》Thank you for being such an inspiration @553580 and @/daydreamerwoah !🖤《
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|About 420 words| [Previous] [Next] [⬇️gilduii]
Next afternoon, in Price's office
"Never seen the photos, you know?"
Ghost leans back, slid down a bit in his chair, legs outstretched, his hands clasped behind his neck now. Like this, he miraculously manages to appear even bigger in his extent – commanding a presence, dominating the space. He doesn't sit, usually.
"You never seemed interested", Price states, leaning back as well, mentally preparing for a duell. Something essential has happened – and it must have fled his attention. He hates this feeling.
His lieutenant cocks a brow. There’s a dark smile hidden behind the black mask, Price can tell. It makes him open one of his desk drawers to take out a file; the file on a murder investigation. A closed case. And it bears your name. Well, her name…
In a large envelope, there are several photos he spreads out on the desk for Ghost to see.
For a while, his lieutenant studies them from afar, keeping his position, unmoving. Only Ghost's eyes run along everything that's frozen in time before him, a systematical check of what was supposed to be a last chapter before the concluding epilogue.
There definitely shouldn't be any loose ends...
Two pictures have captured his interest. Now, finally, he leans forward to pick them up.
"What a mess."
Ghost has swiftly taken in the whole scene preserved in the photo, overall shot. Most of the details are already known to him and exactly the way he remembers – your room, the condition of your body from beneath your eyes downwards – but now he is fully focalised on a close-up of the headshot.
"She looks pretty dead indeed."
"What else would she be?" Price scoffs and isn't prepared for Ghost's reply.
"For a moment, I thought that maybe the gunshot to the head hadn't really happened. That she was still alive and thrivin'."
"How's that? I saw her corpse, didn't I?"
"Sure", Ghost grants, " 's what you said, isn't it? Should be true then."
The two men keep their eye contact unblinkingly, gauging each other, two predators, equally strong in completely different ways.
The lieutenant places the photos on top of the others for his captain to gather up and put away.
And for once John Price is unsure whether this is Ghost smirking behind the mask or what's left of Simon…
"Go on", Price encourages, but his lieutenant just shrugs, the crinkles of his smug smile even deepening further as he replies,
From the corner of his eye, Soap saw the shadow of a door frame swallow the man’s retreating form. The solid tread Ghost chose to stride across the hallway floorboards usually didn't register to him, but right now, every step his lieutenant took felt like an aggressive drumbeat against the inside of his skull.
He didn't move. He couldn't.
Ghost gained access to her home?!
He stayed plastered against the cool concrete wall of the corridor, his chest burning as he fought to keep his breathing shallow and steady. He had been on his way to a briefing with Ghost, maybe to arrange a sparring session like they often did. Instead, he had frozen dead in his tracks three minutes ago when he heard that low, gravelly voice drop to an octave he had only ever heard Ghost use during ruthless interrogations in the field.
Except this wasn't an interrogation. It was predatory.
“Takin' over your sister’s job, her flat, her life, aren’t you, lovie?”
The words echoed in Soap’s ears, metallic and sickening. Ghost had been talking to Diana with a sickening cocktail of possessiveness and crude intimidation. Soap's closed fists tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. He closed his eyes, the memory of Ghost's voice taunting her about "getting shagged" burning into his mind like acid.
It wasn't just the words. It was the absolute shift in the man's demeanor the very moment Diana had entered the stage. Soap knew Ghost to be closed off, a machine forged from shadows, distant and lethal. Yet, right in front of the very same sister's twin he’d been treating with cold, polite professional distance, the mask had slipped. Ghost was leaning in close, invading her space, tilting her chin up. He was letting her see a side of him that no one else was supposed to witness.
“Come find me in case you need anything. Anytime.”
Ghost’s voice played back in Soap's head, laced with a terrifying patience that promised it wasn't over. A silent panther deciding to toy with his prey.
Soap opened his eyes and stared straight ahead into the empty hallway. A bitter, cold realisation settled in his gut. The first time the dam had broken between him and his partner was not even twelve hours ago, during that short, sharp talk in which Ghost confessed a forbidden liaison, biting back and redirecting the focus onto his sergeant with sadistic glee. An explainable reaction, maybe.
