Hi!! My name is Skunkyrii, and I've been writing since I was in elementary/middle school. I've never actually posted my work bf so I'm nervous but I'm lowk tired of having my work sitting and collecting dust.
I'm currently really into COD MW and Gachiakuta, but I'll mostly be writing about COD rn. Will I make it to writing abt Gachiakuta? Idk. If you send me an ask with a plot, I'd be more than willing to write it.
I won't write anything NSFW because I don't want to have to limit the age of my blog to others. I don't intend to write any Xreader fanfics just because I'm not the biggest fan of writing them. If I get an ask, I'll prolly indulge it and do my best, but there's no promise it'll be any good.
I'd be more than willing to answer any asks, and I'll get to them ASAP but I am attending school for history and anthropology so sometimes it might take a hot minute.
ONTO THE MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST
CALL OF DUTY
CLASSIFIED
CHAPTER ONE: CLASSIFIED
CHAPTER TWO: PATTERNS
CHAPTER THREE: AUTHORITY
CHAPTER FOUR: NEAR MISS
CHAPTER FIVE: THE REMAINING FILES
CHAPTER SIX: PROFESSIONAL DISTANCE
CHAPTER SEVEN: PRESSURE POINTS
CHAPTER EIGHT: PRESUMED
CHAPTER NINE: UNMASKED
CHAPTER TEN: RETAINED
THE COST OF LOYALTY
CHAPTER ONE: THE ORDER
CHAPTER TWO: THE CHOICE
CHAPTER THREE: FALLOUT
CHAPTER FOUR: COMMAND
CHAPTER FIVE: THE WEIGHT OF IT
ONESHOTS
SNOWBOUND (Roachgaz)
VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL (Poly141)
THE HUNGER GAMES/CALL OF DUTY (TF-141)
EIGHTEEN HOURS (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick)
DEATH (141 Angst)
LOVE (Simon Riley)
LATE NIGHT IN THE COMMON ROOM (TF-141)
NIGHMARES (TF-141)
The kind of silence that came after an exhausting mission, when everyone had finally collapsed into sleep because their bodies demanded it.
Outside, the wind brushed faintly against the building.
Inside, the room was dark except for a thin strip of moonlight slipping through the window.
Most of the team slept without moving.
Simon Riley did not.
His breath came sharp and uneven, fingers tightening into the blanket like he was holding onto something that wasn’t there. His body was rigid under the thin sheet, shoulders tense.
A muffled sound slipped out of him—half breath, half protest.
Then he jerked upright.
The movement was sudden enough that the metal bedframe creaked quietly beneath him.
For a moment, Ghost didn’t move.
His chest rose and fell too quickly. The room around him looked unfamiliar in the dark, shadows stretching across the walls in strange shapes.
It took a few seconds for reality to settle back in.
Barracks.
Base.
Safe.
Across the room, another bed shifted.
Soap pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking through the darkness. “Ghost?”
Ghost didn’t answer.
Soap could just barely make out the shape of him sitting on the edge of the bed, head lowered, one hand pressed to the back of his neck.
Soap swung his legs over the side of his bed. “Ghost?”
Still no answer.
Soap rubbed a hand over his face and stood, crossing the room quietly so he doesn’t wake anyone else.
When he got closer, he stopped a few feet away.
Ghost’s shoulders were tight. His breathing had slowed a little, but not by much.
Soap didn’t push.
He just leaned back against the wall beside the bunk. “Bad one?”
Ghost exhales slowly. “...Yeah.”
The word was quiet, rougher than usual.
Soap nodded. He understands. It happens to them all sometimes.
Memories didn’t care if the mission was over.
From the other side of the room came the faint rustle of sheets.
Gaz sits up in his bed, fully awake.
“You two trying to hold a meeting at three in the morning?” he murmured.
Soap glanced back, moving in front of Ghost. “Go back to sleep.”
Gaz ignored him and got up anyway, padding across the room.
When he reached them, he didn’t ask questions. He just sat down on the edge of the empty bunk across from Ghost.
The moonlight hit just enough for them to see each other.
Ghost had both hands braced against his knees, staring at the floor.
Soap shifted his weight off the wall. “Want some water?”
Ghost shook his head.
A few seconds passed in silence.
Then Gaz spoke softly. “Mission stuff?”
Ghost hesitated. “...Not exactly.”
That was enough explanation for them.
Soap rubbed the back of his neck.
None of them needed details. They all carried things from before the military, too.
Gaz leaned his elbows on his knees.
“Breathe,” he said simply.
Ghost gave him an unimpressed look.
Soap smirked slightly, rolling his eyes. “Oh, bloody hell, we got Doctor Garrick over here.”
Gaz didn’t react. “Works though.”
Ghost let out a slow breath.
The tightness in his shoulders started to ease little by little.
Soap glanced toward the door to make sure they hadn’t woken Price. “Imagine the captain catching us having a support group,” he muttered.
Ghost huffed softly.
It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close.
Progress.
Gaz noticed and leaned back slightly. “There we go.”
Eventually, Ghost leaned back against the wall beside his bed, arms folding loosely.
Soap stretched his shoulders.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Crisis handled.”
Gaz stood.
“You’re welcome.”
Soap pointed at him. “You didn’t do anything.”
“I told him to breathe.”
Ghost looked between them. “…Both of you shut up.”
Soap grinned. “That’s more like it.”
Gaz climbed back into his bunk.
Soap lingered a moment longer, making sure Ghost had settled. “Try to sleep, mate,” he said quietly.
Ghost nodded once.
Soap returned to his own bed, pulling the blanket over himself again.
The room slowly went still.
Breathing evened out.
The barracks returned to silence.
But this time, it felt a little less heavy.
Sorry this took so long! Finals are coming up in college and I've run out of ideas on what to write
A fluorescent light buzzed faintly above the common room couch.
Soap has one boot kicked up on the coffee table and a controller in his hands, leaning forward like this is the most important thing to him.
“C’mon, c’mon—aye! There it is!” Soap shouts as digital gunfire rattles through the speakers.
On the other end of the couch, Gaz pinches the bridge of his nose without looking up from the paperwork in his lap.
“Soap,” Gaz said patiently, “it’s one in the morning.”
Soap doesn’t look away from the screen. “And?”
“And some of us have work.”
“You’re doing paperwork voluntarily,” Soap replies. “That’s a personal problem.”
Gaz sighs.
Across the room, Ghost sits at the long table under the buzzing light, completely detached from the chaos. His attention is on the rifle laid out in front of him in careful pieces.
A cloth drags slowly along the barrel as he cleans it.
Soap dies in the game. “Aw, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
The controller hits the couch cushions as Soap leans back dramatically.
Gaz finally looks up. “Good.”
Soap shoots him a glare. “You rootin’ against me now?”
“Always.”
Ghost doesn’t react, but Soap points toward him anyway. “See, Lt? This is the respect I get around here.”
“You were shouting like a wounded seagull,” he says flatly.
Gaz snorts.
Soap stared at him. “A wounded—what kind of insult is that?”
Ghost doesn’t answer.
Soap leans forward again, grabbing the controller, much to Gaz’s dismay. “Right, rematch.”
The door opened.
All three of them looked up like they’re children caught awake at midnight.
Price steps into the room, mug of tea in hand, the faint smell of tobacco following him inside. He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The television blaring.
Soap hunched over the controller.
Gaz surrounded by paperwork.
Ghost calmly cleaning a rifle.
Price sighs.
Soap holds the controller up. “Morale, sir.”
Gaz lifts the stack of forms. “Paperwork.”
Ghost continues setting the rifle back together. “Maintenance.”
Price takes a long sip of tea, studying them like a tired father who really did discover his kids still awake at midnight.
“You lot realize we deploy in two days?”
Soap nodded toward the TV. “Training.”
“You’re playing a game,” Price looks at him blankly.
“Strategic simulation.”
Gaz looks like he’s about to laugh, but tries to hold it in.
Price points at the stack of papers in Gaz’s hands. “And you?”
“Someone has to finish these reports,” Gaz says.
Price’s brow lifted slightly. “At one in the morning?”
Gaz shrugs.
Price finally turns his attention to Ghost.
Ghost had already finished reassembling the rifle and is checking the chamber.
Price watches him for a moment before saying, “At least one of you looks productive.”
Soap gasps dramatically. “Oh, that’s favoritism, that is.”
Gaz waves the stack of files at Price like he missed it the first time.
Ghost ignores them.
Soap leans back on the couch again. “Besides,” he added, “none of us were sleepin’ anyway.”
Gaz didn’t deny it.
That was the thing about coming back from missions. The adrenaline lingered. The quiet felt strange. Sleep doesn’t always come easily.
Price notices the brief silence that follows.
He doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he walks over and sets his mug down on the table.
“Move,” he says to Soap.
Soap blinks. “Sir?”
Price points to the controlled. “Let’s see this strategic simulation you’re so proud of.”
Gaz immediately leans forward, interested.
Soap grins.
“Oh, you’re on now, Cap.”
Ghost stood from the table and moved toward the couch, arms folding loosely across his chest.
Price picks up the second controller.
“Don’t expect mercy.”
Soap cracks his knuckles.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Thirty seconds later—
Soap is yelling.
Gaz is laughing.
Ghost stands behind the couch, watching silently.
And Price, calm as ever, eliminates Soap’s character with ruthless efficiency.
Soap stares at the screen in disbelief. “…sir.”
Price takes another sip of tea. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“You’ve definitely played this before.”
Price doesn’t look up. “Get some sleep, son.”
Soap groans.
Gaz laughs harder.
And for a little while longer, the common room stayed alive with noise instead of silence.
Yeah I'm outta ideas so here's some relaxed 141. Asks are very appreciated :)
Ghost knows not having Price’s trust hits where it hurts the most.
Soap tried to pretend nothing had changed.
He cracked jokes in the transport.
Threw casual elbows during gear checks.
But there was a carefulness to him now — a subtle recalibration.
Like he was watching for hesitation that never came.
Like he wasn’t sure which version of Gaz would show up.
The one who saved civilians.
Or the one who altered missions.
