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𝔽𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕟𝕕 // 𝔾𝕒𝕣𝕪 "ℝ𝕠𝕒𝕔𝕙" 𝕊𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟

Word count: 6.5k Warnings: Violence, death, suicide, strong language Summary: You never know when you might lose a friend. A story recreated in a zombie universe. Author's note: I don't own the original characters or universe. All rights belong to their respective creators. Please don't repost, copy, translate, or claim my work as your own. Reblogs are always welcome!

Callsign: Lucky

The world had descended into utter chaos.

Zakhaev had obtained the perfect biological weapon.

His relentless pursuit of power had claimed the lives of two-thirds of humanity.

Those who remained were forced to hide from the consequences of its release.

Some had no choice but to fight against them.

Now, more than ever, every single life mattered.

Those who didn't fight - hid.

Those who fought - did this for the survival of the living.

Get caught or kill.

If you fell into their hands, there would be no saving you.

One. Massive. Chaos.

The streets looked like something straight out of a horror film. Abandoned apartment buildings with shattered windows, messages of salvation scrawled across their facades, filthy alleys swallowed by fog—they all captured the atmosphere of the apocalypse perfectly. The wind carried scraps of old newspapers down the road, while somewhere among the piles of rubbish hungry rats rustled through the debris. A chill ran down Gary's spine as a long, mournful groan echoed in the distance.

"Stay close," Ravenov ordered, evidently sharing his companions' unease.

The group instinctively closed ranks. Even though they were armed to the teeth, it did little to ease the knot of anxiety in their stomachs. They were out in the open, where a horde of zombies could descend on them at any moment. The five of them wouldn't make it out unscathed.

Roach stayed near the center of the formation, just behind the captain. Soap and Lucky flanked him, while Crane brought up the rear, his fingers wrapped tightly around the stock of his rifle.

Last contact with the refugee group was recorded in Bloomsbury. Surveillance cameras picked up five individuals near Russell Square. They were heading south.

Those had been the captain's words during the briefing.

Their objective now was to make their way from Bedford to the Underground station without drawing unwanted attention. Their informant would be waiting for them inside the tunnels.

Every step was measured. Every sound, every flicker of movement in their surroundings was immediately picked up. Ravenov appeared to be the calmest among them—or at least, he wore the mask well.

"Hold."

Ravenov raised his fist, and the group stopped on instinct.

"We've got two lost souls around the corner."

He gestured toward two shambling zombies at the far end of the street. They dragged their feet across the pavement with every sluggish step. One of them was missing an arm, though judging by the blank expression on its rotting face, it didn't seem particularly bothered by the fact. It was difficult to make out any distinct features beneath flesh that looked to be in the final stages of decomposition.

"I don't think they've got souls anymore," Crane muttered grimly.

No one answered. Their silence was agreement enough.

"We'll go around them," the captain said, pointing toward the crumbling hotel across the street. A gaping hole had been blasted through one side of the building, as though an explosive charge had torn it open. "We'll cut straight through."

Without taking his eyes off the undead, he headed for the breach at a brisk pace, the others following close behind. One by one they squeezed through the opening on their hands and knees, crawling over broken bricks and shattered masonry.

When Crane finally crawled in last, dusted the dirt from his knees, and stood up, they all breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

They hadn't attracted any unwanted attention.

Gary looked around the interior of the building. Judging by the size of the room, it had once been the lobby. Across from them stood a counter that had probably served as the reception desk years ago. It was difficult to tell what anything had once been—the hotel's condition left plenty to the imagination. A stale, musty smell lingered in the air.

"Doesn't look very stable," Lucky remarked, nodding toward the collapsing staircase, voicing exactly what Gary had been thinking ever since they stepped inside.

Dust blanketed every surface. Rotten wooden stairs groaned whenever the wind slipped through the shattered windows, while an ancient chandelier swayed dangerously from a steel cable attached to a hook in the cracked ceiling above the lobby.

Time hadn't spared this place either.

"We don't have another choice," Ravenov sighed. "Lucky, Roach—check the corridor on the right. Soap, Crane—clear the upper floor. I'll check the back."