But this? This was something entirely different. This was a second crack, deep and ugly, right through the bedrock of everything Soap thought he knew about the man he called his brother in arms, his friend.
And worse, it involved her.
He waited until he heard the faint echo of her footsteps retreating towards her office. Only then did Soap peel himself off the wall, his jaw set in a rigid line, his eyes dark with a sudden, boiling protectiveness he didn't quite know how to handle. He let out a quiet, scathing breath into the dim hall.
Ghost might own the shadows, but Soap knew every corner of this base. And he had no intention of letting whatever game Ghost was playing go unchallenged.
Soap leans in the doorframe, watching Ghost rhythmically drag a whetstone across his combat knife, the scraping sound grating against the heavy silence.
"So, you and our dead admin, huh?" Soap asks, straight to the point.
Ghost doesn’t look up. His hands still for a brief second. "She was alive then."
Soap scoffs, pushing off the frame. "Fuckin' Christ, LT… Just wouldnae have guessed she'd be yer type of woman."
"That so?" Ghost finally meets his gaze, his tone flat behind the skull mask.
"Aye."
Ghost goes back to sharpening, the metallic rasp filling the room again. "Totally my type. The convenient one. Casual shags, easily accessible, no strings attached. Would let me have my way. See? Perfect type."
Nae room for misunderstandings at all…
Soap lets out a low whistle, crossing his arms—as if it had just got necessary to put some barrier between himself and the other man. There’s a tightening in his chest he can neither place nor name. It feels too sharp.
Shifting his weight to his other foot, he does realise, though, that Ghost isn't playing their usual game.
"She was a right sport, that one," Ghost continues, his eyes locked on the blade, "Pretty twin looks promisin' as well, doesn't she?" He offers a teasing smirk in the corners of his eyes, an edge of challenge bleeding through. "Or wouldn't you agree?"
A rosy heat rushes to Soap's cheeks and he decides to keep his gob shut.
Ghost's grin deepens. "Thought you would. I'm not blind. Now what, Johnny? Askin' for my permission?"
Soap's shoulders straighten. For the first time, the tone of their banter has changed—or is it just the first time he's noticed? The Scotsman is not one to let others get away with a provocation. He's an expert at fighting fire with fire.
"Would I need one?"
"Heheheh."
Ghost lets out the dry, dark chuckle. "Could get the impression, Sarge." Inspecting the razor-sharp blade in the light of his desk lamp, Ghost adds, almost like a well-meaning piece of advice: "Better sharpen your own knives now and have your fill, Johnny—before someone else picks on her scent. Took you far too long with the dead one."
It is a jagged, cruel little jab. It hangs in the air —the first crack in the surface of what John MacTavish has considered a friendship.
》I can't stop anymore... 😱 There will be some additional parts... Thank you, @553580 and @/daydreamerwoah ! What have you done?! 😘
Also: thanks, @sgt-artemis-owl-riley for your thoughts! This escalated quickly!《
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|About 250 words| [Previous] [Next] [⬇️gilduii]
Another normal day.
Not difficult to get back into routines after his forced stay in medical. Sitting behind his office desk, Ghost stretches his legs. He can still feel some minor pain here and there from the incident; the scratch marks you gave him at the side of his neck are the most annoying one with their stinging. Nothing he can’t cope with, though.
Between training recruits and too much paperwork, this seems to be the perfect time for a cup of tea.
He's obviously not the only one who's had this idea. Even some metres away from the lounge, he can hear laughter drifting out of its open door. At least three people. Two of them are easy to identify, despite the fact that he doesn't get a lot of context.
Ghost follows the noise of the conversation. Garrick. And Soap, who's got that lower timbre colouring his deep voice now, showing with every word — Flirty. — so that Ghost expects to find some pretty bird with them.
He wouldn't complain about some additional distraction…
When he enters the room, three faces meet his eyes — but he only freezes midmotion as he sees you turning towards him.
Your eyes are all the same as he remembers them from before, even that spark is back, the one he saw die long before he took his final thrust.