Gaz gave him neither.
Just the soldier.
Price was the most controlled of all.
Briefings were crisp.
Orders were direct.
He did not ask Gaz for input the way he used to.
Didn’t glance his way during tactical pauses.
Didn’t say, “Thoughts?”
That absence hit harder than anger ever could.
Before, Price had relied on him.
Trusted his read on a situation.
Now—
Gaz executed.
And waited.
The reports came in gradually.
Intel fragments.
Intercepted chatter.
Financial movement traced through shell accounts.
The escaped target had gone dark.
But not silent.
“He’s rebuilding,” Ghost said one night in the team room, studying a screen filled with data points.
Soap leaned back in his chair. “Of course he is.”
Gaz stood behind them, arms folded.
He didn’t speak. He rarely spoke anymore.
Because it wasn’t his place to interpret anymore.
Now, he’s nothing but a soldier for Price. A weapon for his Captain.
Price entered quietly.
“What’ve we got?”
Ghost gestured to the display. “Network’s shifting east. Smaller cells. Harder to track.”
Price nodded once.
“Keep pressure.”
His gaze flicked toward Gaz — brief, unreadable — then away.
The tension didn’t explode.
It settled.
Like dust after a collapse that hadn’t happened.
Gaz found himself replaying the balcony less.
Instead, he replayed the van.
The shattering glass.
Ghost’s grunt when the bullet hit.
Soap’s panicked cry he hadn’t registered until after.
If he’d taken the shot—
The building would’ve fallen.
The target would be dead.
Ghost wouldn’t have taken that round.
But neither would the civilians have walked away.
There was no clean version.
Only alternate damage.
One evening, after a long training session, Soap finally said it.
“You’re overcorrecting.”
Gaz wiped sweat from his jaw. “No, I’m not.”
“You don’t argue anymore.”
“That’s the point.”
Soap studied him carefully.
“That’s not you.”
Gaz shrugged lightly. “Doesn’t matter.”
Soap’s voice lowered. “It does.”
Before Gaz could respond, Price entered the range.
Training resumed.
Conversation over.
The call came on a Thursday.
Early.
Too early.
Price answered it in his office.
The door was closed.
The team room was quiet except for the hum of monitors.
Ghost was cleaning his weapon.
Soap was scrolling through overnight intel.
Gaz was reviewing drone footage from a separate op.
The office door opened.
Price stepped out.
His face had gone still.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Still.
“Gear up,” he said.
No one asked why.
They didn’t need to.
Something had shifted.
En route, the briefing was short.
“Coordinated attack in Eastborough district,” Price said over the transport comms. “Improvised devices. Two simultaneous detonations. Civilian market area.”
Gaz’s stomach tightened.
“Casualties?” Soap asked quietly.
“Twenty-three confirmed. More critical.”
The numbers felt familiar.
Twenty to thirty.
Estimated.
“Claim of responsibility?” Ghost asked.
Price paused for half a second.
“Intercepted chatter ties funding to our previous HVT.”
The transport went silent.
Not explosive.
Not accusatory.
Just silent.
Gaz felt something cold spread through his chest.
Soap didn’t look at him.
Ghost didn’t either.
Price continued clinically. “We do not have visual confirmation of his presence. This is a financial and logistical linkage at this stage. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered.
But the implication had already landed.
If he’d taken the shot—
Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe it still would have.
Maybe someone else would’ve filled the vacuum.
There was no proof.
Just connection.
Just possibility.
The aftermath was chaos.
Smoke still curling from shattered storefronts.
Emergency responders moving through debris.
Civilians crying in shock.
Gaz moved through it methodically.
Securing perimeter.
Scanning rooftops.
Clearing alleyways.
Professional.
Controlled.
Inside, something twisted.
A little girl sat on a curb, clutching a torn backpack.
Alive.
Across the street, a stretcher carried someone who wasn’t.
Gaz forced his breathing steady.
No hesitation.
No deviation.
Just execution.
Later, back at base, the casualty list updated.
Twenty-eight.
Soap stared at the screen longer than necessary.
Ghost leaned against the wall, silent.
Price stood at the head of the table.
“No confirmed sighting of the target,” he said. “But the funding trail is consistent.”
No one spoke.
The silence was thick now.
Different from before.
Not accusation.
Not absolution.
Just weight.
Finally, Price looked at Gaz.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Just steady.
“This is what I meant,” he said quietly.
Gaz nodded once.
“Yes, sir.”
Soap shifted in his chair, eyes downcast.
Ghost’s eyes remained unreadable.
The room felt smaller.
Did Gaz make a moral choice?
Yes.
Did that choice carry consequences?
Also yes.
Was this attack solely because he aborted the strike?
No one could say.
But the possibility existed.
And that was enough.
Later that night, Gaz stood alone outside the barracks.
The air was cold.
He closed his eyes.
He could still see the balcony.
The child leaning over the railing.
Alive.
He could also see the market street.
Smoke.
Sirens.
Twenty-eight names scrolling across a screen.
He had saved lives.
He had possibly cost others.
And there was no equation that balanced the two.
Behind him, footsteps approached.
Ghost stopped beside him.
Neither looked at the other.
“Still think it wasn’t worth it?” Ghost asked quietly.
Gaz didn’t answer immediately.
“I think,” he said finally, “there wasn’t a version where no one got hurt.”
Ghost nodded once.
“That’s the job.”
They stood in silence a moment longer.
“Would you take the shot now?” Ghost asked.
Gaz stared out into the dark.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
That was the most honest answer he had.
Ghost didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
Somewhere in the city, people were mourning.
Somewhere else, a man they should have stopped was still moving pieces.
And in the space between those realities, Gaz stood—
The conference room felt smaller than it had any right to.
Metal table. Four chairs. A recorder placed precisely in the center like a quiet threat.
Gaz stood at attention.
Price stood beside him—not sheidling, not touching—just present.
Across the table sat two senior officers from Strategic Command. Their uniforms were immaculate. Their expression were not unkind.
Just detached.
“State your name and rank for the record.”
“Sergeant Kyle Garrick.”
The recorder blinked red.
“You were issued a direct order to neutralize a confirmed high-value target and support an authorized structural strike. Did you comply?”
“No, sir.”
The word didn’t waver.
“Were the orders unclear?”
“No, sir.”
“Were communications compromised?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you misunderstand your captain’s intent?”
“No, sir.”
A slight pause.
“Then explain your deviation.”
Gaz kept his posture steady. “Civilian presence within the blast radius made the strike unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable to whom?”
“To me, sir.”
There it was again. The subtle tightening in the room.
“You substituted your judgment for that of your commanding officer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand that the target escaped as a direct result of your decision?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that Lieutenant Riley sustained a gunshot wound during the ground engagement that followed.”
Gaz’s jaw flexed once. “Yes, sir.”
“Would you characterize your actions as emotional?”
“No, sir.”
“Impulsive?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what?”
Gaz met his gaze evenly.
“Deliberate.”
Silence followed.
One of the officers slowly turned to Price. “Captain, did you authorize Sergeant Garrick to abort strike?”
“No, sir.”
“Were your orders ambiguous?”
“No, sir.”
“Then this is insubordination.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are prepared to retain him in your unit?”
Price didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The officers exchanged a look.
“On what basis?”
Price’s voice was level. Controlled. “Sergeant Garrick acted to prevent civilian casualties in a densely populated structure. He made a procedural violation. Not a malicious one. His intent was preservation of non-combatant life.”
“Intent does not supersede command authority.”
“No, sir.”
“But you are requesting suspension of formal court-martial proceedings?”
“I am.”
“You understand the implications if that target resurfaces.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re willing to attach your command authority to this decision?”
Price’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Yes, sir.”
The air tightened.
The officers studied him for several long seconds.
Finally—
“Very well. Court-martial proceedings are suspended pending operational review. Sergeant Garrick will receive an official reprimand. Any further deviation from direct orders will result in immediate removal and formal charges. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Gaz replied.
The recorder clicked off.
The meeting was over.
But nothing felt resolved.
The corridor outside the conference room was sterile and silent.
Price didn’t speak until they reached his office.
The door shut behind them with a heavy, deliberate sound.
No witnesses.
Price removed his cap slowly and set it on the desk.
“At ease, Gaz.”
Gaz relaxed — but only slightly.
For a long moment, Price just looked at him.
“You embarrassed me in there,” Price said calmly.
It wasn’t anger.
It was fact.
Gaz held his gaze. “Yes, sir.”
“You disobeyed a direct order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You did it knowingly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price stepped closer.
“You made an unauthorized moral decision that altered the mission and endangered your team.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you did it without trusting me to carry that weight with you.”
That landed differently.
Gaz’s throat tightened slightly. “I wasn’t trying to undermine you.”
“I know,” Price replied.
That hurt more.
Price’s voice lowered.
“You think I didn’t see that child?”
“No, sir,” Gaz does his best not to shrink at being called child.
“You think I didn’t calculate that balcony?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why,” Price asked quietly, “did you decide I was wrong?”
Gaz didn’t answer immediately.
Because that wasn’t it.
“I didn’t think you were wrong,” he said carefully. “I thought it was mine to carry.”
Price’s jaw flexed.
“That’s arrogance,” he said.
The word didn’t come sharp.
It came heavy.
“You don’t get to decide what burdens belong to you alone,” Price continued. “Not in this unit.”
Gaz absorbed it.
“I protected you today,” Price said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I put my command on the line.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you will not mistake that for agreement.”
A small, almost imperceptible shift in the air.
“Effective immediately,” Price continued, “you are removed from tactical decision authority.”
The words were clean. Final.
“You will not call shots.”
Gaz’s chest tightened.
“You will not abort strikes.”
His stomach dropped.
“You will not alter mission parameters.”
Each sentence, precise.
“You execute orders. That is all.”
It was worse than paperwork.
Worse than suspension.
It meant:
We don’t trust you to decide.
Gaz forced himself to remain steady. “Understood, sir.”
Price studied him carefully.
“You are one of my best operators,” he said.
The words didn’t soften anything.
“But I cannot have you deciding when the mission bends.”
