The Silence Of The Mole
Poly 141 x Medic Reader
Summary: A field medic and lover to the 141 is caught in a web of suspicion and betrayal after a mission goes wrong. Accused of being a mole, the reader faces harsh interrogations from the squad, leading to deep emotional scars. As the truth comes out, trust is shattered, and the reader must decide whether they can ever forgive the team, especially those they were closest to.
Warning: ⚠️ Ghost being extra mean ⚠️
The mission had gone to hell in seconds. You crouched behind cover in the wreckage of what was once a safehouse, blood staining your gloves as you worked frantically to save an injured operative. Shouts and gunfire echoed around you, the air thick with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
The intel had been airtight, or so everyone believed. You’d moved in with precision, confidence, and a plan. But the ambush hit hard and fast, your every move countered like they were reading from the same playbook.
You didn’t have time to think about how it had gone wrong. You were too busy pulling Soap out of the line of fire, throwing yourself between Gaz and the sniper that had him pinned, dragging Ghost back when shrapnel ripped through his shoulder. The fight was chaos, but somehow, you all made it out alive—just barely.
When you finally made it back to base, everything was eerily silent. No one spoke as you filed into the debriefing room, the weight of the failed mission pressing down on all of you. Price stood at the head of the table, his face like stone, and you could feel the tension in the room simmering beneath the surface.
“This wasn’t bad luck,” Price said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Someone sold us out.”
The words hit like a physical blow. You looked around the room, seeing the same shock and disbelief mirrored in everyone’s faces. A mole. Someone had betrayed the team.
The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Ghost spoke. “We need to find out who.”
It wasn’t long before the rumors started.
It began as whispers, quiet and insidious.
“She always knows where everyone is.”
“I heard she was asking a lot of questions before the mission.”
“She’s close with all of them—maybe too close.”
At first, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just paranoia, that people were looking for someone to blame. But then the stares started. The sidelong glances in the hallways, the conversations that stopped when you walked into the room.
You tried to push it aside, focusing on your work in the med bay. But the tension followed you everywhere, growing louder and more hostile with every passing day.
The breaking point came when Price called you into the debriefing room.
The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with tension. Price sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Ghost was next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating controlled fury. Soap and Gaz sat farther back, their expressions uneasy.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, your voice steady despite the sinking feeling in your stomach.
“Take a seat,” Price said.
You hesitated, glancing at the others, but eventually sat down. The silence stretched on, oppressive and uncomfortable, until Price finally spoke.
“There’s been a development,” he said. “Rumors are going around that you’re the mole.”
You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “What?”
“It’s not just rumors,” Ghost said, his voice low and biting. “We have to investigate.”
Your stomach twisted. “You think I did this?”
“No one’s saying that—” Soap started, but Ghost cut him off.
“We’re saying we can’t rule you out,” he said.
Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve been with this team for years. I’ve saved your lives more times than I can count. How can you even think—”
“Enough,” Price interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’re not accusing you. But we need answers.”
Your chest tightened, anger and disbelief warring with the hurt that clawed at your throat. “So, what? You’re interrogating me now?”
No one answered, but the tension in the room was answer enough.
The interrogation started that night.
Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz all took turns questioning you, their voices sharp and relentless as they picked apart every detail of your actions before and during the mission.
“Where were you two hours before deployment?” Price asked, his voice calm but cold.
“In the med bay, prepping supplies,” you answered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table.
“Alone?” Ghost pressed, his tone unreadable, though the accusation was clear.
You nodded. “Yes. I always prep alone; you know that.”
“That’s convenient,” Ghost said, his eyes narrowing.
Your jaw tightened. “What are you implying?”
“Just stating the facts,” he replied, his voice clipped.
Soap shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. Gaz leaned forward, his brow furrowed in conflict, but he didn’t speak up. It felt like they were watching you drown, unsure whether to save you or let you sink.
The questioning dragged on for hours, each question more pointed than the last. They dissected your every move, twisting your words until even you started doubting yourself.
“Did you access the mission brief before it was officially released?” Price asked.
“I didn’t,” you said firmly.
“We’ve got logs showing someone accessed it from a med bay terminal,” Ghost said, his voice hard. “You’re the only one who uses that terminal.”
Your stomach dropped. “I didn’t touch it. I swear.”
“Then who did?” Price asked, his eyes boring into yours.
“I don’t know!” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure. “But it wasn’t me.”
Your words hung in the air, but the doubt in their eyes didn’t waver.
The interrogations became a daily occurrence. They pulled you into that cold, sterile room every night, questioning you until your voice was hoarse and your body ached from the tension. The physical toll started to show—dark circles under your eyes, a tremor in your hands that you couldn’t hide.
But the worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the relentless questions. It was the way they looked at you.
Price, the man who had been your anchor in countless storms, now looked at you like a stranger. Ghost, your silent protector, treated you like an enemy. Even Soap and Gaz, the ones who always comforted you and usually had your back no matter what, kept their distance, their expressions torn between doubt and guilt.
It wasn’t long before the interrogations escalated.
One night, after yet another grueling session, Ghost stood and loomed over you, his towering presence casting a shadow over the room.
“You’re not telling us everything,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
“Lies,” he said simply.
Before you could respond, Ghost’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an ironclad hold. You gasped as he pulled you to your feet, his grip bruising.
“Ghost,” Soap said sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”
But Ghost didn’t let go. “People died because of that ambush,” he said, his voice cold and venomous. “Our people. You think you’re walking out of here without giving us answers?”
“I didn’t do it!” you shouted, your voice breaking.
Ghost’s grip tightened, and panic surged in your chest. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.
“That’s enough,” Price said, his voice sharp as a blade.
Ghost hesitated, then released you, shoving you back into the chair. You stumbled, clutching your wrist as tears blurred your vision.
