One breath after the first. One centimetre at a time. Through blood thicker than wine, warm and tacky. Through rattling gasps that shake his body. Through the cold that has settled in his bones. Through it all, he drags himself.
No one will save him. Get up. Get up.
His gloves soak blood into the fibres. His arms tremble as he tries to push himself up. Get up, C—
And he falls. He’s falling fast into the thick fog, where his thoughts catch on mud and his consciousness is dragged below the bog. He’s falling, drowning, dying, and no one will save him. No one can.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Close, but so distant. Boots stop before his hazy gaze. A knee drops into the blood pooling on the floor. A voice, so familiar, says something—but through the cotton in his ears, he can’t hear it. What they said. Who it is.
His eyes close.
And open to blinding white. It sears his eyes. His chest heaves, the clothes he’d been given drenched in a cold sweat. His hand touches at his throat and comes back dry.
He can’t stay here. He won’t stay here. On wobbly legs he stands and leaves the infirmary.
The base is quiet. The moon hangs high in the sky. And Crow sits atop the hangar, legs dangling off the edge, eyes on the sky.
It’s quiet. He takes a breath, laying back. Perhaps he’ll close his eyes, just for a moment more. ]
[ Crow had accepted it, when Price dragged him out of Verdansk as a dead man; he'd die forgotten in some battlefield somewhere. Either from a bullet or flayed skin, he'd die alone. He'd die deep in enemy territory. And every mission that goes sideways, he thinks--this is it.
Being taken by the Shadows had been part of the plan. Being interrogated by the Shadows had been part of the plan.
Being found was not.
Surviving was not.
And now, here he is. Picking up the pieces. Putting himself back together alone, as always. Staring at the bruises and the bandages in the mirror again, wondering when it'll end.
Hasn't he given enough? Hasn't he done enough?
Crow lets out a slow breath, the deep bruises and fresh wounds on his ribs screaming in pain. Not the worst he's been through, not by a long shot--incompetence extends to interrogation for Shadow Company, it seems. But still--it's enough. More than enough. It's enough to see another piece of himself slipping away.
He rubs his eyes. He leans heavy against the mirror, blood from soaked through bandages smearing on the glass. He breathes, even still.
No rest for the wicked, but damn--Crow is tired. And part of him hopes that next time--
Next time, he prays he doesn't come home at all. ]
[ Restocking their more remote bases, secluded and embedded deep within enemy lines, is always a challenge. Doing so without compromising their security, without prising the chitin from vulnerable systems and highly-classified procedures, doubly so. Doing so without compromising the shipment itself—incredibly difficult.
Crow rides shotgun, the truck rattling and shaking on the remote dirt road. Trees loom high, swallowing their surroundings in foliage and bark. Winding and uneven, it’s no wonder they’ve had trouble restocking this particular base; the whole path is prime for ambush.
The details for this mission were sparse, but—Crow had asked for this. Asked for a mission short notice. Any holes in intel are the fault of his own impatience.
“Yer a quiet one,” the driver says into the silent cab, accent thick and gruff. “Last lad they shipped me out with talked m’ear off.”
Crow makes a small noise, sparing the man a glance. His eyes return quickly to the treeline. Something—something nags at him, though, so he plucks his phone from its pocket on his vest.
“You’ve been on this route before?” The text-to-speech asks; the man looks confused for a brief moment, eyes on Crow’s phone.
“Aye, this is my regular route.”
“What do the ambushes usually look like?”
The man grunts, and for a second his hands tighten on the wheel. “They’ll crawl out the woods like roaches, stick us up, and scamper off with our supplies. Only time they’ve gotten violent was when the last lad decided to fire on ‘em. Shot him full’a holes, they did. Been on my own since.”
And yet, they don’t send a convoy. Don’t protect the supplies. Don’t fight back. Don’t even send more than one man. Crow’s eyes return to the treeline. He nearly tricks himself into thinking he saw movement.
The man is whistling, idle and lazy. Loud. It’s giving Crow a headache.