Gaz nodded once.
“Yes, sir.”
Price stepped closer.
Lowered his voice.
“And understand this clearly, Sergeant.”
Gaz met his eyes.
“If that target resurfaces and civilians die because we lost him—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
It will sit with you.
“I know,” Gaz said quietly.
Price held his gaze for several long seconds.
Something in it had changed.
Not anger.
Not contempt.
Distance.
“I won’t remove you from 141,” Price said.
Relief flickered—small, fragile.
“But I won’t rely on your hesitation again.”
That was the real punishment.
Not demotion.
Not reprimand.
Trust — recalibrated.
Professional, not personal.
“You will earn that back,” Price continued. “Or you won’t.”
Gaz swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
Price stepped away.
“Dismissed.”
Gaz turned for the door.
“Kyle.”
He stopped.
It wasn’t Sergeant.
It wasn’t Garrick.
Just Kyle.
He turned back.
Price’s expression was unreadable.
“You made a choice,” he said quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now you live with it.”
Gaz nodded once.
“Yes, sir.”
He left the office without another word.
The hallway felt longer than before.
Stripped of authority.
Still in the unit.
Still trusted with execution.
But not with judgment.
Soap looked up when he entered the team room.
Ghost remained seated, shoulder freshly bandaged.
“Well?” Soap asked.
Gaz sat down carefully.
“No court-martial.”
Soap exhaled.
“But,” Gaz added.
Ghost’s gaze sharpened.
“I’m not calling shots anymore.”
Silence.
Soap stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
Gaz shook his head once.
Ghost watched him steadily.
“That’ll sting,” Ghost said quietly.
“Yes.”
Soap looked conflicted. Angry. Relieved. Still unsettled.
“That fair?” he asked.
Gaz thought about it.
About the balcony.
About the van disappearing into traffic.
About Price’s eyes in that office.
“Yes,” Gaz said finally.
It didn’t feel like victory.
It felt like a weight.
And somewhere out there, a man they should’ve stopped was still breathing.
The transport was too small for four men and what sat between them.
No one spoke during takeoff.
The rotors drowned out anything that might’ve tried to form anyway. The city shrank beneath them—lights stretching into threads, sirens fading into the distance.
Ghost sat across from Gaz, shoulder bandaged tight beneath dark tactical fabric. Blood had dried along the seam of his vest. He hadn’t complained once.
Soap sat beside him, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tight enough to whiten his knuckles. For once, he has no argument to defend Gaz.
Price stood near the open side door, headset on, staring out into nothing.
Gaz kept his eyes down, trained on his boots splattered with Ghost’s blood.
The building still stood in his mind. The balcony. The kid.
Alive.
Ghost broke the silence first.
“You hesitated,” he said.
It wasn’t an accusation.
It was a statement.
Gaz didn’t pretend not to understand. “Yes.”
Soap lifted his head. “You didn’t just hesitate.”
Gaz met his eyes. “No.”
Soap leaned back, a sharp breath escaping him. “Christ, Gaz.”
Price didn’t turn around, but it was clear he was listening.
Ghost studied him a moment longer. “You had the shot.”
“Yes.”
“Clear enough.”
“Yes.”
“And you chose not to take it.”
“Yes.”
The repetition was clear. No excuses. No deflection.
Soap shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t get to just decide that, mate.”
Gaz’s jaw tightened. “Someone had to.”
Soap’s expression hardened. “We had orders.”
“I know.”
“You think we didn’t see the civilians?” Soap shot back. “You think that doesn’t sit with the rest of us, too?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Gaz held his gaze. “I’m saying I couldn’t pull the trigger.”
The helicopter hummed around them.
Soap let out a humorless laugh. “Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”
That one hit.
Gaz didn’t answer immediately.
Ghost spoke instead, voice even. “There’s a difference.”
Price finally turned. The look on his face was worse than anger. It was restraint.
“You will all keep this contained until debrief,” he said calmly. “Understood.”
Soap inhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes, sir.”
Ghost gave a single nod.
Gaz answered last. “Yes, sir.”
Price’s gaze lingered on him half a second longer than the others.
Then he turned back toward the open air.
Base felt colder.
Fluorescent lights. Clean floors. No screaming civilians. No burning vehicles. Just sterile corridors and the echo of boots.
They didn’t go straight to debrief.
Price diverted them to the team roof first.
The door shut behind them with a heavy click.
No rotors now. No city noise.
Just silence.
Soap was first to break.
“You nearly got him killed.”
Ghost remained standing near the wall, arms folded loosely, posture steady despite the injury.
Gaz answered quietly. “He’s alive.”
“Because he moved first,” Soap snapped, face growing red. “Because he’s Ghost. Not because of you.”
Gaz kept his tone level. “The strike would’ve brought the building down.”
“And it would’ve ended the target,” Soap shot back.
“And the people inside.”
Soap stepped closer, accent growing thicker with each word. “You think that target isn’t going to kill more people now?”
The room tightened.
There it was.
The fracture.
Gaz swallowed once. “Maybe he will,” he agrees softly.
“Maybe?” Soap’s voice cracked upward. “That’s your defense?”
Price entered fully, removing his gloves slowly. Controlled. Methodical.
“That’s enough,” he said.
But Soap wasn’t done. “No, sir, with all due respect, it’s not enough.”
Price didn’t raise his voice. “Stand down, Sergeant.”
Soap looked between them, chest rising and falling hard. “We had him. Six months. Six months of tracking, assets burned, people flipped, intel stitched together piece by piece. And you threw it because you saw a kid on a balcony.”
Gaz’s restraint wavered. “It wasn’t just a kid.”
“That’s the job!” Soap fires back. “We don’t get perfect outcomes!”
“And we don’t get to pretend they don’t matter!” Gaz shot back.
The words echoed louder than intended.
Silence followed.
Ghost finally moved, stepping between them—not aggressively, just enough presence to break the direct line. His bandaged arm is angled toward Gaz, a silent message.
“Volume won’t change what happened,” he said quietly.
Soap exhaled sharply and stepped back.
Price watched them. Then, he looked at Gaz.
“You countermanded an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand that the strike was authorized beyond this unit.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand that I gave that order knowing exactly who was inside.”
Gaz felt that land hard.
“Yes, sir.”
Price took a slow step forward. “Do you believe I don’t weigh those lives?”
Gaz held his gaze. “No, sir.”
“Then why,” Price asked, voice dropping lower, “did you decide your judgment overruled mine?”
There it was. Not just disobedience.
Hierarchy.
Trust.
Gaz’s throat felt tight, but he didn’t look away.
“I didn’t think it overruled yours,” he said carefully. “I thought it was mine to carry.”
Soap scoffed softly, turning away and shaking his head.
Price’s expression didn’t change. “You thought you could absorb the consequences alone?”
“Yes.”
Ghost’s head tilted slightly.
Price studied him for a moment.
“And what of him?” Price asked quietly, nodding toward Ghost. “What of your team?”
Gaz faltered. He hasn’t been able to look Ghost in the eyes since he heard him grunt and clutch his arm, blood seeping through his gloved fingers.
Ghost spoke before he could answer.
“I knew the risk,” Ghost said evenly. “We all did.”
Soap looked at him sharply. “Don’t.”
Ghost continued, eyes on Gaz. “The question isn’t whether civilians matter. They do. The question is whether you get to decide when the mission stops being worth it.”
Gaz met his gaze.
“I decided it wasn’t worth it that way.”
Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not the same as it not being worth it.”
Soap dragged a hand down his face, cursing under his breath. “You gambled, Gaz.”
The word sat heavy.
Gambled.
“With our lives,” Soap added.
“With theirs,” Ghost finished quietly.
Price finally spoke again.
“Is disobedience bravery,” he asked, “or arrogance?”
No one answered.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
Gaz felt the weight of every stare.
“I wasn’t trying to be brave,” he said.
“No, Ghost agreed. “You weren’t.”
Price folded his hands behind his back.
“You made a moral choice,” he said evenly. “But you made it alone.”
Gaz’s chest tightened.
“And in this unit,” Price continued, “we do not make choices alone.”
Soap’s voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. “You don’t get to decide whose life matters more.”
Gaz’s reply was almost a whisper. “Neither do they.”
The room went still.
Command.
Government.
Strategists in rooms far away.
Price’s jaw flexed once.
“That,” he said carefully, “is not for you to answer.”
“It was tonight,” Gaz said.
Price held his gaze for several long seconds.
Something unreadable passed through his expression.
Finally, he nodded once.
“Debrief in ten minutes,” he said. “You will answer every question directly. No embellishment. No justification. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered.
Price paused at the door.
Without turning, he added quietly:
“You may have saved lives today, Sergeant.”
A beat.
“But you may have cost them too.”
The door shut behind him.
Silence returned.
Soap didn’t look at Gaz, face red with anger unlike any Gaz has seen before. Soap’s temper is short, but this feels different.
Ghost did.
“You chose,” Ghost said simply.
“Yes.”
Ghost studied him a moment longer. “Then you live with it.”
He moves toward the door.
Soap lingered.
For a moment, it looked like he might say something.
Instead, he just shook his head.
“I would’ve taken the shot,” he said quietly.
“I know,” Gaz replied.
That hurt worse than the shouting.
When they were gone, Gaz stood alone in the team room.
The question echoed in his mind:
Bravery or arrogance?
He didn’t know.
He only knew he’d seen a child leaning over a balcony and understood that once he pulled that trigger, there was no version of events where that image stopped existing.
He’d made the call.
Now it belonged to all of them.
And somewhere out there, a van disappeared into traffic.
Gaz lay prone behind a cracked concrete parapet four buildings down from the target structure. The rifle was an extension of him—steady, familiar, weight pressing into his shoulder. Through the scope, the world narrowed to clean lines and measured distances.
Wind: negligible
Visibility: clear
Thermal overlay active
The building filled his view.
Balconies cluttered with plastic chairs. Satellite dishes. A child’s red bicycle tipped against the railing on the third floor.
His jaw flexed.