Additionally, there's a subtle smile hiding in the shady corners of your lips.
Maybe he heard you when you asked Soap and Gaz out to the pub for some more casual, private talk regarding your sister, or maybe one of them mentioned it. Maybe he was even watching you. Doesn't matter.
All that matters is that you were right about him—and prepared for something like this. Shouldn't be too difficult for him to find what you want to let him see.
Peculiarly funny that he seemingly doesn't expect you to have made some arrangements; clear indicator for his arrogance when it comes to you or better said, your twin.
Not once does he hesitate, not when picking the lock with practiced fingers, not when entering your flat with his nightvision on. Or maybe he doesn't care?
While you're watching Ghost stride through your flat as if he had every right to, going through your things, gloved skeleton fingers tracing along the laces of your underwear, you make a decision.
You won't interfere, even though it’s an invasion of your privacy that tastes bitter on your tongue. This place was the last bit of you he hadn't had his hands on, yet. Gone now, too. First he took the shell of your body, and now the safety of your home. You hate how he is everywhere that is you.
But you have to swallow it, push it off your mind, return to the two sergeants among all the other guests and be the woman again who doesn't know any of them at all. Let the evening at the pub continue, listen to their stories, laugh with slight restraint and notice the wistfulness in their eyes and voices when the three of you talk about her. For now, there's nothing more to do.
When your security system gives the all-clear later and you drive Soap and Kyle back to base, you feel more like yourself in their presence.
Not too far away from the house you live in, you park at the side and check the whole footage again. By and large, things went the way you expected, apart from one very pleasant exception. Something you should definitely keep in mind. Who knows what it might come in handy for later.
When you finally return home, your flat looks exactly the way you left it.
You smile to yourself. A ghost leaves no visible traces—but you know they are there, anchored deep down in the shadow sphere where darkness prospers, beneath skin and flesh and bones, where memory festers into phobia and trauma. It's only fair that you've seen his wound, unbeknownst to him. A mental obole Ghost has left for you, shiny and heavy. About time now to pay your thanks for that to an old friend.
On your way to your livingroom, you replay the footage scene before your inner eye.
Ghost knows you live alone. No cat or dog coming to greet him the moment the lock gives and he enters your home swiftly through the half-open door to find himself in a corridor connecting the rooms. Two doors to his left, three doors down to the right. Left side first. A bathroom, spacious, nothing special in the cabinets. He's out again quickly. Your bedroom. By far more interesting. He takes his time. Finds the connection to the past, the one you left to be discovered at the floor of your wardrobe for an incident like this. Takes pictures.
A penny for his thoughts when he starts to go through your most intimate stuff. He stays methodical, yes, but there’s more to it. A solemn hesitation as he checks the crevices of your bed, just for one heartbeat, but you've noticed. Lingering hands, lingering eyes…
He immediately makes sure everything looks untouched, meticulously.
Then down the corridor. Your study, your kitchen. Easy. Fast.
He steps into the livingroom, memorising the layout, and glances to his left—Hell! He jerks backward, slamming his spine hard enough against the door to rattle the frame. Instinct takes over. One hand flails out, barely missing a framed picture, while the other braces him from collapsing.
Suddenly, he is no longer alone.
Two apex predators lock eyes—though only one of them is fearless. A long, slender black snake rears up its head, tracking his movements with terrifying intelligence. Some silvery shades of grey on its body outline its actual size. Ghost has discovered your terrarium. He curses through gritted teeth, his breath coming in ragged, heated puffs as he pins his back to the wood. "Fuckin' hell," he mumbles, giving the enclosure a very wide berth.
Far too often, his eyes dart to the reptile tank, and for far too many agonising minutes, his hands seem to be slightly shaking. He leaves not long after, though he could have checked some cupboards more attentively. So, you dare say he did a sloppy job in here, by his own elite standards–but who are you to complain?
You thought about what to do next. Your enemy gets away with murder. So, this home invasion won't be more than a minor inconvenience. How can you let Ghost get away with it on your own terms, while you lull him into a sense of security, but at the same time show him your teeth?