Fortunately, the drive in is mostly quiet—aside from the whistling, that is. The delivery makes it to the base just as the sun begins to set, and a grateful captain offers them a bed for the night. The man takes it without hesitation, wandering off with heavy footsteps. Crow lingers in the captain’s office.
And the captain—Richards, he’d introduced himself as—notices. “Somethin’ on your mind?” He asks, raised brow.
“Why do they not send a convoy for these shipments?”
Richards makes a small noise before gesturing with his head to the small, almost ramshackle base. “You’ve seen the place. We’re here for recon, mostly. Don’t have the manpower to send out our own, and command doesn’t care much about us down here. Enough makes it here to keep us goin’, so it’s not a high priority.”
Crow hums a bit, eyes out the window. Darkness has settled on the small base, thick and impenetrable.
“Look, Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern,” Richards says, and Crow’s eyes flick back. “But we’re fine. We get enough to get us by. Don’t need to worry yourself about this, aye?”
Something pricks the back of Crow’s neck. But he nods, offers a smile hidden under his mask, and retreats to the cluttered barracks.
[ It was cold in Verdansk. Winter was on the horizon, the chill of fall giving way. ]
[ The mission was simple. Three teams: his, Price’s, and MacAndrews’. The target was some ultra-nationalist, the right-hand of the leader of the whole cell. If anyone had information on where the leader was, it would be him.
They’d surround him. Flush him out of the abandoned apartment building he’d made his base. Capture him. Simple—he’d done missions like this countless times.
The sergeant behind him was still fairly green, restless and uncomfortable. Anxious—he understands. He’d been nervous for ops like this once, too.
“Don’t worry,” he says with a smile, giving the sergeant a pat on the arm. “Be in and out fast, you’ll see.”
The sergeant smiles, uncertain. “Thanks, L.t.,” he mumbles.
“All good on your end?” Price’s voice comes from the radio. He hums.
“All good, cap,” he replies, peering out the window. “No movement. All quiet here.”
“Good. We breach in ten.”
Ten minutes is a lifetime in his line of work. A minute is a month. A second is a day. But he’s patient, always has been, always had to be.
A noise from the hall has him on alert, though—gun raised, he nods to the sergeant to cover him as he pulls the door open.
“Easy, doll,” MacAndrews says, with that lazy grin of his, hands raised. His gun is slung on his back.
“What are you doing here?” He hisses, bewildered. MacAndrews, on the best of days, has never been particularly careful—never follows plans, always throws caution to the wind. But this—this is reckless, even for him.
MacAndrews’ eyes flick to the sergeant, then back to him. “Wanted to see you before the mission. That a problem?”
Yes. He feels a migraine building, thunderclouds gathering before the storm. But he can’t say that, not to MacAndrews. Not when, on the best of days, he’s easily set off. Like holding a frag, pin pulled, he always has to maintain just the right pressure to keep them both intact.
“No,” he answers, and MacAndrews grins wide, bullying his way into his space. A possessive hand at his neck. Another at his waist. An uncomfortable sergeant, clearing his throat and turning away.
MacAndrews’ kisses always burn, like licking a lit butane torch. Hungry. Devouring. All-consuming. It makes him dizzy, weak in the knees, but MacAndrews’ hand keeps him steady and upright. Right where he wants him.
“Ah, fuck, doll,” MacAndrews murmurs against his lips, hand digging into his hip hard enough it’ll bruise. “Wish we had time for me t’fuck you good an’ proper.”
“Five minutes,” Price’s voice calls over the radio, as if to prove MacAndrews’ point. “Still quiet?”
He’s about to reply when MacAndrews puts a hand over his mouth. “Ah, cap can wait a bit, I think,” he says with a grin sharp as knives. The hand on his hip stops feeling possessive and feels more like a threat—and something twists in his gut.
He pulls back, a sharp step away that has MacAndrews’ eyes narrowing. “Why are you here?” He asks again.
MacAndrews sighs, rubbing his eyes. Anger isn’t uncommon for him, but something—something doesn’t feel right. “Fuck, doll, you always make things difficult, y’know that? Hate that stupid sixth sense you’ve always got.”
