The Chosen.
Genre: action, drama, prose
Pairing: Keegan P. Russ x f! reader.
Synopsis»»————> In a heart-wrenching moment of survival, Keegan is forced to choose between two teammates during a Federation capture. With gut-wrenching decisiveness, he selects Merrick to live, leaving you to face potential execution—a choice that will haunt him and dramatically alter both of your lives forever.
Warning➷ angst, light gore, sensitive content, mention of death.
[About]: “If only I had dallied.”
Keegan, Merrick and you were captured by the Federation and you got stuck in a tough situation.
Two live, one dies.
The captor had a gun pointed at Merrick and you, demanding Keegan to chose who lives and dies.
And sadly, without hesitation, Keegan made his choice.
“Merrick! Merrick lives..” Keegan trumpeted, while desperately avoiding your eyes.
Under your gaze, his whole body tingle with contrition. He can feel it in his bone what you were thinking of his choice 'he's sacrificing me to save a valuable asset of the team'.
He finally meets your eyes—for a man who feared none and was confident in what he does, suddenly found to be coward to even look at you in the eye.
"[Your name]..." He exhales sharply through his nose, fists clenched in the grapple of the captor. Your name itself felt like a karma for his sin. "This isn’t how I wanted it to go."
A pause. Then quieter, "I don't have a choice."
Your heart sinks at the words, a wave of resignation washing over you. You look down, forcing yourself to nod.
"I know."
Your voice sounds feeble even to your own ears. The weight of your own acceptance hangs heavy in the air, filling the space around you.
The decision doesn't only affect Keegan but also Merrick. He would also have to carry the guilt of being chosen between him and you. But that is how a soldier is trained, no matter what the cost, protect the high ranking officer over a second fiddle.
"I'm sorry--" Keegan's words are cut short as the captor opens fire, the sound of the gunfire shattering through fraught atmosphere.
However, the bullet doesn't hit you. Instead, it finds its mark on Merrick.
One shot.
The impact is enough to send him stumbling backwards hitting the ground with a loud thud.
No...
Keegan broke free from the seize of the captor, his body moving before his mind can catch up—he lunges forward, grabbing your arm and yanking you behind cover just as the next bullet whizzes past where your head had been.
His grip is iron-tight, keeping himself between you and the shooter. But before the fed soldiers can shoot again the back up arrives, saving you and Keegan.
"You two alright?" Hesh questioned, his gaze bouncing between you and Keegan before they land on Merrick's lifeless body on the floor with a bullet puncture into his skull.
For a split second—the lieutenant's mask of control cracks. "Damn it..." He grits out through clenched teeth. Logan mirrored his older brother's disappointment when he sees yet another formidable solider's life ripped away due to their lateness.
Keegan's fingers tighten around your arm—just for a second—before he forces himself to let go, stepping back like the contact burned him.
"We're good," he says gruffly, already moving toward Hesh and Logan. His voice is low but carries an edge you haven’t heard before.
"Hesh," Keegan snaps as he joins his fellow Ghosts, "What's the exfil plan?"
Hesh meets the sharp eyes, unfazed by the edge in Keegan's voice. "Chopper’s 100 yards south."
Keegan doesn’t look at Merrick again. Doesn't glance at you either. Just turns away sharply, "Let's move." Keegan's brusque tone cuts through the air—sharp and final.
He doesn’t wait for confirmation before turning on his heel and leading the way out, his posture rigid with something between fury and focus.
You hesitate for a split second, your gaze darting back to Merrick's body before you follow the team.
The journey to the chopper is a blur of gunfire, shouted commands, and adrenaline. Your breaths come fast and heavy, the sound of your own pulse nearly drowning out everything else.
As you reach the extraction point, Keegan's hand closes around your arm—pulling you towards the open door. His grip is firm, almost bruising as he practically tosses you inside.
The roar of the chopper blades fills your ears as the aircraft lifts off, leaving the firefight behind.
(Time skip)
Your are lying in the makeshift infirmary of the Ghosts' base. The ward was a stark, sterile space—metal counters, bare bulbs, and stark white walls. The only sign of life is a small vase of wilting wildflowers atop a desk and the low hum of medical equipment.
The quiet is punctuated by the steady rhythm of rain drumming against the tin roof. For a moment, you lay there—staring at the ceiling then moved to look at the bassinet, trying to piece together the memories from earlier.
Merrick is dead, but the most unexpected and shocking part was that you going into the labor afterwards. Which is staggering for not only your team but also yourself because you didn't have any general symptoms of pregnancy like any women would have, hell you didn't even have a baby bump that would give away and for all these 9 months you were active on the battlefield while carrying a BABY in your womb without your knowledge and went through a near death experience. How shitty can this all get?
You feel—unsettled by everything that's happened and sense the tonnage of it pressing down on you like a cumbersome diving suit—Merrick's death, the unexpected pregnancy, it was all a whole goddamn mess.
As you force yourself to sit up, an intense pain shoots through your core, hips, abdomen and legs. Right, you're sore as hell.