Fully relaxed, your nearly solid jet-black Okeetee corn snake is wrapped around your wrist and lower arm in loose loops while it watches you with its head held up. A mask of white scales there and some around its body like pale rings make it even more obvious how tall your pet actually is, well above average. You're lucky that your snake is so curious. It would have been a shame if Ghost hadn't been able to catch a good look.
This is how you want to proceed: Offer Ghost an easy way out and see if he cares to opt for it, if it plays any role at all.
Next day, you intend to seek him out in his office, but you end up running into him in the hallway.
He acknowledges you with nothing more than a cutting glance and a single sharp nod.
With a firm voice, you ask: "Lieutenant, may I have a word with you, please?"
But he brushes past you, a Manila folder in his hand. "Not now."
Gruff finality. He's busy, you can tell, with the upcoming mission in a few weeks. He wants to focus now.
You couldn't care less.
One swift look around makes clear: You two are all alone in the hallway. It's not the perfect place for a confrontation, but it'll do.
"Just one thing. Perhaps my sister was ok with you going through her smalls but I'm not."
Stopping dead in his tracks, he slowly turns around to you, his face hidden behind the mask but his piercing gaze locked with yours. Yes, you've got his full attention now.
He doesn’t say a word at first. Instead, he shifts the Manila folder under his arm and takes a deliberate step forward, closing the distance between you. His unreadable mask tilts slightly. "Is tha' right?" he asks, his voice muffled but dangerously low. "And what exactly would you like me to do about it?"
"The less you do, the better. I mean, you probably just wanted to make sure nothing was missing, but that's what I got the security system for."
You caught him cold—and the closest thing to a confession you'll get from him is one single praise: "Clever girl." It's at once mockery and an admission of admiration.
"My sister got killed, I got cautious." You don't take your eyes off him, ensuring none of his micro-expressions escape you. "Surveillance reduces the number of bad surprises. Can be fun even. You were so startled when her Ghost showed. For a moment I expected the Ghost of 141 to get a massive heart attack."
Ignoring the dig, he tilts his head, carefully shoving the folder into an inside pocket of his jacket. Perhaps he does have some time to spare after all.
"Her Ghost?"
"Her snake. The name is Ghost, too. You actually didn't know of him, did you?"
A hint of white on black. Thought of you, back then, when I picked his name. Silent, smooth, deadly.
He shrugs, using the chance to once more point out the nature of his relationship to your 'twin'. "Nah. Always went straight to the bedroom. If we made it that far."
A mischievous spark in the depth of his eyes proves how much he enjoys this toying with you, here in his very territory.
Always taking the room he needs, making it fit the way he likes. A part of you wishes you wouldn't remember so well how it feels when he goes straight to where he wants to be, full force—how he made you give…
It leaves you wondering: how could you look up to him for so long and not see?
"Yeah, sure." You cross your arms, repulsed by him and angry at yourself. "I want the keys back. That she let you in doesn't mean I'd do the same."
"Pity. Thought it could be a twin-thing, Diana." It's unsettling how he uses your name. He never did that in the past… He lets you glide over his lips the only way he can get you. It's a way—with tormenting impunity— to have his mouth on you that you can’t escape from. "Now what? You gonna complain to Price? File a report?"
You ignore his questions. That should be enough of an answer. "Do not enter my flat again without my knowledge and my permission. My sister is not there anymore to let you do as you please."
"Thought I'd left somethin' at her place tha' belongs to me."
"What is it? I'll look out for it, then."
He brushes you off. "Nevermind."
Now he takes you in even more thoroughly, a methodical scan, close to emotionless. But his words betray him.
"You're the spittin' image of her. Except you've got a sharper edge. Makes me wonder just how much of that hostility you can swallow down when I push."
"You're trying to measure the wrong sister, Lieutenant. I'm not the one who bends when you push. And if you’re hoping to find her echo in my voice, you’ll be waiting forever. I’m nothing like her, and frankly, you aren't worth the bullet it would take to prove it."
His eyes narrow, deepening the crinkles in their corners with his sly grin. Oh, he looks far too pleased now. "She never told you 'bout us? Not a hint?"