The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.
The physical strain from the interrogations started to show. Your body ached from being yanked and shoved, your wrists bruised from Ghost’s rough grip. Your hands, once steady and skilled, trembled constantly, making it harder to do your job in the med bay.
It wasn’t just the physical toll. The emotional weight was unbearable. The 141—your lovers, your partners, your family—looked at you like you were a stranger. No matter how much you pleaded, no matter how many times you swore your innocence, they refused to believe you.
Only Gaz and Soap seemed to falter. They still looked at you with doubt, but there were moments when you caught glimpses of something else—guilt, hesitation, maybe even regret. But they didn’t say anything, and their silence hurt almost as much as the accusations.
A week later, the truth finally came out.
You were in the med bay, stitching up a soldier’s wound with trembling hands, when Price walked in. The look on his face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes.
“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than it had been in days.
You nodded, though your chest tightened with apprehension.
Price led you to the debriefing room, where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were already waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, but this time, it felt different.
“We know the truth,” Price said, his voice low.
Your heart stopped.
“It wasn’t you,” he continued. “The intel breach came from someone else. A jealous operative spread the rumors to cover their tracks.”
You stared at him, the words not fully sinking in. “What?”
“They’ve been discharged,” Ghost said, his tone clipped.
You looked between them, your anger and disbelief bubbling to the surface. “So that’s it? You spent a week tearing me apart, treating me like a traitor, and now you expect me to just move on?”
No one answered.
“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “What you did to me?”
“Lass, we—” Soap started, but you cut him off.
“Don’t,” you said sharply, tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare try to justify it.”
They tried to apologize, but the damage was done. The betrayal cut too deep, and no amount of words could erase the memories of their accusations—the way they’d looked at you, interrogated you, hurt you. It had shattered something fundamental between you and the people you once trusted with your life.
You stopped sharing quarters with them, opting instead to sleep in the med bay. It wasn’t ideal—your back ached from the stiff cot, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your dreams—but at least it gave you space. You couldn’t bear to wake up beside them, to feel their hands on you, knowing what they’d done.
The med bay became your haven. You threw yourself into your work, tending to wounded soldiers and drowning yourself in the steady routine of bandages, stitches, and medications. You thought if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to think about the past week—or the aching void in your chest where their love used to be.
Soap and Gaz tried the hardest to make amends.
“Lass, let me help you with that,” Soap said one evening, stepping into the med bay as you struggled to move a heavy supply crate.
“I don’t need your help,” you said coldly, refusing to look at him.
“Please,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just… I want to help.”
You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, letting him carry the crate to the storage room. He lingered after, standing awkwardly by the door as if waiting for you to say something.
“Is there something else you need?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.
Soap flinched but shook his head. “No. Just… sorry.”
You turned away, refusing to let him see the tears welling in your eyes.
Gaz was more subtle, his attempts to bridge the gap quieter but no less earnest. He stayed late in the med bay, helping you clean up or organize supplies without saying a word. He brought you coffee in the mornings, setting it down on your desk before slipping away.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said one night as you worked side by side. “And I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. For all of it.”
You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the sutures in your hands. But when he left, you found yourself staring at the door long after it closed, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he meant it.
Ghost and Price, on the other hand, kept their distance.
You saw them in passing—Ghost’s hulking figure lingering in the shadows, Price’s steady presence in the command room—but they didn’t approach you. They didn’t try to explain themselves, didn’t offer apologies or excuses. At first, you were relieved. You didn’t think you could handle hearing their voices without breaking all over again.
But as the days stretched on, their silence began to weigh on you. It felt like they were avoiding you, like they’d given up on even trying to make things right. And maybe they had.
One night, as you sat alone in the med bay, the door creaked open. You looked up to see Price standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.
“Where else would I be?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.
He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment before sitting down across from you. The weight of his presence filled the room, the silence stretching unbearably between you.
“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.
You stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
“I let my judgment get clouded,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you all put me through?”
Price looked up, and for the first time, you saw the guilt etched into his features. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “But I want to make it right.”
You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right, Price. Not after this.”
Ghost came to you a few days later.
You were organizing supplies when you felt his presence behind you, a familiar weight that sent a shiver down your spine.
“What do you want, Ghost?” you asked, not turning around.
“I wanted to talk,” he said, his voice unusually hesitant.
You laughed bitterly. “You? Talk? That’s a first.”
There was a pause, and when you finally turned to face him, you saw something you had only seen when he showed you his face: vulnerability.
“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about you. And I’m sorry.”
You stared at him, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you almost believed him. But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you during the interrogations—the cold, unyielding fury in his eyes—and the anger surged back.
“You think ‘sorry’ is enough?” you asked, your voice shaking. “You didn’t just accuse me, Ghost. You hurt me. Physically, emotionally—you broke me.”
“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”
“Good,” you said, your eyes blazing with tears. “Because I don’t think I can forgive you either.”
Soap and Gaz were the only ones you started to let back in. It was slow—painfully slow—but their earnest efforts began to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself.
Soap made you laugh again, his humor cautious but genuine. Gaz stayed by your side during the long, quiet nights in the med bay, his steady presence a comfort you didn’t realize you needed.
Price and Ghost, though—they remained on the outside. No matter how much they apologized, no matter how many times they tried to reach out, you couldn’t bring yourself to let them in. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
And yet, despite everything, a part of you still longed for the family you’d lost. Whether that longing would ever outweigh the pain they’d caused, though, was a question you weren’t ready to answer. Not yet.
Authors note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this week’s fic! It was definitely a rollercoaster for me to write my heart was all over the place! I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, so please let me know what you liked and if there’s anything else you’d like me to explore. Looking forward to your feedback and what you’d like to see next 🫶🏼