The group acknowledged the order with silent nods before splitting off.

Gary let Lucky take point while he covered their rear. They stepped into the dark hallway beside the reception desk.

The stale smell slowly gave way to the sickly stench of decay.

The only sound was Lucky's uneven breathing.

Gary moved a little closer, offering what little comfort he could simply by being there. They both knew words had never been his strong suit, so he did the only thing he knew how—staying close enough to let her know she wasn't alone.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," she whispered.

Without lowering her rifle for even a second, she reached for her flashlight and switched it on, sweeping the beam down the corridor.

It was just as neglected as the rest of the hotel.

Long cracks split the faded beige paint covering the walls. So much dust had settled into the carpet that it was impossible to tell what color it had originally been, though darker stains showed through here and there.

Lucky crouched to inspect one of them.

Roach knelt beside her and reached toward the carpet. He rubbed the stain with his fingertip before turning his hand over.

Dark crimson bloomed across his skin.

He looked up, meeting Lucky's eyes.

Her shoulders tensed even further.

They were thinking the exact same thing.

Blood.

"That's... not a good sign."

She aimed her flashlight toward the remaining stains.

The farther the beam traveled, the denser they became.

Lucky rose to her feet and followed the bloody trail.

Every step was cautious, preparing herself for whatever waited at its end.

The deeper they ventured into the corridor, the stronger the putrid smell became.

Gary pulled his black snood over his nose and followed close behind, listening for any sign of danger.

They hadn't gone far before a boot came into view.

Slowly, Lucky raised the flashlight from the floor.

"Bloody steamin' Jesus..."

She nearly dropped it.

A mangled corpse lay slumped against a pair of closed glass doors.

Or rather, what was left of one.

Half its face was missing.

It looked as though it had been ripped away with incredible force. Torn muscles and shredded skin hung from its neck and the remains of its skull.

Gary fought back a gag, but then his eyes caught the uniform.

He nudged Lucky with his shoulder.

Still transfixed by the sight, she looked over only after he motioned toward the body.

"One of ours," he muttered.

Pulling a face, he crouched beside the corpse, searching for a unit patch that might identify where the soldier had come from.

Only then did he notice the shotgun lying beside the body.

Apparently, Lucky had spotted it too.

"Could still come in handy."

She picked it up and checked the chamber.

Two shells.

While Gary continued searching for a patch—or at the very least, a dog tags—Lucky examined the corpse's exposed forearm.

Blood still seeped from the wound.

Something about it looked wrong.

Deep bite marks were embedded in the flesh.

"Poor bastard."

She caught Gary's attention.

Using two fingers, she lifted the dead man's wrist, exposing the bite.

"Infected."

She stared at it for a moment before quietly adding,

"He'd rather blow his own brains out than become one of them."

She carefully set the limb aside and got to her feet. She took the flashlight between her teeth and, after taking off her backpack, began removing her jacket. In the meantime, Gary secured the dog tag he had managed to tear from the dead man's bloodied neck, hiding his disgust behind his neck gaiter out of respect for the deceased. He rose to his feet and watched as Lucky draped the jacket over the upper half of the corpse, concealing the unsightly sight.

The man reached for the backpack and was just about to hand it to his companion when a tremendous crash echoed in the distance, followed by a string of curses that died down moments later.

Gary felt his pulse shoot up, and cold sweat broke over him.

When he met the terrified look in the woman's eyes, he knew her reaction had been just as sudden. She yanked the backpack from Sanderson's grasp, and the two of them sprinted toward the foyer.

At the end of the corridor, they nearly collided with Ravenov, who was also rushing toward them at full speed after hearing the noise. The three of them were met with an unsettling sight.

About halfway up the oak staircase, Crane was hanging through a broken opening, his left leg dangling through the hole. Soap was holding him up with one arm while covering his mouth with the other. He was gripping him so tightly that Crane's face, straining for air, had turned the color of a tomato. Or perhaps it was the pain radiating from his leg, which was bent at a disturbing angle.