And, before he can reply, MacAndrews draws his pistol and puts several rounds into the sergeant’s chest. He’s dead before he hits the floor.
The gun turns on him, still hot from the murder. Still smoking a bit. He stares into the barrel because that’s easier than looking MacAndrews in the eye.
“All I wanted was to enjoy you one last time, but you can’t even give me that,” MacAndrews growls as the sound of boots in the hall fills his ears. “Typical. You know the drill: guns on the floor, doll.”
Men filter into the room as he drops his rifle and pistol on the rotting wood floor. He raises his hands in surrender as three men clad in black flank MacAndrews. No patches. No identifications. Just heavy, black gear and grins on their faces.
“Ah, I told you he’d be good for this,” one of the men says, accent thick.
“You did,” another says with a light hum before shooting MacAndrews through the skull. He’s dead before he hits the floor.
“—? Sitrep, now.”
“You’re a hard man to catch,” the third man says, stepping forward. “Too many men loyal to the clock that keeps them ticking, yes?”
He spits on the man’s face. The man simply seems amused. A hand snakes out, gripping his jaw hard enough to bruise. “You know, boss thinks you’re more valuable alive,” the man says, turning his head this way and that, observing him as if he’s just some curiosity. "Personally, I don't see it."
Alive. They want him alive. He won’t give them the satisfaction; his thumb touches at the knife on his belt for a moment before he draws it, slashing at the man’s face. It slips through his flesh, easy and smooth, and the man swears. Guns raise on him, but they won’t shoot—he knows they won’t shoot now.
He sinks the knife into the man’s shoulder. Twists it. Relishes in the way he howls, a wounded mutt.
The crack of gunfire rings in the room; his arm goes numb, cold, and the man snarls and rips the knife from his shoulder.
“Fuck what the boss wants,” he roars, lunging with the blade. It catches his arm, sinking easily into muscle. Another swipe, and it catches his jaw. Another swipe, and it drags a line across his side. Another swipe, and it drags along his face, through his lip—
He stumbles back. One arm hangs limply at his side. The other presses at his face. Guns stare back.
No one will save him.
For a second, he closes his eyes. The fear, the fire, fades into acceptance. No one will save him.
The man grabs him by the hair. Sharp and unyielding. And when the knife rips through his throat, he knows—
[The gym is quiet as the base slumbers around Crow. Dim, with just the emergency lights that catch on the polished metal of the machines. Peaceful, without the ever-present stares and attention of his fellow soldiers that makes his skin crawl.
They watch him wherever he goes. Like a caged animal, there to be gawked at and kept just on the other side of the glass. Always at arm’s distance, as if he’ll bite. Always with that same dehumanising slant that pares him down to nothing more than a commodity. All he is, all he'll ever be to them, is just a topic for idle gossip.
He doesn’t know how Ghost handles it, being around during the day. Being seen. Crow can hardly stand it.
With hands that shake more than he’d like, he slips his headphones in. Familiar bass riffs fill his ears and settle the gnawing unease in his stomach. The guitar blooms in his chest, hums in his bones, screams in his blood, and he settles on the treadmill.
Each footfall meets the kick. Each breath dances with the snare. Every muscle screams with the guitar. Every thought thuds in time with the bass. His lungs burn with the vocals, raw and aching. Fast. Faster. Faster, until he’s in a dead sprint—
He hits the e-stop, sliding to the side before he loses control. Every breath is a battle, fighting and pressing against his ribcage. Fuck.]
[Crow’s office is quiet, dim. The scratch of his pen is his only company as the hours slip away.
Warm. Too warm; Crow sighs and leans back in his chair, pushing his hair away from his face for any relief. The heat clings to him, sticks to him, tacky and thick and uncomfortable.
He doesn’t dare remove layers, though. His gloves stick to the skin between his fingers. His sleeved shirt is damp from sweat. His mask reflects hot breaths back. His trousers chafe. All he wants is to retreat to his room and take the coldest shower he can tolerate.
There’s still more paperwork to be done, though. More, always more—from operations to a private setting the microwave on fire again, there’s always more to do and so few hours to do it.
