The server room was still humming behind them, racks of machines blinking like they were breathing. Ghost stood watch near the door, rifle low but ready. Gaz was crouched over the terminal, fingers flying, muttering about encryption keys and outdated firewalls. Price hovered just behind, silent, watchful—already halfway out of the room in his head, planning exfil.
Soap stared at the screen.
The folder sat there, unassuming. No comical skulls. No yellow hazard signs. Just a designation stamped in plain black text.
TF141—POST-MISSION CASUALTY REPORTS
Soap snorted softly. “Bit dramatic, innit?”
Gaz glanced back. “Yeah. Real morale booster.”
Price didn’t smile. “What is it?”
“Could be nothing,” Gaz said. “Could be—”
“Open it,” Price ordered.
Soap hesitated, then clicked.
The folder expanded.
Four subfiles appeared instantly, as if they’d been waiting.
JOHN PRICE
JOHN MACTAVISH
SIMON RILEY
KYLE GARRICK
Soap felt the room narrow, the hum of the servers suddenly too loud, too close. His own name stared back at him—full name, proper formatting, military designation beneath it. Not a nickname. Not Soap.
His real one.
“Alright,” Gaz said, forcing a laugh that didn’t fool anyone. “That’s… weird.”
Ghost leaned in just enough to see the screen. He didn’t say anything, but Soap felt it—the shift in him. The way he bristled and went still. No one called him Simon Riley anymore. Not the General. Not the Captain. Not even the reports he fills out.
Price exhaled slowly. “Status?”
“Files are locked,” Gaz said, clicking around. “Heavy encryption. But… they’re dated.”
Soap swallowed. “Dated,” he repeated.
Gaz glanced at him, eyes hollow. “Future.”
No one spoke for a beat.
Then Price said, “That’s enough.”
Soap should’ve closed it. He knew he should’ve. But his hand moved before his brain caught up, cursor hovering over the first line.
Not his.
Gaz’s.
SUBJECT: GARRICK, KYLE
STATUS: KIA
TIME OF DEATH: 02:14 LOCAL
Soap’s breath caught.
“Gaz,” he said quietly.
Gaz leaned closer, the color draining from his face in a way not even Price had seen before. It was startling. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
More text loaded as he scrolled. It’s too late to back down now.
CAUSE: FRIENDLY FIRE DURING EXTRACTION
LOCATION: [REDACTED]
The coordinates beneath it made Soap’s stomach twist. He recognised them. Everyone in the room did.
Details followed. Radio chatter timestamps. A reference to smoke cover failing. A call for a fallback route that never came.
No shooter named.
Soap closed the file, his hands now shaking.
The room felt colder.
“That’s not a prediction,” Price said. “It’s speculation. Someone’s messing with us.”
For the first time, Ghost spoke. His voice is snippy, shockingly so. “Then why’s it accurate?”
Soap looked at him. “Accurate how?”
Ghost didn’t answer.
Price straightened. “Lock it down. We’ll hand it over to—”
Soap opened another file.
His own.
“Sergeant—” Price warned.
The file loaded slower this time, like it was thinking about it.
SUBJECT: MACTAVISH, JOHN
STATUS: KIA
Soap felt oddly calm. Like his body had decided panic would be a waste of energy.
No time.
No location.
No cause.
Just a blank space where the details should’ve been.
At the bottom of the page, a single line appeared.
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 3%
Gaz let out a sharp breath. “That’s not how casualty reports work.”
Soap stared at the number. Three percent. Clinical. Impersonal. Like a weather forecast.
Price grabbed the mouse and shut the file down hard. “That’s enough.”
The screen went dark.
For a moment, all Soap could hear was his own heartbeat.
“We don’t know who made this,” Price continued, voice steady, controlled. “Or why. Until we do, this stays classified. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Gaz said automatically, second nature to him—always following orders without question.
Soap nodded.
Ghost said nothing.
They moved fast after that. Drives pulled, charges set, the server room wiped clean as if it had never existed. The exfil went smoothly—too smooth. No contact. No complications.
Back aboard the transport, the team fell into the usual rhythm. Weapons checked. Gear stowed. Someone cracked a joke that Soap didn’t catch.
Ghost sat across from him, mask unreadable as ever. He’s barely spoken since they saw the file, though that’s not too out of the ordinary for him.