The group held their breath, listening for a potential threat that could arrive at any moment. The only sounds were the howling wind and Crane's heavy breathing into Soap's hand. Once they were certain that nothing was approaching, they all breathed out again that evening.

“Jesus Christ,” Soap gasped as he carefully began pulling Crane out of the hole and laid him higher up on the steps, then set about examining the condition of his leg. “Could use a bit of Lucky’s luck, mate,” he threw at his companion, who was on the verge of tears.

“We’re lucky they didn’t hear you,” Ravenov growled once the shock had passed. “Chyort poberi. There are at least seven corpses wandering around the back alley.”

Gary immediately headed for the stairs to help his companion down, while Lucky gave the captain a report about what they had found.

Soap held Crane under the arms while Roach took his legs. They managed to get him safely past the hole and, taking care around the other damaged steps, carried him downstairs. Soap stabilized the leg with a long piece of wood and a roll of bandages to prevent further injury. Once they were at the bottom, the blond caught a fragment of the other two's conversation.

“…I just hope those outside aren’t all that’s left of the poor bastard’s squad.”

“Hmm,” the older man murmured. “Either way, we’ll have to wait it out here.”

Lucky glanced at the boys.

“There was an exit at the end of the corridor, but we didn’t get a chance to check it out,” the woman suggested.

Ravenov fell silent, staring deeply into her eyes. He considered their chances and the other options for a moment. His gaze shifted to Soap, then Gary, and finally Crane, who quietly whimpered with every slightest movement. The look on his face made it clear that the decision had been made. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, the barrel resting against the back of his knee, and reached toward the wounded man. Grabbing his hand, he pulled him into a standing position, ignoring his groans. He draped Crane's arm over his shoulder.

“Sorry, mate. Wasting time is a luxury we can’t afford right now,” he panted, adjusting his grip before turning to Gary. “Get him from the other side.”

The blond immediately did as instructed, slinging his own rifle across his back and grabbing his companion under the arm. He took care not to jostle the injured leg.

“Lucky, you lead. Soap, cover the rear.”

Both nodded in confirmation and took their positions.

The group moved toward the corridor that the pair had searched earlier. The smell, just as before, intensified. Soap made no attempt to hide his disgust and voiced it aloud, prompting the captain to tell him to pull his neck gaiter over his nose. They didn't stop for even a moment. The woman moved the flashlight onto her shoulder so she could hold her weapon more comfortably. The confiscated shotgun was tucked into the mesh pocket at the front of her backpack, allowing her to reach for it quickly if necessary. They passed the first traces of blood, which meant they were close to the exit. Gary adjusted his grip as he felt his companion's arm slipping from his shoulder. The longer they walked, the weaker Crane seemed to become, letting his weight hang on the pair of them. The captain tried to encourage him with reassuring comments like, “Not much farther,” “Just a little more,” and “The medic will take care of you soon.”

So focused were they on the wounded man that they didn't even notice Lucky had stopped. Soap was the one who made them realize it when they nearly walked straight into her.

“Hey, lass. What are you doing? We need to get moving,” he urged.

Roach shifted his gaze to the woman. She was as pale as a sheet and completely motionless. He noticed the nervous twitch of her eyelid.

“Gary,” she began in a whisper. Her voice was frighteningly flat, with a brief crack in it. “Where’s the body?”

He looked toward the spot she was staring at, his brows furrowed, thinking she must have imagined something. He saw a pool of blood, the glass doors splattered with it, even the woman's jacket covering the corpse, but to his horror, there was no body. A shiver ran through him, and his blood roared in his ears. Ravenov looked at the two of them with furrowed brows.

“You’re sure it was lying here?” His tone was so uncertain that it sounded as though he were trying to convince himself there was nothing to worry about.

“Exactly here” Sanderson answered for her.

“Shit” Soap sighed and looked around uneasily, keeping his weapon at the ready.

Lucky turned and gave Gary a worried look.