You grimace, strangled gasps leaving your mouth. The pain is needle like, radiating through you like a wave of fire, you consider staying in the bed—just laying back down and hoping sleep would take you away from it.
But then... A soft whimper from the bassinet beside you was heard.
The small bundle wrapped in clean white cloth lies just inches away—a newborn with tufts of dark hair and tiny fingers curled against his chest.
Your mind races as you try to process it all. The questions crowd each other like soldiers on a battlefield—each one jostling for attention.
You were very careful when you got involved, but that still got you pregnant and in your opinion pregnancy was supposed to come with warning signs.
But you'd had none of that. No hints or red flags whatsoever. You'd run a full physical months ago and there was nothing off. How could a medical exam miss the fact that you were carrying a human life inside you?
The elucidation given by the doctors was, you went into a cryptic labor and it made you feel appalled by your own body. But how can you not? No morning sickness, no cravings, not even a missed period to tip you off. Just nine months of oblivious warzone heroics while carrying an entire human being inside you.
Slowly, carefully, you reach out for the baby boy. Despite the pain still coursing through you, the act is automatic—almost instinctual.
The infant stirs again, little fists uncurling and reaching out as if searching for something. With shaking hand, you brush your fingers against the baby's tiny knuckles. He wrap around your forefinger with surprising strength, gripping tightly.
Your eyes starts to sting with tears as the reality of the situation fully sinked in, sharp and unforgiving. This wasn't just any child, either. Born into a world of bullets and bloodshed... the baby was a Ghosts' child.
The soft sound of rain continues to beat against the windows, a steady background noise to the chaos in your head. You blink away the tears and look down at the infant again, studying every little detail as if trying to understand.
He seems fine. Healthy, even. His chest rises and falls steadily, little fists still wrapped around your finger. Nevertheless the doubt and uncertainty still clouded your brain at the sudden role of a mother falling upon your head. In the middle of a war. With no warning or preparation.
Just as you're about to pull your hand away, the baby lets out another soft whimper—this time more insistent. His tiny face scrunches up in discomfort before he starts fussing for real.
Oh no.
"You better not be hungry," you whisper desperately, "Because I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing here."
The little guy doesn't seem to care about your lack of experience. His eyes are squeezed tight, face reddening with each passing second. His tiny body squirming against the blankets, hands clenched into small fists. He's crying for real now—sharp, urgent cries that fill the sterile air.
Panic starts to set in, mixed with the exhaustion and soreness. Helpless, you glance around the small room, searching for any help but knowing there is none. You are alone.
The cries get louder… and louder.
The wails echo off the cold walls, the sound bouncing back sharper and louder each time. Seeing your son cry, adrenaline kicked in, giving you a burst of desperate energy.
Your arms tremble as you gently scoop him up, lifting him carefully against your chest. The contact seems to soothe him slightly, the wails quietening to soft, hiccupy sobs.
As you cradle him in your arms, his little hand grabs at the front of your hospital gown, tiny fingers clenching around the fabric desperately. Something twinges in your chest.
Your thumb brushes lightly over his tiny knuckles, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just this—his warmth against your skin, the way his cries soften into sleepy little hiccups. It’s terrifying how fast he already has you wrapped around that tiny finger.
As the baby begins to settle, his tiny face relaxes at the contact of his mother, eyes opening slightly. His gaze is unfocused, but he seems to be trying to study you.
And that single innocent act had you feel strangely grateful for the captor for going contrary to the decision made.
Wrapped in the surreal quiet of the infirmary, you feel an unfamiliar emotion swell inside you. It wasn't just fear or exhaustion. It was something protective—fierce and primal. This little human, so small and vulnerable, was yours.
All yours.
[Keegan's POV]
Keegan stands outside the infirmary. But he doesn't go in. Doesn't dare move. He stands still, shoulders stiff and hands clenched into fists. The urge to barge in and check on you—and the baby—is almost overwhelming. But something holds him back. Shame, maybe. Guilt. Fear.
He'd choose a teammate to live and let another one die. That fact still haunts him.
He hadn’t known about any of this when he choose Merrick to live over you… but now? Now it sits on him like lead weights around his neck.
'What if it had been her?' a voice whispers in Keegan's head (the question repeated ad nauseam). The irony isn't lost on him either: if things had gone differently... would there even be an infant in your arms right now?
Keegan's breath comes out short and shaky like he was locked up inside a torture box. He could feel himself drowning in the sea of culpability, reevaluating—Merrick’s devastating death, your near-death experience, the fact that you somehow carried a child through war and pain without even realizing it… and the most painfully of all, the resignation look on your face when he chose Merrick.
If only he had dallied...
"Fuck." he cursed beneath his breath before finally turning away from the door with jerky movements.
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A/N: Thank you for reading, hope you guys liked it so far! And I apologize in advance if there are spelling, grammatical or punctual errors. Do express your opinions if you like my fic or not in the comments (in a respectful way) and let me know if I should write a second part of this. Support me by reblogging!
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