Soap caught him looking.
Not at his face.
At his hands.
Soap flexed his fingers slowly, grounding himself. Paper doesn’t decide this, he told himself. Files don’t pull triggers.
Still—
When Soap closed his eyes, he saw the line again.
SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 3%
And somewhere deep in his gut, a quiet thought followed:
Three percent isn’t zero.
Not yet.
NEXT CHAPTER >
(I technically have several chapters of this already written, but idk if I want to continue so pls tell me if this is even worth anyones time lol)
A fluorescent light buzzed faintly above the common room couch.
Soap has one boot kicked up on the coffee table and a controller in his hands, leaning forward like this is the most important thing to him.
“C’mon, c’mon—aye! There it is!” Soap shouts as digital gunfire rattles through the speakers.
On the other end of the couch, Gaz pinches the bridge of his nose without looking up from the paperwork in his lap.
“Soap,” Gaz said patiently, “it’s one in the morning.”
Soap doesn’t look away from the screen. “And?”
“And some of us have work.”
“You’re doing paperwork voluntarily,” Soap replies. “That’s a personal problem.”
Gaz sighs.
Across the room, Ghost sits at the long table under the buzzing light, completely detached from the chaos. His attention is on the rifle laid out in front of him in careful pieces.
A cloth drags slowly along the barrel as he cleans it.
Soap dies in the game. “Aw, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
The controller hits the couch cushions as Soap leans back dramatically.
Gaz finally looks up. “Good.”
Soap shoots him a glare. “You rootin’ against me now?”
“Always.”
Ghost doesn’t react, but Soap points toward him anyway. “See, Lt? This is the respect I get around here.”
“You were shouting like a wounded seagull,” he says flatly.
Gaz snorts.
Soap stared at him. “A wounded—what kind of insult is that?”
Ghost doesn’t answer.
Soap leans forward again, grabbing the controller, much to Gaz’s dismay. “Right, rematch.”
The door opened.
All three of them looked up like they’re children caught awake at midnight.
Price steps into the room, mug of tea in hand, the faint smell of tobacco following him inside. He paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The television blaring.
Soap hunched over the controller.
Gaz surrounded by paperwork.
Ghost calmly cleaning a rifle.
Price sighs.
Soap holds the controller up. “Morale, sir.”
Gaz lifts the stack of forms. “Paperwork.”
Ghost continues setting the rifle back together. “Maintenance.”
Price takes a long sip of tea, studying them like a tired father who really did discover his kids still awake at midnight.
“You lot realize we deploy in two days?”
Soap nodded toward the TV. “Training.”
“You’re playing a game,” Price looks at him blankly.
“Strategic simulation.”
Gaz looks like he’s about to laugh, but tries to hold it in.
Price points at the stack of papers in Gaz’s hands. “And you?”
“Someone has to finish these reports,” Gaz says.
Price’s brow lifted slightly. “At one in the morning?”
Gaz shrugs.
Price finally turns his attention to Ghost.
Ghost had already finished reassembling the rifle and is checking the chamber.
Price watches him for a moment before saying, “At least one of you looks productive.”
Soap gasps dramatically. “Oh, that’s favoritism, that is.”
Gaz waves the stack of files at Price like he missed it the first time.
Ghost ignores them.
Soap leans back on the couch again. “Besides,” he added, “none of us were sleepin’ anyway.”
Gaz didn’t deny it.
That was the thing about coming back from missions. The adrenaline lingered. The quiet felt strange. Sleep doesn’t always come easily.
Price notices the brief silence that follows.
He doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he walks over and sets his mug down on the table.
“Move,” he says to Soap.
Soap blinks. “Sir?”
Price points to the controlled. “Let’s see this strategic simulation you’re so proud of.”
Gaz immediately leans forward, interested.
Soap grins.
“Oh, you’re on now, Cap.”
Ghost stood from the table and moved toward the couch, arms folding loosely across his chest.
Price picks up the second controller.
“Don’t expect mercy.”
Soap cracks his knuckles.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Thirty seconds later—
Soap is yelling.
Gaz is laughing.
Ghost stands behind the couch, watching silently.
And Price, calm as ever, eliminates Soap’s character with ruthless efficiency.
Soap stares at the screen in disbelief. “…sir.”