“Stay close. We don’t know if—” Sergei didn't get to finish his sentence before the sound of shattering glass erupted behind the woman. The missing corpse had crashed through the glass at full speed and lunged at her, knocking her to the ground while growling ferociously. Her rifle slipped from her hands and landed out of reach. Lucky struggled beneath the attacker, but to no avail. Instinctively, Gary pulled himself out from under Crane's arm, causing the injured man to hang his entire weight on Ravenov. He swung the butt of his rifle into the remaining side of the zombie's head as it tried to get at the woman's back. The attacker collapsed to the floor, taking the backpack with him as it tore it from her shoulders.

The blond immediately pulled her to her feet and shielded her behind him. Soap, who quickly recovered from the moment of surprise, moved forward and drew a knife from his sheath before swinging it at the zombie. The blade struck squarely in the middle of the deformed forehead. The corpse dropped lifelessly to the ground.

Gary immediately turned toward the woman and began checking her for injuries.

“I’m fine.” She brushed his hand away from her face. “He just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

Her voice still trembled slightly and she was breathing heavily, but she did indeed appear unharmed. Even so, he didn't take his eyes off her. She caught his other hand, which had come to rest against her side, and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“I promise I’m fine.”

He squeezed her hand back a little harder, feeling somewhat calmer.

“That’s one fucking Terminator,” Soap interrupted their moment. He reached for the knife, pulling it from the man's face with an utterly disgusting, wet sound. “Blew half his fucking face off and he was still breathing.”

“Maybe he missed,” Crane joked grimly, half-conscious.

“No time to wait around,” the captain announced. “Let’s get the hell out of here before his buddies show up.”

Lucky released Roach and approached the corpse. She grabbed the backpack strap and took one last look at what remained of its face, making absolutely sure it was finally and completely neutralized.

“Come on, Lucky,” Soap urged. “He’s not going to get any deader.”

The woman grimaced at her companion's joke but obeyed. She tried to pull the backpack onto her shoulder, but felt resistance. She tugged, and the resistance disappeared, but then she heard a long groan behind her, which alerted the others as well.

Roach noticed the fingers twitching first, followed by the slack jaw moving.

Lucky immediately jumped away from the reanimating corpse, nearly tripping over her own feet and dropping the shotgun in the process. It landed with a muffled thud on the carpet. Without considering her options any further, she grabbed the shotgun and, before anyone could stop her, fired.

The gunshot echoed down the corridor and into the alley beyond the shattered doors. She hit the neck, partially severing the attacker's head from it. They didn't have long to admire her handiwork, because outside, a cacophony of wild screams, grunts, and groans suddenly erupted.

“Holy mother of God,” Crane groaned. “We’re fucked.” He sniffed.

“Move!” the Russian growled.

Soap quickly took Roach's place beside Crane and pulled him forward toward the doors. The blond grabbed Lucky's rifle and pulled her along behind the trio. They burst into the alley and out onto the fog-shrouded street.

Roach barely registered their escape route; his legs simply carried him forward. He didn't let go of his companion's hand for even a second, tightening his grip even further when a volley of growls and groans reached them from somewhere in the distance. To everyone's horror, they were most definitely not coming from Crane.

“Right,” the captain ordered, setting their course and pulling the sergeant along with him, with Soap following whether he liked it or not.

At the end of the path they had taken, a decaying zombie—most likely once a woman—limped into view. Gary dispatched it fairly quickly with his rifle, clearing the way for them. They pushed on, passing crumbling buildings.

The adrenaline had surged so high that Crane could barely feel the pain in his limb at that moment, allowing the group to pick up their pace.

They had two options.

Survive or die.

The first option was preferable.

When they ran out of another alleyway—reeking of decay—a staircase came into view, with a sign reading “Underground” above it. Crane looked as though he might cry with happiness, while the others breathed a sigh of relief despite their haste. The subway station was the final destination of their mission. The plan was to go underground and take a side passage for employees toward the maintenance track, where they were supposed to meet a group of people who needed to be safely transported back to base.