“Bravo-1 in position,” Ghost’s voice crackled over comms, low and steady. He was groundside, across the street. blended into shadow near a shuttered shorefront.
“Bravo-2 set,” Soap chimed in from the adjacent rooftop, spotting scope angled toward the upper windows.
Price’s voice cut through, calm as ever. “All stations green. Target confirmed top floor, northeast corner. Thermal shows five armed inside. Civilian signatures present throughout the structure.”
Gaz adjusted magnification.
Top floor window.
There.
Heat signatures moved across the room—one pacing, one seated, three clustered near the far wall. Weapons visible on two.
And below them:
Movement.
Second floor: two smaller signatures. One taller. One bending, lifting something.
He swallowed.
“Command authorized strike on my mark,” Price continued. “We neutralize the target and collapse structure before he relocates. Copy?”
A chorus of affirmatives.
Gaz’s finger rested alongside the trigger guard, not on it.
His job was simple: eliminate the target when confirmed at the window. That was the precision part. The rest would follow.
A distant siren wailed somewhere in the city.
Through the scope, the pacing heat signature approached the glass.
Target.
Face partially visible as he stepped into the dim light. Order than the last intel photo. Beard thicker. But the scar along the jaw matched.
Soap exhaled softly over comms. “That’s him.”
Price didn’t hesitate. “Stand by.”
Gaz centered the reticle on the man’s upper chest.
Distance calculated automatically.
Breathe steady in.
Slow out.
Below, on the fourth-floor balcony, a door slid open.
A woman stepped out holding a phone to her ear.
She leaned on the railing.
Directly beneath the target window.
Gaz’s heart stuttered once.
“Sir,” he said quietly.
“I see her,” Price replied.
The target shifted slightly. Still framed. Still clear.
The woman laughed at something on her call.
A child darted out behind her—small heat signature, fast movement—and grabbed at her coat.
Gaz adjusted half an inch to account for potential deflection if the body dropped forward.
His mind split in two.
Professional calculation
Human recognition.
“Take the shot, Gaz,” Price ordered, voice gruff.
His finger moved to the trigger.
Pressure built.
Through the scope, the child climbed onto the balcony railing.
Soap swore softly. “Kid’s too close.”
“Window of opportunity closing,” Ghost warned. “Movement inside.”
The target turned, speaking to someone out of view. He was about to step away from the glass.
“Gaz.”
The command was sharper now.
Everything slowed.
He saw the line.
If he fired, the round would hit clean. The target would drop backward. Structural strike would follow within seconds. Collapse. Fire. Secondary explosions, likely from gas lines.
The woman and the child would not clear the balcony in time.
He knew it with awful certainty.
The child leaned over the railing.
“Take it,” Price said.
Gaz hesitated.
Just half a breath too long.
The target shifted further from view.
Soap hissed, “He’s moving.”
“Gaz.”
The world narrowed to the red bicycle three floors down.
The phone in the woman’s hand.
The child’s fingers curled over concrete.
He understood the order.
He understood what defying it meant.
Court-martial.
Discharge.
End of 141.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
And then—
He pulled off target.
“Negative shot,” Gaz said.
A beat of stunned silence.
“Repeat?” Price demanded.
“Civilian obstruction. I don’t have a clean line.”
It wasn’t a lie.
It just wasn’t the whole truth.
Inside the building, the target disappeared fully from the window.
Gaz noticed things like that before missions. The small stuff. The hum of the projector. The way Soap’s boot bounced once against the floor before going still. The faint smell of coffee clings to the air like something stale and permanent.
Price stood at the front, remote in hand, a satellite image frozen behind him
Urban block. Dense. Civilian-heavy.
Red markers bloomed across the map.
“High-value target,” Price began evenly. “Confirmed inside this structure.”
He clicked.
The building is highlighted in yellow.
“Signal intelligence confirms movement. He’s meeting with regional financiers. This is the best window we’ve had in six months.”
Ghost leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed. He’s the first to clock the tone in the captain’s voice. “Civilians?”
Price’s eyes flicked to him briefly. This isn’t the first time Gaz has been concerned about the number of civilians. “Unknown exact numbers. Estimated twenty to thirty non-combatants.”
Soap muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse.
Price continued, voice level. Detached. Professional. “We don’t have time to wait for evacuation. If he moves, we lose him. Command has authorized a precision strike.”
The word precision hung in the air.
Gaz stared at the building on the screen. Zoomed in, it looked almost harmless. Balconies. Laundry lines. Rooftop water tank. The kind of place where people argued about dishes and watched bad telly at night.
“Blast radius?” Gaz asked.
Price clicked again. A red circle bloomed outward from the structure.
“So we’re hitting it while it’s full,” he said quietly.
A pause. Not long. Just long enough.
“Yes.”
The room went still.
Ghost’s posture didn’t change, but something about him sharpened. Soap’s jaw worked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t quite find the angle. Because tactically?
It made sense.
High-value target.
Months of intel.
One shot.
Lose him now, and he disappears again. Maybe forever.
Price sets the remote down. “Rules of engagement remain standard. You are not to deviate from mission parameters. This comes from high up.”
There it was.
Not a suggestion.
An order.
Gaz felt something cold settle low in his chest.
He’d followed orders before that didn’t sit right. Every soldier had. That was the job.
You trusted the chain because the chain saw the bigger picture.
But twenty to thirty non-combatants wasn’t a number.
It was families.
He pictured it before he could stop himself. Someone cooking dinner. Someone on a phone call. Someone putting a kid to bed.
He dragged his thoughts back into formation.
“Sir,” he said carefully, “if we inserted instead—ground op, clear floor by floor—”
“Too slow,” Price cut in, not unkindly. “Too exposed. We’d be fighting through civilians and insurgents both. Casualties on our side would spike. And if he slipped through?”
Gaz held his gaze. “We’ve dealt with worse odds.”
Price’s eyes hardened a fraction. “And we’ve paid for them.”
Soap looked at Gaz, just for a second. Not challenging. Checking.
Gaz leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his arms. If he pressed harder, it would turn into something else. A challenge. A fracture.
Price wasn’t a man who gave orders lightly.
Which meant he’d already wrestled with it.
Which meant this had already been decided.
“Understood,” Gaz said.
The words tasted wrong.
Price gave a single nod. “Wheels up in forty.”
The meeting broke.
Chairs scraped. Papers gathered. The projector clicked off, plunging the room into softer light.
Ghost passed by him without a word. Soap lingered.
“You good?” Soap asked quietly.
Gaz forced a nod. “Yeah.”
Soap studied him a second longer than necessary. Then clapped his shoulder and headed out.
Gaz stayed seated.
The building lingered behind his eyes even without the screen.
Precision strike.
Probable damage.
Authorized collateral.
He ran the numbers in his head again. Timelines. Alternate routes. Distraction tactics. Sniper delay. Comms interference. Anything.
Every version ended the same way:
If they followed the order, civilians would die.
If they didn’t, the target would likely escape.
And if the target escaped, more civilians would die later.
The math twisted in circles until it stopped meaning anything at all.
Price’s voice echoed in memory:
You are not to deviate.
Gaz stood slowly.
He understood the order.
He understood the consequences of ignoring it.
Court-martial.
Dishonorable discharge.
Loss of position.
Loss of trust.
He wasn’t naïve.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding waiting to happen.
This would be a choice.
His hands were steady as he left the room.
That unsettled him more than if they’d been shaking.
In the corridor, he caught sight of Price through the glass of the ops office. The captain stood alone, staring down at the file, shoulders heavier than usual.
Gaz hesitated.
For half a second, he considered going in. Pushing harder. Arguing properly.
But he knew that look.
The decision was locked.
So Gaz turned away.
Forty minutes.
He had forty minutes before this stopped being theoretical.
Before it became action.
Before numbers became names.
And somewhere between the briefing room and the tarmac, the quiet realization settled fully into place:
He was going to disobey.
Not impulsively.
Not emotionally.
Consciously.
And he was terrified of what that meant.
NEXT CHAPTER >
(enjoy part one of The Cost of Loyalty!!! ive always had a weak spot for gaz and how we can see him constantly deciding if what he's doing is really for the greater good. like in one scene in mw, we get to choose for gaz whether or not we go into the room with the butcher. idk gaz is just my favorite overall so i really enjoy writing him bc of that)
Love’s such an old-fashioned word. There’s several kinds of love,
Familial.
Platonic.
Romantic.
The list goes on.
Simon Riley isn’t used to feeling any kind of love. There’s no family to speak of. He’s had girlfriends, sure, but none of them stuck. His team—they make him feel loved in way he never thought he’d deserve.
John Price is more of a father than his ever was. Never once has Price raised a hand to him, or even his voice. It’s likely that Price has a good idea of Simon’s upbringing, but he never speaks about it. The nights the two of them will occasionally spend outside sharing a smoke is admittedly some of Simon’s favorite moments. Then, they’re not soldiers or pawns of the military. They’re human. Price’s hidden looks of concern and reassuring pats are a stable of their bond. Price was there the day Simon truly broke. Still, Price never treated him like anything less than human.
Simon originally didn’t know what to think of Kyle Garrick. The best way to describe him is a guard dog, always at Price’s six since the day the captain recruited him. Admittedly, Simon was weary in the beginning until he noticed it was just Gaz’s nature. Whether Simon wanted him to be or not, Gaz would always show up when he needed him the most. Nights shattered by nightmares, Gaz was at his side saying nothing but doing everything. Before missions, Gaz would repeatedly check all of their gear at least three times before parting their shoulder. Gaz never touched Simon. If Simon wasn’t so cautious, he could almost call Gaz a friend.
Simon Riley loves John MacTavish. Anyone that doesn’t see it is a fool. The stolen glances, the panicked undertone when Soap’s response is delayed, the playful banter that Price hasn’t heard from Ghost since before Roba. Soap brings out the Simon in Ghost. They all have seen some of his softer moments, sure, but Soap is different. Soap has taken his bare hands and carved a place for himself in Simon’s heart. Neither have spoken outright about their feelings. They’d be court-martialed for fraternization. However, if the two of them shared a kiss after too much bourbon, who’s to say?