"No," you state flatly. "Maybe because it was totally meaningless."
"Hmhm." He tilts his head. "Or maybe she wouldn't trust your discretion. First thing you did is spill a secret to my sergeant right away." He doesn't need to elaborate on what he's referring to.
"Since my sister is gone, you don't have to worry about any consequences anymore," you retort, "and I'm trying to find out everything I can about her death."
He scrutinises you closely, letting his eyes trail down the length of your body and up again. However, you can tell this it not about your curves—it's about you wearing her clothes.
"That's not all. You're doin' far more."
"What do you mean?"
"Takin' over your sister's job, her flat, her life, aren’t you, lovie?" His gloved index finger tilts your chin upwards, cool fabric pressing against warm skin. "Just lemme know when you wanna get shagged like her, too."
You sound eerily calm: "This is the second time I'm telling you to take your hands off me." When you jerk away your head from his touch, he lets you.
He gives a slow, infuriating grin. "Playin' hard to get, sugar? I like tha'. Like me a good game."
Turning on his heel to leave, he doesn't wait for your reaction. "Come find me in case you need anything. Anytime."
For a moment, you watch Ghost walk away. He moves with that quiet, terrifying patience of a shadow unfazed— a panther that's made his point and lost interest for now, leaving an invisible thread of tension vibrating in the air—but that will strike again out of nowhere if he pleases. In fact, there seems to be something about Diana that makes Ghost act very differently towards her than towards your twin. It's as if he's dropped all distance, and honestly? It's a worrying development…
And perhaps that's exactly what you need…
Deep in thought, you breathe out audibly before you head to your office.
[Next morning, you'll find a blank, white envelope neatly placed on your desk. It will contain a key to your flat. No need to wonder who put it there. But you'll have to ask yourself how he got it.]
Unbeknownst to both Ghost and you, hidden out of sight right behind the next corner, Soap had the chance to overhear your conversation—each and every unsettling detail.
There’s a knock at the door, which makes Price glance at his watch and Ghost get up.
"I've got a meeting with our new admin," the older man lets him know, "And somehow I'v got the feeling that getting this particular staff member might have something to do with your behaviour. Better keep you close… Why don't you stay? We can get that introductory part over with together."
That spark of glee in Ghost's eyes doesn't go unnoticed.
"Sounds perfect, Cap."
So you're asked to enter.
When the door swings open, the masked man has positioned himself to the side of the large desk, near the wall, so that he has a clear view of his superior's face. Moreover, he's far enough away from the chair you will be taking that you won't feel cramped. Theoretically. Yet he also has a very good angle to observe you.
You see Price first, of course. After all, he's the one you expect to find in here. It’s only a heartbeat later that you spot Ghost, too, who needs to admit – with genuine admiration – that his captain has got far more control over his facial expression than he himself had yesterday.
You give him the quickest look-over before you turn back to the man in front of you.
"Good afternoon, Captain Price," you greet, then tell him your full name and thank him for meeting you in-person.
Such a polite thing you are in here.
Price has already got up and started to act as the very image of an officer and gentleman, performing all the necessary formal procedures, before he introduces,
"This is my lieutenant, Ghost Riley."
"We've already met," you inform, face neutral, and maybe notice the side-eye he gives the taller man as he replies,
"I see."
Perhaps you also become aware of the smug grin hidden behind Ghost's mask—he couldn't care less.
The ensuing discussion regarding upcoming personnel training schedules gives Ghost sufficient time to study you further, to notice more details, more parallels.
The way you slightly tilt your head when you prepare for an answer; the imperceptible twitch of your thumb and index finger when you focus; the crincles in the corners of your eyes that look too familiar.
How similar can twins be?
Despite the fact that he commits the details of the conversation to memory, he's more focussed on you and his musings.
Things only get interesting again when you change the subject at what originally seemed like the end of the meeting, right before Price can see you off.
"May I ask you a few questions about my twin sister, Sir?"
He's slightly leaning back in his chair, taking you in, as if he had already expected you to bring this topic up.
"You may."
So you take a deep breath.
"I need to know how she died."