The men tightened their grips beneath Crane’s arms and started down the stairs. Lucky followed behind them, with Roach bringing up the rear. The woman stumbled once or twice, much to her companion’s surprise, and he reached out to steady her. He assumed the adrenaline had worn off and her legs were beginning to give out from exhaustion. After all, they had covered quite a distance from the car. Sweat soaked her forehead, and her breathing seemed heavier. She appeared not to care about her own condition at all and didn’t slow her pace for even a moment. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want the others to see it.

Gary decided not to press the matter, knowing how much the woman disliked excessive attention. Even when it came from a place of genuine concern.

They reached the end of the passage, encountering a couple of decomposing bodies along the way. Apparently, someone had already dealt with them. Ravenov slipped out from beneath Crane’s arm and reached for the door handle. A moment earlier, they had heard rustling coming from behind it. The captain ordered the others to get ready.

Y/N and Gary aimed their weapons at the door, which the captain carefully cracked open. On the other side, they were met by the barrel of a shotgun pointed directly at them, along with the unyielding stare of its owner.

Ravenov immediately reached for his own rifle.

Six people stood in complete silence for the next several seconds, four of them aiming their weapons at one another. Only when recognition finally appeared in the eyes of the unfamiliar face did the tension ease.

“Captain Sergei Ravenov?” the newcomer gasped.

He appeared to be a Latino man approaching forty. He wore dark combat trousers and a fleece jacket splattered with blood.

The captain lowered his weapon and ordered the others to do the same.

“Perez, right? You’re the one who contacted the informant?”

The man nodded and gestured for the others to follow him. He led them through a short, musty corridor and straight out onto an abandoned railway track.

“We haven’t had many left since we made contact,” he began. “A horde of zombies caught us off guard not long afterward. They backed us into a corner, and not everyone had the strength to fight their way out,” Perez explained.

Ravenov furrowed his brows.

A small camp had been set up on the tracks. There were three people in it, not counting the Latino man. The informant had reported that the group consisted of eleven people: three soldiers from the Mexican special forces and eight civilians.

Meanwhile, beside a makeshift fire lay a man dressed similarly to Perez. Another man sat nearby wearing worn-out jeans and a hoodie, holding what appeared to be a six-year-old girl in his arms.

Even from a distance, the terror hidden in the child's eyes was unmistakable.

Roach felt his throat tighten the longer he looked at the little brunette. This was no place for a child. He didn’t even want to imagine what was going through her mind.

He was so focused on the little girl that, for a moment, he didn’t even notice Lucky had moved away from the group.

She leaned her rifle against the brick wall and sank to the ground. Her legs had been threatening to give out for some time now. She let out a quiet groan and pulled her trouser leg out of her combat boot.

Ever since the adrenaline had worn off, a radiating pain had begun spreading upward from her ankle. At first, she thought she had sprained it.

But this wasn't that kind of pain.

She feared the worst.

She couldn't bring herself to check.

Throughout all of it, she could feel the gaze of those icy blue irises fixed on her.

A pair of hands entered her field of vision and settled on her trouser leg. When she looked up, through the haze clouding her exhausted eyes, she made out a dark mohawk.

Soap didn't even look at her face. His focused eyes remained fixed on the trouser leg as he slowly began pulling it up, as though he himself was afraid of what he might find underneath.

First, a black section of sock was revealed. The higher the trouser leg moved, the more colors appeared.

Above the sock was a web of red, pink, and blue lines spreading across flushed skin.

When MacTavish's fingers caught on the edge of the sock, the woman placed her hand over his, stopping him from moving any further.

First, the place hurt like hell.

Second, she wanted to do it herself.

Soap seemed to understand her intention, because he withdrew his hand but didn't move away. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

She silently gathered her courage, counted to three, and lowered the sock.

“Fuck,” the brunette cursed and dropped back onto his ass, running a nervous hand through his already disheveled mohawk.

Beneath the sock was a bloodied wound from which colorful, spiderweb-like veins spread outward.

It would have been nothing extraordinary if not for the unmistakable shape of the bite marks and the visible infection that had already set in and was steadily spreading upward.