This is absolutely inspired by Under Pressure by Queen & David Bowie. I'm working on making an edit to the song rn but i doubt ill do anything with it.
It's also 100% inspired by the other post I made about death
The word is so meager compared to the aftermath. The grievances. The funeral. The friends and family that are affected. The tears shed, the words said, none of it feels real in the moment. None of it will feel real for days. Maybe weeks or months.
Grief. Five letters. One syllable.
There’s synonyms for grief, but none can put this exact feeling into words. It can’t describe the particular tightness in your chest, or the way you’ll remember them in random moments. The fact that you know they won’t see you grow.
John Price hasn’t stopped bargaining from the moment he saw the gun turn on Soap. He hasn’t stopped since he put a bullet in General Shepherd. He’s running out of ways to bargain, but even then, he known his Sergeant won’t be returning anytime soon. The only comfort he has is that Soap was not alone, and he went quick. As far as he’s concerned, Soap never felt any pain.
Kyle Garrick is not bargaining, though he hasn’t accepted the death either. He’s fallen into a deep, depressive episode that has Laswell wondering if she should put Kyle out on medical leave. She decides against it. It’d only make things worse. He replays Soap’s death over and over. He wasn’t there, but he heard the shot. He heard Ghost yell. He only dared look at the scene once the bomb was disarmed. He hasn’t said much since, keeping conversation to the bare minimum.
Simon Riley is angry. Angry at General Shepherd. At Makarov. At Price for letting this happen. At Kyle for shutting down. At Johnny for not wearing that bloody helmet for once. Most of all, he’s angry at himself. For once, he thought he could let someone in. He thought nothing bad would come of it. For once, just maybe, he could let someone get close to him. Seeing Johnny in a pool of his blood, he kneeled there like he was going to help Johnny up. Instead, he carried his limp, cold, dead corpse out of the tunnel. So yeah, Simon is angry.
John MacTavish accepted he was going to die in that tunnel. Call it a second sense, or a gift from God. He’d never felt that way before. His heart beating steadily despite knowing the situation. His questions to Price in search of reassurance. He accepted it when he felt a bullet hit his shoulder plate and he went down. Seeing Price stare down the barrel of the gun, he made the decision. If he really was going to die, he’d make sure his captain got out safely.
This prompt belongs to @hyperfixationsgobrr from this post.
The radio crackles twice before the line clears.
“Gaz, say your position,” Price requests.
Kyle adjusts the dial, squinting at the treeline stretching, endless and black, against the fading light. “Grid’s accurate. I’ve got cover. No hostiles in sight.”
A pause. Static hums like distant insects.
“Nearest we can get to you is eighteen hours. The weather’s grounding us further south. Sit tight, Sergeant.”
Eighteen hours.
Kyle exhales slowly through his nose. Not ideal, but not catastrophic. He’s been in worse. At least he’s unharmed this time.
“Copy that,” he replies with a sigh. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Price mutters something about him not doing anything stupid. Ghost is silent, but Kyle knows he’s listening. Soap tells him not to get too bored, but he can tell the Scot is amused.
Then the comms click dead.
The quiet that follows is different. Thicker.
Kyle moves automatically—muscle memory and training taking over. He chooses a spot tucked between two large outcroppings of rock, partially shielded from the wind. He builds a low fire, careful not to give away his position. Minimal smoke. A shelter angled just enough to break the breeze.
It’s almost peaceful.
For the first hour, he lets himself breathe. He checks his ammo. Cleans the Bowie knife strapped to his vest. Sips water. Watches the trees.
The forest watches back.
It starts subtly.
A rustle, nothing more.
Not wind. Not the rhythm of branches settling.
Kyle’s hand moves before his brain finishes processing. He reaches for the Bowie, unsheathing it with practiced silence. He rises slowly, boots barely whispering against the dirt.
Another sound.
Closer.
He circles wide, keeping his fire at his back, letting the shadows fall in front of him. The trees crowd in, trunks like silent sentries.
And then he sees it.
A pale shape on the ground several meters away.
White.
Fabric.
It looks wrong against the dark earth.
Kyle narrows his eyes. No movement. No breathing. No obvious trap wire.
He advances slowly.
The smell hits first.
Musty.
Sour.
Rot.
His jaw tightens. He nudges the white fabric gently with the tip of his boot.
No response.
He crouches and, with the Bowie’s edge, he lifts the fabric.
And the world shifts, and he reels back.
The body beneath is swollen, discolored, skin split, and darkened with decay. Insects scatter at the disturbance. What was once a human face is barely recognizable.
Not fresh.
Far from recent.
Just left there.
Kyle exhales carefully through his mouth, forcing himself to catalog details instead of reacting.
Civilian clothing.
Hands bound.
No obvious animal damage.
This was deliberate.
He kneels, gloved fingers hovering just above the wrists, checking for any identifying marks, anything that tells him who this was.
He should call this into Price.
And that’s when he feels it.
The shift in air.
The pressure behind him.
The animalistic instinct that has saved his life more times than he can count.
He turns—
Too late.
A hand clamps onto his shoulder.
Something sharp pricks into the side of his neck.
Kyle reacts on instinct, slamming backwards with his elbow, twisting, but the plunger depresses.
Cold floods his bloodstream.
His vision fractures.
He swings the Bowie blindly, catching fabric—maybe skin—a grunt of pain somewhere behind him.
The forest tilts.
His knees hit the dirt.
Sound distorts, stretching long and warped.
Through blurred vision, he catches a shape moving in front of him—boots. Dark clothing. A silhouette bending down.
A voice, low and almost amused.
“He'll do nicely.”
Kyle tries to reach for the radio.
His fingers don’t obey.
The trees blur into white.
And then nothing.
GAZ
The room has no clock.
No windows.
The lights never turn off.
Kyle counts time by breathing at first. Sixty breaths, one minute. He keeps it steady. Controlled. Like Price taught him during resistance training refreshers.
He loses count somewhere past what he thinks is six hours.
They unstrap him only to move him.
Different chair. Same restraints.
Different voice.
“You're handling this well,” the woman says. Clinical tone. Educated. “Most candidates reach agitation by now.”
“Candidates?” Kyle rasps. His throat is dry. They’re rationing water carefully. Enough to keep him conscious, but not comfortable. It's like this isn't the first time they've done this.
She ignores his question.
A tablet turns toward him.
Photos.
Price.
Soap.
Ghost.
Zoomed in. Timestamped. Surveillance angles.
“You operate in a small unit,” she continues. “Highly skilled. Extremely valuable.”
Kyle says nothing.
“You were separated. They will attempt recovery. We’ve calculated a 72% probability they’ll escalate beyond authorized channels.”
He stares at her.
She smiles slightly. “We account for that.”
The screen changes.
Audio waveform.
A voice plays.
Price.
“...can’t justify the resources if there’s no signal...”
If he listens closely, it sounds clipped. Chopped. Rearranged.
Kyle knows that voice. Knows the cadence, the weight behind it.
The sleep deprivation makes doubt sticky.
Another clip.
“...we proceed without him...”
The words echo too long in the concrete room.
Kyle’s jaw tightens. He says nothing.
But for one split second—
He hesitates.
The woman sees it.
And that’s when she knows where to press.
PRICE
They find the transport mark first.
Not tire tracks but dragging marks.
Compressed brush.
Displaced soil.
A faint trace of synthetic fiber caught on bark.
Ghost collects it in silence.
Soap is the one who finds the camera.
Half-buried. Camouflaged.
Watching the campsite.
Price stares at it for too long. Whoever this was, they've been planning this for far longer than they first thought.
“They were waiting,” Soap mutters, too weary of Price to speak any louder.
Price doesn’t respond.
He pulls every contact he has within the hour.
Old SAS extraction teams.
A black-market broker in Bucharest.
A CIA liaison who owes him a favor from Kandahar.
Patterns emerge fast.
Former military.
Contractors.
Disappeared in remote regions.
Reappear in private security contracts overseas under altered identities.
Some never reappear at all.
Ghost traces a shell company tied to “skill acquisition logistics.”
Soap hacks deeper than he probably should.
And then they find something that makes the air go cold.
An auction forum.
Encrypted.
Invite-only.
Listings coded.
One new listing posted six hours ago.
Asset: Active UK Special Operations Sergeant. Field capable. Minimal degradation.
“No,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes both Ghost and Soap exchange glances before straightening. “They’re trying.”
GAZ
The room changes again.
New tactic.
They bring in a man this time.
Older. Polished. Expensive watch.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says conversationally, “You’re inventory.”
Kyle lifts his head slowly, the realization slowly dawning on him.
The man continues, “You have two options. Resistance—which decreases value and limits placement. Or cooperation—which ensures optimal reassignment.”
“Reassignment,” Kyle repeats flatly.
The man nods. “Private sector security. High compensation. Discrete operations. Your skillset is... desirable.”
Kyle laughs once, hoarse. “You abduct me and think I’ll sign a contract?”
The man tilts his head.
“You misunderstand. Contracts can be signed willingly... or neurologically encouraged.”
A small case is set on the table.
Syringes.
Clear liquid.
Kyle’s stomach drops.
The man leans closer. “Your team cannot find you in time. Even if they trace the forest site, you’ll be relocated before they breach. You’re already a transaction.”
For the first time since being shoved in the room, real anger flickers in Kyle’s eyes. “You don’t know my captain.”
The man smiles. “We’ve profiled him extensively.”
PRICE
Ghost secures the warehouse linked to the shell company’s regional office.
Soap intercepts encrypted traffic.
Price is kicking the door in before backup fully clears.
Every person inside is detained or unconscious within minutes.
Price drags one executive across a concrete floor and slams him against the metal table. Ghost hovers over his shoulder.
“Where is he.” It’s not a question.
The man tries to maintain composure, but Price only leans in closer. “You took one of mine.”
There’s no shouting. No raised voice. It’s eerily calm, scaring the man even more.
“Transfer hub,” the man finally gasps. “Mobile. Rotational. We don’t hold inventory in one place.”
Price presses the knife just enough to make the point clear.
“Where.”