Technically not a question, sweet'eart.
No reason to split hairs, though.
"What information did the DSCU provide?" Price asks.
"I know that my sister was raped and murdered by a former SAS trooper who committed suicide afterwards."
[When Kate told you his name, you vaguely remembered the soldier. A while ago, you had to reschedule several appointments and support proper duty adjustments as a superior had formally reported him for a mental health concern to a Medical Officer.
And you also remember said superior's name, even though it got immediately redacted and classified in the files.]
"I can confirm that,"he readily admits.
But you want more from him.
"Captain Price, I was actually hoping that you might be willing to give me some additional details."
For a moment, he seems to be considering your request. Then he offers:
"Psychological and psychiatric evaluations determined that the trooper was permanently unfit for service, which finally resulted in his medical discharge. Last month, he was informed about the decision. He didn't take it well; simply looked for someone on whom he could exact revenge. Unfortunately, he picked your sister."
"I can hardly believe that. She was just an average admin."
There’s a hint of softness to his voice that contrasts with the content of his reply.
"Let me assure you that the case was investigated thoroughly. There is absolutely no doubt regarding the circumstances leading to this first-degree murder committed with aggravating factors — combined with sexual assault – perpetrated out of malice aforethought and premeditation, as stated in the files."
He sounds very convincing and very official. You would probably believe him, if you weren't the one who fell victim to their deeds.
However, like this, you can afford the luxury of digging deeper.
"Please, Sir, she is my twin sister…," you almost whisper, observing, from under your eyelashes, the man you once venerated.
Your recent experiences have made you better at reading John Price:
He recognises a strategic opportunity to inspire loyalty.
So for the second time today, he takes out the file and slides it across his desk.
A portrayal of violence. Agony, death and betrayal, reduced to a few white pages with stark black letters. Report after report. The explanation for the inexplicable.
All the details fit together… superficially, at least.
The entire body of forensic evidence. His 'suicide'. Used condom in his pocket, both your and his DNA documented – plus two redacted lines. The gun, the silencer, used for both killings. It was so obviously him. Therefore the case could be closed incredibly fast.
Very convenient.
You ask for photos. Price hesitates, then gives in; places the large envelope he's kept to himself in front of you.
Neither man lets on that he is surprised by how calmly you are able to view the pictures.
However, that is only how it looks from the outside.
You've seen your fair share of dead people, but this eliminated man in his quarters touches you in a peculiar way. You know that he had to die to cover up what Ghost and Price had done to you. A flawless scapegoat.
And you've had your fair share of deaths; but these memories run deep, run cold – it definitely hits different as you finally look at your own corpse, that bloody, violated amount of lifeless flesh outstretched on the floor, exposed to any viewer, Ghost's cum visibly dripping out of you, dripping down, mixing blood and semen in a small puddle between your legs. Profound in all its explicitness.
It was necessary for you to see the damage; you needed to see: what they'd done to you actually looks as painful as it was —on every level. It's documented now, and official. It's a crime (two murders, in fact, two lives taken) that needs paying for.
However, you don’t find 'the story' plausible. You consider the motive for the crime weak. To reveal your doubts (and maybe get some more information out of the two men), you think aloud: "Why would he waste his time with a condom, execute her, take it back to his place and after that, kill himself, too?"
[Not to mention that it’s beyond you how Price could even manage that; Ghost's DNA was totally left out of the mix—especially with an independent force like the DSCU?!]
A moment later, you flip to a copy of a report. It's so heavily redacted that you can barely make anything out. Only a single sentence remains legible, noting that a second man's DNA profile is to be excluded. After thorough investigation of [classified information], the individual in question is cleared and no longer considered a suspect.
"What's this?" you want to know.
Price looks over to Ghost, whose single nod sets the rest of the story in motion.
"I trust that you will treat this as strictly confidential," Price states and hands you a copy of a hand-written page— a farewell letter.
Its authenticity was confirmed.
A confession that leaves no open questions for the DSCU.