The woman closed her eyes in defeat, and tears spilled from the corners, tracing paths down her pale cheeks.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Panic began creeping into Soap’s voice. “Fuck!”

That caught the attention of the others.

“What’s happening?” Ravenov was the first to approach.

The sergeant didn't answer. Instead, he sprinted toward the backpack he'd left by the exit, searching frantically for the first-aid kit.

Roach felt his breathing quicken at the suddenness of Soap's movements. He shifted his gaze to Lucky, who was leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, clutching her ankle.

He almost immediately moved toward her, overtaking Ravenov, and dropped to his knees beside his companion. He placed one hand against her cheek and the other over her hand, which was wrapped around her ankle.

The gesture was meant to offer comfort and convey his concern.

Y/N sensed his presence and, without any unnecessary protest, exposed the wound on her ankle.

She didn't even look at him, afraid she would see despair in his eyes that mirrored her own.

The only reaction she caught was a loud exhale.

“Jesus,” Ravenov said next.

He leaned over the pair to get a better look at the wound.

Silence fell over them, broken only by Soap rummaging through his backpack and his angry muttering:

“Where the fuck is it?”

“Not so lucky this time, huh?” She gave them a grimace that was meant to resemble a smile.

Gary felt his throat tighten and his eyes begin to sting. His fingers gently traced one of the infected veins. The colors were spreading dangerously fast along the limb, poisoning her body.

“MacTavish!” Ravenov urged the Scot on as he swore louder and louder.

“For fuck’s sake!” the brunette shouted and slammed the backpack onto the ground. “We’re out of the supply!”

Gary froze, his hand resting against the woman’s skin. Their desperate eyes met at the exact same moment.

“What do you mean, we’re out?!” the captain shouted. The situation was critical, and emotions were running high.

“There’s no fucking medicine!” Soap cried out and buried his face in his hands.

Ravenov looked at the Latino, who was leading the Mexican group, with the last ounce of hope he had left. It quickly faded when the man shook his head, pity in his eyes.

They all knew what had to be done in such a situation, but none of them wanted to be the one to do it.

Lucky knew that all too well.

The procedure was clear.

The woman wasn't ready to die.

Not today.

But for the sake of her companions, she had to push her own wishes aside. She took her friend's warm hand in her cooling one and guided it toward her side, directly to the grip of his Beretta, helping him draw it from its holster.

Gary felt his hands beginning to tremble, cold sweat soaking his back. His head started shaking in denial.

He couldn't do it.

Wanting to give the blond some courage, the woman placed a hand against his cheek and pulled his face toward her, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Then she reached for her dog tags, took it from around her neck, and placed it in his free hand.

She gave him a tearful smile and nodded, signaling that she was ready.

She helped him raise the pistol and pressed the barrel against her pale forehead.

“Come on, Gary,” she whispered and closed her eyes. “I know you can do it.”

A sob shook the man, but he didn't lower the weapon.

The others watched the scene in sorrow.

Soap couldn't hold back the tears that had gathered in his eyes, while Crane felt his breathing growing heavier and heavier. The captain wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

That would have been cowardice.

He felt that he had failed.

He was responsible for all of them.

A situation like this should never have happened.

Lucky was one of his best people. Skilled, loyal, brave. There was nothing she couldn't handle.

That very belief had doomed them.

The silence in the tunnel was broken by the sound of a weapon being cocked.

The woman's finger moved off the safety, and then away from the weapon. She placed her fingers against the blond's bent knee.

“There’s no other choice. Do it, sweetheart. This is my last request.” She squeezed his knee.

His finger trembled against the trigger.

The blond was more torn than he had ever been.

He wanted to save her.

She was too innocent for an ending like this.

There were two ways to save her: reach the destination as quickly as possible and pray for a miracle, or spare her the horrible fate of becoming one of the dead and end her life now.

The first option wasn't even possible at the moment.

They had gone through this process more than once, but this time he couldn't bring himself to ease the suffering of a dying person.

Not when the woman in his sights was the woman he had fallen in love with at first sight.

The man closed his eyes and—

“I can’t,” he sobbed, his finger slipping away from the trigger.