Three hours away.
Airstrip.
Private transport is scheduled within ninety minutes.
Price releases him abruptly, leaving the warehouse.
Ghost meets Soap’s eyes and shakes his head.
They move.
GAZ
They prep him for transfer.
Wrists restrained.
Sedation prepped and ready for use.
Black transport bag waiting.
The woman pauses, sparing a glance at Kyle. “You’re still resisting.”
Kyle’s voice is rough but steady, his eyes holding that fire that makes her sick. “Yeah.”
She sighs slightly. “Disappointing.”
A speaker in the room clicks on.
Static.
Then—
A gunshot in the distance.
Muffled shouting.
Another gunshot.
The staff exchange confused looks.
Kyle’s heart stutters.
That wasn’t a recording.
The man with the watch reaches for his phone.
It never finishes ringing.
Smoke.
Flashbang.
Shouting.
Kyle blinks through the haze.
And through ringing ears, he hears the one voice that cuts through everything.
“KYLE!”
His name. Not his call sign. Not his last name.
Price’s voice.
Not edited.
Not distorted.
Real.
And furious.
The syringe slides into Kyle’s arm before he can jerk away.
Cold spreads through his bloodstream almost immediately.
He knows that feeling.
The sedative from before, now diluted.
It’s not enough to knock him down instantly—just enough to make his muscles heavy and thoughts slow.
“Dose injected,” the woman says calmly to a nearby man. “We can wake him up during transport.”
Kyle tries to focus on the table in front of him.
Metal.
Scratched.
A single bolt in the corner.
Focus on something small. Something real.
Price’s voice echoes faintly in the back of his head—old training.
Control what you can. One thing at a time, son.
But the room tilts anyway.
The man with the expensive watch checks his phone. “Aircraft’s five minutes out.”
Kyle’s vision blurs. He tries to move his hands.
The restraints hold.
Someone lifts the black transport bag.
Another prepares a second injection.
Then—
The gunshots.
Everyone in the room freezes.
Another shot.
Closer.
Then shouting.
The woman frowns. “What—”
Kyle’s heart lurches, and he forces his head up.
The man with the watch reaches for his phone again. “Security—”
The door explodes inward.
A flashband detonates with a deafening crack.
White floods the room.
Kyle’s ears ring violently if they weren’t already. The world dissolves into bright static and muffled chaos.
Boots thunder across the floor.
Someone shouts, and bodies collide.
Gunfire erupts in sharp, controlled bursts.
Kyle tries to stand.
The sedative drags him back down.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears something cutting through the noise. A voice, both familiar and furious.
“KYLE!”
Again.
Kyle blinks hard through blurred vision.
Shapes move through the smoke.
One of the traffickers grabs Kyle by the collar, trying to haul him towards the exit.
“Move him now!”
Kyle reacts on instinct.
Even drugged and barely hanging on, his training takes over.
He drives his knee upward with everything he has.
The man grunts as it connects with his ribs.
Kyle twists violently, chair legs scratching across concrete as he throws his weight sideways.
The chair tips.
They both crash to the floor.
Kyle’s wrists are still bound behind him, but he rolls, slamming his shoulder into the man’s knee.
The trafficker staggers.
Kyle swings his legs up and kicks him square in the chest, sending him back.
The room spins violently.
His muscles feel like wet sand.
But he forces himself onto his knees.
Across the room, another guard raises his pistol.
The shot never fires.
A suppressed round cracks.
The guard drops instantly.
Smoke clears just enough for Kyle to see three figures pushing into the room.
Soap first.
Fast. Aggressive. His face is red with fury.
Ghost on his heels.
And then Price.
The captain stops dead the moment he sees Kyle.
For half a second, the room goes still.
Kyle sways where he kneels, barely upright, wrists bound, pupils blown wide from sedatives.
Price crosses the distance in three long strides.
“Easy, lad. Easy.”
Kyle tries to focus on him. “Sir...”
The word comes out slurred.
Price’s jaw tightens when he sees the needle mark on Kyle’s arm.
Soap cuts the restraints with a knife.
The second the straps fall away, Kyle tries to stand.
His legs give out instantly.
Price catches him before he hits the ground.
“Whoa—steady.”
Kyle grips Price’s vest weakly, blinking hard. “Took... took you long enough...”
Soap barks a laugh from across the room while checking another doorway. “Listen to him! Gaz’s been kidnapped and dugged, but he’s still got a mouth on ‘em.”
Ghost kneels briefly, checking Kyle’s pupils.
“Sedated,” he says gruffly.
Price nods once. “Can you move him?”
Ghost shifts Kyle’s weight against him, one arm braced around his back. “Yeah.”
Kyle tries to focus, blinking slowly. The room still spins in slow, nauseating circles. His arms feel like they don’t belong to him anymore. “Sir...” he mutters, voice thick.
Price crouches so he’s in Kyle’s line of sight. “You’re alright, son.”
Kyle squints at him like he’s trying to make sure Price is real. “...thought that was a recording,” he slurs.
Soap huffs a soft laugh somewhere to the side while checking the last doorway. “Nah, mate. That ugly mug’s the real thing.”
Price shoots him a brief look but doesn’t argue.
“Transport’s clear,” Ghost says, after a moment.
Price nods again. “Let’s move.
The walk out of the facility is slow.
Ghost supports most of Kyle’s weight while Price stays close, one hand steady on his shoulder whenever he stumbles. Soap moves ahead, clearing the path even though the building has already fallen silent.
Outside, the cold night air hits Kyle’s face.
He sucks in a shaky breath, the stars blurring above him. “...feels weird,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” Soap replies softly. “That’s the drugs, mate.”
Kyle attempts a laugh, but it comes out more like a tired breath.
They reach the vehicle waiting near the edge of the airstrip. Ghost helps guide him into the backseat while Soap climbs in beside him.
His head droops forward.
Soap catches it gently and guides him back against the headrest. “Stay with us, Garrick.”
Kyle’s eyes crack open again. “Tryin’...”
The engine starts, and the vehicle pulls away from the facility, disappearing down the dark road.
For a while, no one speaks.
The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the quiet.
Kyle’s breathing grows slower, heavier.
The sedative is still working its way through his system, fighting against his dying adrenaline and dragging him down.
His head tilts slightly toward Soap.
“ ‘Tav...” Kyle mutters.
Soap glances over. “Aye?”
Kyle’s eyelids are barely open now. “...they said... you weren’t comin’.”
Soap snorts softly. “Yeah, well, they clearly don’t know us very well.”
Kyle tries to smile. It’s small and crooked.
His fingers twitch weakly against the seat. “Didn’t... think you’d let ‘em sell me.”
Soap puts his arm over the back of the seats, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Not a change, mate.”
Kyle’s breathing stutters slightly as the exhaustion deepens.
Kyle’s head leans fully against Soap’s shoulder this time.
Soap doesn’t move.
“You can let go,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Kyle to hear him.
Kyle exhales slowly. His grip on consciousness finally loosens.
He’s asleep within seconds.
Kyle wakes to the faint hum of ventilation and the sterile smell of antiseptic.
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
His brain feels slow, heavy, like it’s wrapped in fog.
Then he notices the softness beneath him.
A bed.
He cracks one eye open.
Fluorescent lights. Medical ceiling.
Base.
Memory rushes back in fragments—the forest, the needle, the concrete room, the door blowing open.
Price shouting his name.
Kyle shifts slightly.
Immediately, a voice nearby speaks.
“Easy.”
He turns his head slowly.
Price is sitting in the chair beside the bed, arms folded, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours.
Soap is leaning against the wall nearby, half-asleep with his arms crossed.
Ghost stands near the doorway, silent as ever.
Kyle blinks slowly. “…we’re home?” he croaks.
Soap opens one eye. “Aye.”
Price exhales quietly through his nose.
“You’re safe, Sergeant.”
Kyle lets his head sink back into the pillow.
“…good.”
For the first time since the forest, his body finally relaxes completely.
And this time, when he closes his eyes—
It’s just sleep.
It's a long one but it's here! I had so much fun writing this I couldn't stop. Is my writing format inconsistent through this? Ofc but some of my best works are. I saw the short story from @hyperfixationsgobrr and had to run to begin writing (once given permission ofc).
I'm out for midterm break starting today so please feel free to send me any asks!
“They weren’t trying to kill you,” Soap says quietly.
Simon huffs a humourless breath.
“No.”
“They were measuring.”
“Hm.”
Soap’s throat tightens. “Us.”
Simon finally looks at him fully.
Clear. Present.
Not drugged.
Not spiralling.
Just tired.
“They wanted to see if you’d come,” Simon says.
Soap doesn’t hesitate.
“Of course I came.”
That almost-smile ghosts across Simon’s mouth.
Then it fades.
“That’s the problem.”
The room stills.
Soap leans back slightly. “You think I wouldn’t?”
“I think,” Simon says carefully, “that they were counting on it.”
Soap doesn’t like the way that lands.
Simon looks toward the table where the mask rests in plastic.
“They took it,” he says quietly. “Said I don’t get to hide behind it anymore.”
Soap’s hands curl slightly against his knees.
Simon continues, voice steady but lower now.
“They wanted to see what happens when you strip something down to the bones.”
“And?” Soap asks.
Simon’s eyes shift back to him.
For a second, something unguarded passes through them.
“They wanted me to think I was just what they made.”
Soap doesn’t look away.
“You’re not.”
Simon studies him like he’s testing that statement for cracks.
“You’re not either,” Simon says finally.
The words land heavier than anything else in the room.
Because that’s what this was really about.
Not just Ghost.
Soap.
His loyalty. His attachment. His refusal to let go.
They catalogued it.
Labeled it.
Weaponized it.
Soap closes the laptop slowly.
“They’re still watching.”
“Aye.”
“You think they’ll try again?”
Simon doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
Not dramatic.
Not paranoid.
Just fact.
Soap nods once.
Then he stands, walks to the table, and picks up the evidence bag.
He holds it out.
Simon looks at the mask.
Really looks at it this time.
There’s a long pause.
Then Simon reaches out.