You swiftly read over the verbalised need for revenge, where the author points out that he didn't want to get caught easily—hence the condom and the silencer. Back in his quarters, where he wanted to get his stuff and take off, he realised that he couldn't get away with his crimes and decided to commit suicide. What was left to live for, anyways?
You've got no idea how Price could actually manage to plan and create this entire scenario within the limited span of time, but it's a reminder for you to be very careful around this man. You felt safe with him in the past; now you feel like riding a storm…
The last paragraph is cryptic enough. Therefore you read it aloud:
》This is for you, Ghost. You took away what was important to me; now I’ve taken something from you, too—and you have no chance to take revenge.《
Makes no sense…
"Lieutenant Riley reported him, didn't he?" This conclusion you can draw without arousing any suspicion. Price holding your gaze, completely devoid of any other reaction, is confirmation enough, even if you didn’t know the truth beforehand.
"But then, why would my sister be targeted for this?"
From here on, it's Ghost who answers you.
"Victimisation by proxy."
"I don't understand…"
"We had an affair. For quite some time."
Your jaw drops in a very genuine reaction.
Dumbfounded, you look up at the tall man. He is massive darkness looming over you, his eyes, like always, cold, observant, calculating.
Yes, you must admit, the narrative is now completely spotless…
A very natural explanation for Ghost's DNA in your body; the motive of the crime being an intentional act of retaliation against the lieutenant…
This makes everything so easy indeed…
You're absolutely floored by what's presented as facts—and you are also purely horrified and disgusted by the sheer dimension of the corruption and lies...
Neither man is likely able to tell the difference.
For some short, rapid heartbeats, you look back and forth between Ghost and Price.
You couldn't care less that they get to see your unshed tears. They'll misinterpret your anger when you press through your gritted teeth, barely more than a whisper, with a shaky voice:
"I had no idea..."
Both men look satisfied. And there's something more to Ghost:
"Was because of me that she got pulled into all this. Sorry."
》So, I gotta go all the way... Thank you, @553580 and @/daydreamerwhoa 🫶 《
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|About 1.3k words| [Previous] [Next] [⬇️gilduii]
About one hour earlier
"Diana", Kyle Garrick says while he's studying your face, each syllable of your name rolling off his lips as if he knew its weight. The Huntress. "Pleased to meet you."
Shaking his hand with softer pressure than usual, you're very pleased, too. You thought getting back to base here and close to the inner circle would turn out to be much more difficult.
Again, however, Kate had been very supportive, making your "job relocation" and everything coming along pretty easy.
Thanks, love!
What felt significantly more difficult: coming eye-to-eye again with the men you helped doing their jobs and coming back safe for so long — knowing for sure that fifty percent of them literally let you die, cold-blooded, and didn’t give a fuck.
Well, to this, Ghost might object.
These days it's easy for you to imagine him saying, "Gave you more than just a fuck, doll, didn't I?"
Strange that it never even crossed your mind before that he could actually be this kind of man…
Regarding Gaz and Soap… You would need to pay close attention and find out more about them. Find out if they might deserve to be sacrificed as a means for your vengeance all the like… After all, Ghost and Soap are close, aren’t they?
So, here you are now, those thoughts banned from your mind to appear friendly and approachable enough in your challenging situation – in Diana's challenging situation…
You should get used to the new name you've chosen quickly enough.
Coming from Gaz, it already sounds so familiar. Combined with the way he looks at you – a mixture of compassion and interest – as well as Soap's welcoming and encouraging demeanor, it immediately hits you with a feeling of nostalgia, the positive memories of your first encounter with them still fresh in your mind – despite the years.
And the melancholy for what could have been or might not come true is the lurking shadow in your eyes that lets them believe your pretence. Because what would be the alternative?
Therefore the conversation is easy, despite the circumstances. A cuppa in hand, the three of you are floating through everything a newcomer around them should know, and you tell them about Diana, at least what's appropriate to share during a first inofficial business meeting.
Until it's not just the three of you anymore. You feel his presence behind your back and turn around.
Your reward is the look on his masked face, this complicated thing that happens the moment his eyes and brain have worked out what's before them. Narrowing his eyes in an almost twitching movement, his light lashes fluttering for one heartbeat – that's your first victory.