He rested his head against her shoulder and broke down crying like a little boy.

The woman was shaken by sobs as well.

He could hear the faint rasping in her breathing, but he ignored it.

Lucky wrapped her arms around him, one hand gently stroking his back.

He pressed himself closer to her.

A memory blossomed in his mind—a memory of him holding her in exactly the same way.

It had been the day she lost her brother in a car accident.

He had whispered words of comfort into her ear, watching as she slowly began to fall asleep in his arms, exhausted from crying.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, her gaze moving toward Ravenov, hoping for his judgment.

Unfortunately, the usually hard-faced captain didn't look much better.

Even Perez couldn't bring himself to watch the scene of despair unfolding among the group. He shielded the little girl from the sight so she wouldn't have to endure another terror.

She tightened her arm around her friend.

“Everything will be okay.” She rested her head against his blond hair. He could feel his grip on the weapon beginning to loosen.

“We’ll find a cure, I promise,” he sobbed. “We just have to hurry.”

Even if he had wanted to stand, his legs would have refused to obey him.

She pressed a weak kiss to his ear and gave him a miserable smile.

“You were always too much of an optimist for my liking,” she rasped, causing another sob to shake his body.

Her hand brushed against the polymer frame.

The woman held him until his sobs finally subsided.

It was hard for her to let go of him.

She took one last breath, savoring the scent of gunpowder, the fading cedarwood fragrance of the perfume he liked so much, and the faint scent of sweat.

“I love you, you know?”

Hearing this, he wanted to lift his head, but a hand on the back of his neck stopped him, pressing him against her shoulder.

That was when he realized the weight of the weapon had completely disappeared from his hand.

Before he could pull himself free from beneath the woman's arm, it was already too late.

First, he registered the short, sharp crack that left his ears ringing.

Only afterward did he feel the warm liquid splatter across his cheek.

The hand fell away from the back of his neck.

He couldn't get up.

In his head, there was still only the sound of—

BANG!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man woke drenched in sweat. Once again, for what felt like the hundredth time over the past few months, the same nightmare had woken him.

He sat up and rested his bare back against the bed frame, rubbing his tired eyes. He reached for the bedside table and switched on the lamp. He blinked twice and glanced at the clock.

2:24.

He still had just under three hours before the briefing. There was no chance he would fall asleep anytime soon. He decided to go to the kitchen and get something to drink. He got out of bed and pulled on a shirt.

The corridors of the base were dark and deserted. The only sign of life was the light from the watchtower sweeping across the grounds outside the building at regular intervals.

It wasn't far from Sanderson's room to the kitchen. One turn right, another left, and he was there.

As he crossed the threshold, he reached for the light switch beside the door. The fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating the bright room.

The man reached into a cabinet, took out a glass, and filled it with water from the nearby tap. He leaned against the counter and glanced out the window, scanning the grounds with a watchful eye.

“Can't sleep?” a familiar voice called out.

Gary didn't even flinch. He gave a confirming grunt but remained focused on the window.

“Another nightmare?”

He didn't bother answering. He took a sip of water from his glass.

“Expecting someone outside that window?” the voice persisted.

This time, it sounded closer.

The blond sighed heavily.

“No,” he muttered and turned toward the voice.

Lucky was sitting on the counter.

She was wearing her uniform, but her legs were bare. She swung them back and forth one at a time. Her eyes sparkled innocently. Her tousled hair stuck out in every direction, as it usually did in the morning when she hadn't tied it back.

Gary stared at her in silence for several minutes.

“You're quieter than usual,” the woman joked and hopped down from the counter. “Don't tell me it's that same nightmare again.”

She stopped in front of him, arms crossed, studying him carefully.

The man looked away, feeling as though he'd been caught red-handed.

“Gary,” she sighed. “You were supposed to talk to the therapist about this.”

She gave him a look filled with pity.

“Nothing's going to change if you keep refusing to talk about it.”

“I know,” he sighed. “It's just... it's just a difficult subject ever since you—” He stumbled over his words. “Ever since... you know.” His throat tightened. “Ever since—”

“Everything all right, mate?” another voice echoed through the kitchen.