His fingers brush the plastic.
He doesn’t put it on.
Not yet.
Instead, he looks at Soap.
“They can monitor all they want,” Soap says quietly. “Doesn’t mean they own us.”
Simon searches his face.
For doubt.
For fear.
He finds neither.
Just stubborn, reckless loyalty.
Simon exhales slowly.
“They’re not done with us.”
Soap’s expression hardens.
“Good.”
A beat.
Then, softer—
“Neither are we.”
Simon holds his gaze a moment longer.
Then he nods once.
Not as a lieutenant.
Not as a myth.
Just as a man who knows exactly what they’re walking into.
Across the room, the mask waits.
On the closed laptop screen, the last line remains:
ASSET RETAINED: MONITORING ONGOING
Lights hum overhead.
Cameras don’t blink.
And somewhere, in a system none of them can see—
Their file updates again.
< PREVIOUS CHAPTER
(and that's the final chapter of CLASSIFIED! i have a few more stories planned but i might wait and make a few oneshots so PLSPLSPLS send me asks with ur ideas! i really hope you enjoyed reading this bc it was really fun to make :) )
Just quiet corridors and cameras that follow them.
Price doesn’t comment on it.
Soap doesn’t either.
They all feel it.
They aren’t meant to die coming in.
They find him two levels down.
Not in a cell.
In a room that looks almost clinical.
Concrete walls. Drains in the floor. Observation class along one side.
The metal folding chair in the centre.
Ghost is in it.
Wrists restrained.
Head bowed.
No mask.
Soap stops breathing. Gaz sucks in a breath.
For a split second, he doesn’t recognize him.
Because Ghost without the skill isn’t Ghost.
He’s just—
Simon.
Bruises bloom dark along his jaw. One eye is half-swollen. Dried blood on his temple. There’s an IV in his arm, taped down sloppily, like whoever put it there didn’t care about comfort.
Gaz moves first.
“Ghost.”
His voice cracks on the name.
Ghost’s head twitches.
Slow.
Too slow.
His eyes open.
They’re unfocused, glazed over.
Not tracking.
Not present.
Soap steps closer.
“LT.”
That’s when Simon flinches.
Not at the voice.
At the movement.
His breathing spikes. Shallow. Rapid.
“Don’t—” Simon rasps.
It’s barely a word. More air than sound.
Soap freezes.
Price is already checking the door. Gaz moves to the restraints.
“Ghost,” Gaz tries again, softer. “It’s us.”
Simon’s gaze flickers. It passes over them like they’re not real.
His pupils are blown wide.
Drugged.
But it’s not just that.
It’s that look.
Soap has seen men broken before, sure.
He’s never seen Ghost look like this.
Small.
Not physically, but folded into himself.
Simon’s fingers twitch against the restraints. He’s pulling without meaning to, like he’s somewhere else.
“Mask,” he murmurs.
Soap’s throat tightens. They hadn’t brought his mask.
“You’re safe,” Soap says automatically.
Simon’s head jerks violently at that.
A raw sound tears out of him—not quite a shout, not quite a sob.
“Don’t say that.”
The words hit like a strike.
Gaz stills.
Price looks over. His eyes look wet from where Soap is standing.
Simon’s breathing is spiralling now.
“No mask,” he whispers hoarsely. “He said— he said if I hid again—”
His voice fractures.
Soap feels ice crawl down his spine.
Roba.
Ghost had told Soap about Roba only once. The look on his face that day was one Soap had hoped never to see again.
Simon’s eyes aren’t seeing them, Soap realizes.
They’re seeing somewhere else.
A different room.
A different cage.
Gaz has grown pale.
Because this—
This isn’t the unshakable lieutenant who walks through gunfire without blinking.
This is a man dragged backwards through haunting memories.
Soap steps closer anyway.
Slow.
Careful.
He kneels in front of him.
“Simon.”
Not LT.
Not Ghost.
Simon’s eyes snap toward him.
For a split second, something clears.
Recognition.
Then it fractures again.
“They took it,” Simon breathes. “Said I don’t get it anymore.”
The mask.
Soap swallows. He knows better than most that the mask makes Ghost feel put together. Whole.
“You don’t need it right now.”
Wrong thing to say.
Simon recoils like he’s been struck.
“You don’t understand,” he chokes. “You don’t—”
His voice breaks completely.
Gaz cuts the restraints.
The moment the binds are gone, Simon doesn’t bolt.
He folds forward.
Like his body just gave up holding itself together.
Soap catches him before he hits the floor.
He’s burning hot.
Shaking.
Not from pain.
From something deeper.
Soap has seen Ghost tortured.
He’s seen him injured.
He’s never seen him afraid.
Simon grips Soap’s vest with white knuckles.
Not pushing him away.
Holding on.
Like he’s drowning.
Soap and Gaz both look to Price. Gaz visibly recoils.
There’s a fury in the captain’s eyes now.
Cold.
Measured.
This wasn’t an interrogation.
This was deliberate.
They didn’t want information.
They wanted to see what happened when you took Ghost’s armour away. Took his support away.
Gaz rips the IV free.
Simon flinches hard at the sudden touch.
“Easy,” Gaz murmurs, voice rough. “We’ve got you.”
Simon’s breathing is still ragged.
He’s fighting something they can’t see.
Soap leans in close.
“It’s us,” he says quietly, the words meant just for the two of them. “Johnny. Kyle. Price. You’re not there.”
Simon squeezes his eyes shut.
A tremor runs through him.
Then, barely audible—
“Johnny?”
Soap’s chest caves in.
“Aye.”
Simon’s grip tightens.
Just once.
Like he needs proof.
Alarms finally begin to sound.
Price moves to the door. “Time’s up.”
Soap shifts, getting Simon’s arm over his shoulders.
Simon tries to stand.
His legs don’t cooperate.
Gaz takes the other side.
Between them, they haul him upright.
Simon’s head lolls slightly, but his fingers never let go of Soap.
Not once.
In fact, his other hand grips the short curls of Gaz’s hair at the nape of his neck.
Gaz chooses not to comment on it.
As they move down the corridor, Soap looks back at the room.
At the chair. At the observation glass.
Someone was watching.
Studying.
Testing.
Soap feels something settle inside him.
A cold fury. A burning hot desire to protect.
This wasn’t a warning, but a message.
And it was meant for him.
They clear the outer perimeter with seconds to spare.
Price drives. Gaz sits in the passenger, occasionally hanging his head out the window to watch the rear.
Soap sits in the back with Simon slumped against him.
Simon’s breathing is evening out.
The drugs are wearing thin.
But every time the vehicle hits a bump, he flinches.
Not like a soldier.
Like someone expecting a blow.
Soap presses his hand against the back of Simon’s neck.
I won't lie when I say I've been thinking about this mashup for several weeks. Now, it's been a while since I read/watched the Hunger Games so my ideas may stray from cannon so you might have to excuse me.
GENERAL SHEPHARD
Why am I starting with General Shephard? Because he's Snow, that's why. Do I have any reason to go along with this? Ofc not! He's the highest-ranking person we see in COD MW, so it just makes sense. It all also adds up when Price kills Shephard, it just makes the dots connect in my head. (I have nothing to explain abt this.)
JOHN PRICE
I actually had a hard time figuring out whether or not he would be from a district or the Capitol. I considered the factor of Price being Ghost's mentor, but I'm also unsure if they would be from the same district. In the end, I will say that John Price is from District 2. Though we don't know much about his past, we don't know if he comes from a wealthy background or not. District 2 handles Masonry and Defense, not to mention they train Peacekeepers. If we were talking about Toxic!Price, we could entertain the idea of Price being a Peacekeeper, but I don't see him doing that. I do, however, see him being a Career. He definitely won his games, though I haven't thought as far as to what specific game he won. Eventually, I do see him joining the revolution in 13. I also see him voting for a Hunger Games with the Capitol's children. He'd watch revenge, and that's his way of getting that revenge. He knows killing Shephard won't do anything, so why try when they can make a Hunger Games with the Capitol's children?
SIMON "GHOST" RILEY
None. He's not in a district. I have a good one for this. He's in 13. He's like Lucy Gray and won his games, then disappeared soon after. I think he was ruthless in the games, too ruthless for the Capitol to remain comfortable with keeping him alive. I like to think Shephard would've tried to wipe him out in the games, but just like COD, he just won't die. Perhaps he gets buried alive in this universe, too, having to claw his way to the surface. When returning to his home district (either 12 [coal mining] or 7 [lumber]), he would find his home burned and destroyed as punishment for acting out during the games. I imagine him winning the games later in his life, around seventeen or eighteen. Because of this, I immediately think of him as rebellious and ruthless. Like many others, he disagrees with the games and wants Shephard to know that. Once seeing his family dead, he's likely to lose all sense of morality and what's real and what's not. Someone from 13 sees this and brings him in, believing him to be a necessary asset to the rebellion. I'm not entirely positive if he would vote for or against a Hunger Games with the Capitol's children, but I see him voting for more than against.
JOHN "SOAP" MACTAVISH
He volunteers. There's no question. While I see him only having sisters, he either volunteers for his brother or a young boy, likely twelve, and at his first reaping. He would smile at the camera and have no regrets. His distrct? 7 for lumber. Why? Demolitions, obviously. He's physically strong (have you SEEN his arms and neck???) and definitely comfortable with heavy tools, which would in return work in his favor with his (obvious) aggressive combat style. I see him going straight for an axe at the cornucopia, though I also see him creating bombs with whatever he manages to find. Unfortunately, I also see him like Haymitch in the way of creating alliances with the youngest in the arena. Of course, I also see Soap winning his games, though not by choice. He went into the games, content to die if it meant a boy from his district could live. In the end, many died, and now he has to deal with the guilt of surviving the games while the children he allied with had to die. I also imagine him winning his game a little later, maybe seventeen. He would be torn between whether or not they should have a Hunger Games with the Capitol's children. He'd want revenge for the children he'd befriended and watched die, but he's not sure this is the way to go about it.