"Seen a ghost?"
"Every day in the mirror", he retorts, voice gruff – much like always.
He's regained his stoic expression instantly, you give him that.
Gaz's introduction includes the explanation Diana might need:
"This is Lieutenant Riley. Ghost."
You nod and don't break eye contact. You make no attempt to shake Ghost's hand either.
"I know I look a lot like her." This is all you offer him.
Heading to the kitchenette casually, Ghost bides his time until he accepts.
His back to the three of you, Ghost prepares his tea while Soap takes over:
"This is Diana, the new admin. Replacement for her sister."
While he's pouring the hot water onto the tea bag, the lieutenant finally states,
"Twins, huh? My condolences."
"Thank you", you reply, voice now softer than hers, and Ghost turns around again, looking you up and down. Blatantly.
The grieving relative.
You think you see him give a slight nod, but you wouldn't bet on it.
Occasionally taking a sip, he remains silent, doesn't participate in the conversation that comes up again. However, you sense him listening. To every single word you say. For the duration of his cup of tea.
It doesn't take long for him to pour the last sip into the sink, clean his cup, and get ready to leave the lounge.
When you look up, his eyes are already back on you. "Was a pleasure meeting you", he states, but you know better.
Then he nods to his sergeants in farewell and vanishes.
It's not a loss. On the contrary. For you, laughing is easier once more.
If Gaz has noticed, he doesn't comment on this fact. In stark contrast to Soap.
When both men leave ten minutes later, the Scotsman tries to lift your spirits.
"Dinnae pay the lieutenant a mind, hen. He means nae harm. Ye'll see."
You put on a practised smile for him and don't reply, because you must neither burst into laughter nor tears.
The sympathetic expression on Soap's face is an image you store in your mind. Think about it later.
And then you take a deep breath when you're finally alone again. You take your time washing out your cup. Meanwhile, you're considering your next steps.
Remain as inconspicuous as possible. Gather intel. No rash moves. Revenge is a dish best served cold.
It should be enough for today.
You leave the lounge fiddling with your MOD90 attached to your trousers, staring at your first name on it. Deep in thought, you turn around a corner just to immediately get slammed against the wall.
The impact is shocking in its abruptness, but not brutal per se. A large hand prevents the back of your head from getting hit, strong fingers around your upper arm and the massive front of a tall body ensure you don't stumble and fall. Pinned between a wall of stone and one of muscles, you're caged now.
Gazing at you, cold and calculating, Ghost lets go of your head to lean his arm against the wall, putting slightly more pressure onto you as he grabs your chin. He couldn't care less if anyone witnessed this scene. For a moment you're too overwhelmed by surprise and dreadful memories so that he can turn your head to the left before you start to push and shove against his chest.
His grip tightens, closer to merciless now, but still far less forceful than you've come to experience.
The crinkles around the corners of his eyes leave no doubt that he's grinning. Inspecting you attentively.
"Won't you let me get a good look, sweet'eart? Had no chance with your admirers around." But at the same time, he sounds pensive.
"Don't touch me", you hiss, but Ghost ignores you, even when you grip his wrist. As if you hadn't said a word, he turns your head to the right.
If you didn’t know better, you'd think he was comparing the details of two different faces up close now that he's got you for himself. However, there's no question he's looking for a graze, some wound, marks of a shot – to detect any strategem, to find out whether Price failed to kill you.
There’s no hint for him, though, no scars, nothing.
Ghost doesn't pull up your hair to get a closer look at where the exit wound was. Nothing to be found but soft skin, anyways.
Because you shaved an Undercut to make up for the strands that couldn't regrow back to full length within the short span of time between your death and your return.
"Never seen such perfect twins before", he whispers, too close to your ear, but maybe just to himself nontheless.
Then, finally, he lets go of you and takes a step back.
"So, what did Captain Price say about this flawless copy, Diana?"
Your name on his lips tastes like ashes.
"Haven't met him yet."
At this, Ghost actually laughs, and it sounds genuine and truly amused.
You know you're dismissed when he turns to walk back to his office. You wonder whether it's directed at you when he remarks,