Both heads turned toward the doorway.

Sanderson hadn't even registered the footsteps of the person who had just entered the kitchen.

Ghost walked in as though nothing was out of the ordinary and, just as Roach had done earlier, approached the cabinet, took out a glass, and poured himself some water. He leaned against the counter and gave his colleague a meaningful look.

“Let's say it is,” the younger of the two muttered, wanting to put an end to the conversation.

Ghost raised an eyebrow knowingly.

“I could've sworn you were talking to someone.”

Gary looked straight ahead, searching for a glimpse of Y/H, but she vanished the moment the other man entered the room.

“Yeah. You could've sworn,” he muttered and turned back toward the window.

Simon caught the hint.

He downed the rest of his water, placed the glass in the sink, and headed toward the exit.

He felt sorry for the younger man. They weren't particularly close, but he knew how much Gary had been through lately. He understood loss better than Gary could probably imagine.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

He gave him a faint smile and disappeared into the dark corridor.

“Thanks,” Gary called into the empty silence.

The silence lasted a full two minutes before the voice spoke again.

“Gary,” she whispered sweetly into his ear. “It's been almost a year. You need to talk to someone. You won't be able to move on without it, sweetheart.”

The blond felt his throat tighten.

He could feel a wave of despair coming.

She was right.

So much time had passed, yet he still couldn't pull himself back together.

How weak was he?

“You're not weak. You're grieving. And you need someone to help you through it.”

The first tear rolled down his cheek.

“I just...” he choked out. “I just miss you.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

“Everything was easier with you.”

He wrapped his arms around himself like a small, devastated child and quietly sobbed.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered.

He could have sworn he felt a faint wave of warmth against the back of his neck.

He knew his mind was playing tricks on him, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of the illusion.

“You're strong. I know it, and you know it. You just need something to drive you forward again. Someone to help you get back on your feet. A friend. Someone like me. Or maybe even better.”

He heard the echo of her laughter inside his head.

God, how he missed it.

He turned his head and once again caught sight of the shadow of her Y/H hair.

“You and I both know we've crossed the line of friendship a long time ago,” he muttered bitterly.

A hint of a smile crossed her lips.

“You're right.”

There was a touch of pride in her voice.

He couldn't help the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, but at the very thought, his expression fell again.

“I only regret not telling you sooner,” he muttered in defeat and looked away.

“Not telling me what?” she teased.

He knew he was essentially having a conversation with himself.

She was nothing more than a creation of his traumatized mind. A defense mechanism helping him slowly process the aftermath of her death.

Apparently, it wasn't enough, considering she still haunted him both in his dreams and while he was awake.

He looked at her again.

His imagination continued to recreate every detail of her face. She was as vivid as the photograph he kept beneath his pillow in his room, along with her dog tags.

“That I love you.”

There wasn't even a hint of hesitation in his voice.

He watched the corner of her mouth twitch mischievously. Her eyes sparkled with playful delight.

“I knew it,” she announced proudly. “I always knew.”

She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, one he could almost feel, just as he had on the day she had shot herself in the head while holding him close, sparing him the sight of what she had done.

“And now go.”

She gave him one last smile as she headed toward the dark corridor.

“It's time for you to find a new friend.”

She dissolved into the darkness like a ghost before he could blink.

He had a feeling this would be the last time he ever saw her.

But today, he felt lighter with that thought.

He finished the rest of his water, placed the glass in the sink, switched off the light, and left the room.

Instead of heading toward his own quarters, he went in the opposite direction.

A moment later, he stopped in front of a door bearing a dark nameplate.

Lt. Simon Riley.

Without hesitation, he raised his hand and knocked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

an: We've made it to the end of the story. You'll probably realize pretty quickly that I really love writing angst, because I've got plenty more of it waiting in the wings.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! I'm never quite sure what to say in these end notes, so I'll just leave you with a big thank you for reading. I hope you stick around for the next one! ♡

#gary roach sanderson

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