KYLE "GAZ" GARRICK
Gaz is smart, and I'm tired of him being left out (he's my favorite, so this may be biased). It's said (if I remember correctly) that during the torture process of training, he was the only one who made it out. Not to mention JOHN PRICE HIMSELF recruited him into 141 and kept him around even when Price had several other soldiers he could rely on. I see him from District 3, with technology and electronics. He's intelligent, and it's one of his best qualities. Unlike Soap, he relies on strategy rather than brute strength. For lack of better words, he'd play the long game. He'd take as few lives as possible and work his way into the last stretch of the game. What few deaths he would take, he'd make it quick and likely whisper a few words of prayer or something of the sort. Another one of Gaz's best qualities is his empathy and morality. He'd likely set traps at the end of the game, wait, and once a tribute is in the trap (I personally see him using a bow, but I'm totally biased), and shoot the tribute while they're distracted. Like the others, he won his game by not playing the game. I won't go into detail; I unfortunately also see him being a favorite of the Capitol for his looks. He's pretty, and it's unmistakable. He's intelligent, empathetic, and definitely talked his way into some sponsors. I also think he won a little younger, maybe sixteen or so. Him and Soap are both recruited into 13 at some point and find themselves as good friends. Gaz would 100% vote against having another Hunger Games. There's just no debating that.
This is so unput-together, and I apologize. I doubt I'll write anything involving this (unless it's in an ask or something). I've just had this in my head for weeks, and I needed to get this out there. While not said in here, if there were a 75th Hunger Games, they would all be reaped (except Ghost). If anything, I also see Price already being in 13 by the time of the games. Soap and Gaz would 100% be reaped and create an alliance.
Soap was still staring at Ghost’s mask when the status updated.
RILEY, SIMON
STATUS: PRESUMED DECEASED
The word sat there like it had weight.
Presumed.
Not confirmed.
Not proven
Just decided.
“They can’t do that,” Gaz hisses, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. Just disbelief.
“They can,” Price replied quietly. “And they just did.”
The official statement was short. Controlled. Search assets deployed. No remains located. Area deemed compromised beyond recovery viability.
Search concluded.
Soap felt something inside him splinter
The request for extended search authorisation lasted exactly four minutes.
Price stood in front of the secure terminal, voice level but sharp.
“You don’t close a recovery window that fast,” Price reasons.
“The operational risk outweighs the probability of survival,” came the response.
Soap stepped closer, much to Gaz’s dismay. Soap has always been the hotheaded one.
“What probability?” he demanded.
A pause.
Then, too smooth:
“Minimal.”
Soap would’ve laughed under normal circumstances.
Minimal.
Like they had a number.
Like they’d already calculated it.
Price’s shoulders went rigid. “We’re requesting access to full telemetry and comms logs.”
“Denied.”
The screen went dark.
Soap didn’t ask permission after that.
He didn’t tell Price first.
That was the moment everything shifted.
He pulled archived satellite sweeps from the extraction window. Dug through suppressed signal reports. Cross-referenced timestamps against automated status flags.
The deeper he went, the worse it felt.
Ghost’s tracked hadn’t gone dead.
It had gone dark.
There was a difference.
Soap isolated a micro-ping buried under corrupted signal noise. So small it could’ve been written off as interference.
Except it was logged.
Stamped.
Reviewed.
Then sealed.
Time of ping: six minutes after “contact lost.”
Location: nowhere.
At least nowhere that officially existed.
Soap leaned back slowly, pulse pounding in his ears.
He overlaid the coordinates onto a restricted grid map.
A facility appeared.
Unmarked.
No designation.
Black site.
He felt cold.
“They didn’t lose him,” Soap murmured.
Price’s voice came from the doorway. “Lose who?”
Soap didn’t jump. He knew Price was going to find out about his digging one way or another. He just turned the screen.
Gaz stepped in behind Price, eyes scanning, going sharp the second he understood.
Silence filled the room.
Price stepped forward slowly.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“I looked,” Soap replied vaguely.
“Without clearance.”
“Yes.”
Gaz didn’t look at Price. “Sir.”
That was all he said.
Price stared at the coordinates for a long time.
“You understand what this is,” Price said quietly.
Soap did.
Unauthorized access. Classified site. A direct challenge to command authority.
Career-ending.
Maybe worse.
“They declared him dead before they finished looking,” Soap said. His voice didn’t shake. That was the worst part. “Because they already knew where he was.”
Price’s jaw tightened. It couldn’t be like before, could it? Had Price failed Ghost a second time?
“If you’re wrong—”
“I’m not.”
That wasn’t arrogance.
It was certainty.
And that certainty scared Price more than anything else in this room.
Gaz exhaled slowly. “If that’s a holding facility...”
Soap nodded. “Then this isn’t a recovery.”
For a long moment, no one spoke.
This was the edge.
The line between soldiers and something else.
Price finally looked at Soap.
“You go after this without authorization,” he said evenly, “you don’t come back the same.”
Soap met his gaze.
“They already decided he wouldn’t.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
Price turned away from the screen, pacing once—twice—like he was measuring the weight of something only he could see.
Then he stopped.
“When?” Price asked.
Soap didn’t hesitate.
“Tonight.”
Gaz nodded once.
Price closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the decision was already made.
“Get me everything you have on that grid,” he said. “And for God’s sake, make it quiet.”
Soap looked back at the coordinates glowing faintly on the screen.
The files hadn’t been a prophecy.
They’d been preparation.
And whoever wrote them had just learned something dangerous.
Soap would rather burn the system down than let it keep his friend.
He kept it small. Boring. Administrative. The kind of curiosity that didn’t set off alarms—at least, not the loud kind. Old directives. Redacted memos. Casualty protocols that hadn’t been updated in years but were still quietly active.
Patterns.
The files hadn’t come from nowhere. The formatting is the same as every report they receive. All confidential. All within a strict line of individuals. Terms that only appeared in a specific corner of military bureaucracy. Planning documents meant to sit in drawers until needed.
He wasn’t chasing a person; rather, he was chasing a process.
The deeper he went, the clearer it became: these files weren’t rare.
Soap leaned back in his chair, heart thudding.
Someone decides how you die. Someone else just makes it official.
He didn’t tell the others. Not yet. Not until he was sure.
That was his mistake.
Ghost was on a low-visibility recon assignment—nothing flashy, nothing that should’ve required more than minimal oversight. Solo-capable. Clean in, clean out. No support.
Soap checked the tracker out of habit while cross-referencing a logistics report.
His pen clatters to the ground.
Ghost’s signal was gone.
Not flickering.
Gone.
Soap refreshed the screen.
Nothing.
He was already on his feet when Price’s voice cut through the room. “Soap.”
Price stood in the doorway, expression unreadable. Gaz was with him as per usual, eyes sharp and alert.
“Ghost check in?” Price asked.
Soap swallowed. “Not yet.”
Price didn’t like that answer.
Gaz really didn’t like the look on his face.
They moved—quiet, efficient. Calls made through proper channels first. Then less proper ones. No panic. Just controlled urgency.
The response was delayed.
Finally, a liaison officer appeared, flanked by two others that Soap didn’t recognise. All of them calm. All of them careful.
“Captain, there’s been an incident,” the officer said.
Price folded his arms. “Define incident.”
The amd hesitated just long enough for Soap to feel it.
“Contact was lost during excil,” the officer continued. “Recovery teams were deployed.”
“And?” Gaz pressed, disregarding Price’s firm hand on his shoulder.
The officer reached into a case and set something on the table.
Soap’s breath left him all at once.
The mask.
Scuffed. Cracked along one edge. Clean—too clean. Like it had already been processed, catalouged, stripped of context.
“Personal effects recovered,” the officer said. “No remains located.”
Soap didn’t hear the rest.
Unidentified remains. Mask recovered. Body never found.
Price’s voice cut through the ringing in Soap’s ear. “Status?”
The officer met his gaze evenly. “Missing in action.”
Soap felt sick.
This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t the fog of war. This was a message written in the only language Soap couldn’t ignore.
They hadn’t warned him.
They warned him through Ghost.
Because they knew.
They knew that Soap would dig.
They knew Price would push back.
And they knew Soap’s fatal flaw wasn’t curiosity.
It was his team.
Soap stared at the mask on the table, hands clenched at his sides, and understood with terrifying clarity:
Whoever wrote the files wasn’t afraid of him.
They were confident.
And they were willing to take pieces off the board to prove it.
Soap watched his captain carefully. Price looked composed—too composed. The kind of calm that came from understanding the rules of a game you’ve played long enough to recognise.
“Sir,” Soap said, “this isn’t normal.”
“No,’ Price agreed. “It’s deliberate.”
Gaz frowned.”We didn’t break protocol. Not officially.”
Price’s mouth twitched. “That’s the problem. They can’t punish us.”
“So they’re… what?” Gaz said. “Seeing who bends.”
“Seeing who stands alone,” Ghost said.
The evaluations were brief. Polite. Almost friendly.
Soap’s examiner smiled too much and asked the wrong questions—less about sleep or stress, more about trust. About command. About independence.
“Do you ever feel your team influences your decision-making in ways that conflict with orders?” she asked.
Soap met her gaze evenly. “That’s the job.”
She made a note anyway.
Gaz came back irritated, jaw tight. “They asked where my loyalty was if command and my captain disagreed.”
“And?” Soap asked.
“I said I’d need more context.”
That answer, they both knew, would be filed somewhere important.
Ghost returned last.
He didn’t say a word.
Not until Price dismissed them.
Then, quietly, “They asked me how long I could operate without support.”
Price’s blood runs cold. “And you said?”
“The truth.”
That night, Soap lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the base settle around him. Doors closing. Footsteps fading. A rhythm he’d trusted for years now felt off-beat.
They weren’t being watched.
They were being sorted.
The files hadn’t triggered punishment, but rather a review.
Soap sat up slowly, a cold clarity settling in.
This was how it happened.
Not with accusations or arrests.
With clipboards
With smiles.
With space inserted where trust used to live.
By the time the lights dimmed automatically, Soap understood something that made his chest ache:
They weren’t trying to kill Task Force 141.
They were trying to make sure it never existed in the first place.
