed the reaper by her tactical belt with his other hand, lifted until they were almost eye level, and threw her against a tree several feet away. far out of reach of the captain and the commander— the latter being attended to by one of the sergeants..? with another blurred figure running to the ghost and reaper, gun at the ready, the reaper observed from her jilted sight.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“.” (“again.”)

“.” (“weak.”)

“.” (“disappointing.”)

“.” (“doctor, increase the—“)

“.” (“needs to be better—“)

“.” (“the expectations—“)

“.” (“you are nothing—“)

“.” (“the reaper—“)

“.” (“you are the reaper.”)

“.” (“it is your fate.”)

“.” (“no one can love death.”)

“.” (“you’ll never be loved.”)

flora broke.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

they’ve all come out into the open—

a sharp exhale of air escaping the reaper as she roughly landed in a flurry of snow at the base of the tree, the bullet wound yowling in protest. however, a weak pulse from the lilies of the valley at home on her skin whispered that this kind of pain is easy, and that it was not the current objective.

quickly crouching onto one knee, hands loosely curled by her sides, the reaper peered up at the skull masked solider.

“that was a mistake lieutenant.” she murmured softly.

the tensing of the lieutenants shoulders almost impercible at the reapers voice, her words — a grunt of disagreement cutting through the cold air from the armed sergeant with the bright glacial eyes— johnny mctavish… or just “soap”.

“i dun’ think lt makes mistakes—“

the ghosts’ bottomless eyes darkening into bleak anger as the familiar glint of one of his knives makes itself known within the reapers (semi-uncrushed) hand. lifting his gun to aim at her a millisecond too late as the reaper deftly flicked the knife at the sergeant - lodging straight into his thigh.

the scotsman reactively staggering back and releasing the grip on his own gun in pain and surprise. this, combined with the wavering of ghosts own weapon as he lost against the temptation to check on the sergeant, who was now on one knee hissing in pain.

another mistake—

the reaper lunged forward despite the pain blanketing her limbs, grabbing ahold of the lieutenants outstretched hand to use as an anchor to slam her boot behind his knee, quickly followed up by a knee to the face. an outraged growl resounding through the now soaked balaclava and slightly crimson stained skull faceplate.

“you wily little—“

“ghost, move!!”

*crack!*

a split second and then a bullet lodged itself into the frame of the reapers’ tactical goggles. head unwittingly snapping to the right, allowing ghost enough leeway to slam his stained faceplate onto her goggles. sending the reaper sprawling back a few metres, her vision fragmented from the goggles’ now cracked lenses—

*crack!*

— along with the shattered frame digging into one of her cheekbones from the vicious slam of the skull face plate.

how annoying.

the reaper swiftly reorienting themselves into a crouch whilst ripping the goggles off her now bleeding face with aching fingers. the world around them almost blinding them with the brightness of the snow and pale sky.

ah yes, sergeant kyle garrick if i remember correctly…

pretty.

despite the cold anger twisting his features into a snarl, as well as the gun still aimed at the reaper. blood now slowly trickling down their cheek and onto the still secured bottom half of their face mask.

“now put your hands up where i can see them.”

“zhnets, otchet.” (“reaper, report.”)

perfect timing as always.

“don’t make me repeat myself.” sergeant garrick continued.

the reaper acquiesces, ignoring the screaming pain now rippling across their abdomen while slowly raising their hands above their head.

“соединение с жнецом, отчет.” (“compound to reaper, report.”)

a beat as the reaper maintained eye contact with the dark eyed sergeant.

“.. ghost, hows soap?” gaz — the reaper further recalled, asked without breaking eye contact or lowering his gun.

“alive—“ grunted the lieutenant as he was now by the scotsman’s side; in the process of stemming the flow of trickling blood.

“am still conscious y’know, ye coulda asked me—” piped up the scotsman who had a somewhat offended expression, his attention now focused on the reaper with their raised hands— and the patch of blood pooling beneath them.

“—little lass o’er their don’t seem to be lookin’ too good though.”

the smoke now cleared of his system, the captain redirected his attention to the reaper. his calculating gaze minutely taking in her still open wounds with a cock of his head.

… did that idiot soldier just call me short of all things?

it wasn’t the worst thing they had been called. however, the reaper didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended and aim to stab him in the other leg so it could match—

all of a sudden, a flurry of bullets flew from behind the reaper; immediately dropping down on to her front with a pained grunt to crawl to cover and away from the taskforce now also huddling behind cover of their own.

“Отряды 5 и 6 вышли на связь с вашей позицией, жнец. oтчет о состоянии, сейчас.” (“units 5 and 6 have made contact with your position, reaper. status report, now.”)

took them long enough.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

tric’s notes

sorry it ended a bit abruptly, but it started to get a bit? too long. but also hello! im backk (dw this series is not discontinued)

this chapter focuses more on the meeting rather than the flower aspect so much. the meeting can be summarised as: first= price getting his ass handed to him, and then second= the rest of the lads (except gaz bc he smort) getting fucking decked. we love a strong woman in this house yehaw

feedback and comments always appreciated ♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username)

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