Price takes another sip of tea. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“You’ve definitely played this before.”
Price doesn’t look up. “Get some sleep, son.”
Soap groans.
Gaz laughs harder.
And for a little while longer, the common room stayed alive with noise instead of silence.
Yeah I'm outta ideas so here's some relaxed 141. Asks are very appreciated :)
This prompt belongs to @hyperfixationsgobrr from this post.
The radio crackles twice before the line clears.
“Gaz, say your position,” Price requests.
Kyle adjusts the dial, squinting at the treeline stretching, endless and black, against the fading light. “Grid’s accurate. I’ve got cover. No hostiles in sight.”
A pause. Static hums like distant insects.
“Nearest we can get to you is eighteen hours. The weather’s grounding us further south. Sit tight, Sergeant.”
Eighteen hours.
Kyle exhales slowly through his nose. Not ideal, but not catastrophic. He’s been in worse. At least he’s unharmed this time.
“Copy that,” he replies with a sigh. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Price mutters something about him not doing anything stupid. Ghost is silent, but Kyle knows he’s listening. Soap tells him not to get too bored, but he can tell the Scot is amused.
Then the comms click dead.
The quiet that follows is different. Thicker.
Kyle moves automatically—muscle memory and training taking over. He chooses a spot tucked between two large outcroppings of rock, partially shielded from the wind. He builds a low fire, careful not to give away his position. Minimal smoke. A shelter angled just enough to break the breeze.
It’s almost peaceful.
For the first hour, he lets himself breathe. He checks his ammo. Cleans the Bowie knife strapped to his vest. Sips water. Watches the trees.
The forest watches back.
It starts subtly.
A rustle, nothing more.
Not wind. Not the rhythm of branches settling.
Kyle’s hand moves before his brain finishes processing. He reaches for the Bowie, unsheathing it with practiced silence. He rises slowly, boots barely whispering against the dirt.
Another sound.
Closer.
He circles wide, keeping his fire at his back, letting the shadows fall in front of him. The trees crowd in, trunks like silent sentries.
And then he sees it.
A pale shape on the ground several meters away.
White.
Fabric.
It looks wrong against the dark earth.
Kyle narrows his eyes. No movement. No breathing. No obvious trap wire.
He advances slowly.
The smell hits first.
Musty.
Sour.
Rot.
His jaw tightens. He nudges the white fabric gently with the tip of his boot.
No response.
He crouches and, with the Bowie’s edge, he lifts the fabric.
And the world shifts, and he reels back.
The body beneath is swollen, discolored, skin split, and darkened with decay. Insects scatter at the disturbance. What was once a human face is barely recognizable.
Not fresh.
Far from recent.
Just left there.
Kyle exhales carefully through his mouth, forcing himself to catalog details instead of reacting.
Civilian clothing.
Hands bound.
No obvious animal damage.
This was deliberate.
He kneels, gloved fingers hovering just above the wrists, checking for any identifying marks, anything that tells him who this was.
He should call this into Price.
And that’s when he feels it.
The shift in air.
The pressure behind him.
The animalistic instinct that has saved his life more times than he can count.
He turns—
Too late.
A hand clamps onto his shoulder.
Something sharp pricks into the side of his neck.
Kyle reacts on instinct, slamming backwards with his elbow, twisting, but the plunger depresses.
Cold floods his bloodstream.
His vision fractures.
He swings the Bowie blindly, catching fabric—maybe skin—a grunt of pain somewhere behind him.
The forest tilts.
His knees hit the dirt.
Sound distorts, stretching long and warped.
Through blurred vision, he catches a shape moving in front of him—boots. Dark clothing. A silhouette bending down.
A voice, low and almost amused.
“He'll do nicely.”
Kyle tries to reach for the radio.
His fingers don’t obey.
The trees blur into white.
And then nothing.
GAZ
The room has no clock.
No windows.
The lights never turn off.
Kyle counts time by breathing at first. Sixty breaths, one minute. He keeps it steady. Controlled. Like Price taught him during resistance training refreshers.
He loses count somewhere past what he thinks is six hours.
They unstrap him only to move him.
Different chair. Same restraints.
Different voice.
“You're handling this well,” the woman says. Clinical tone. Educated. “Most candidates reach agitation by now.”
“Candidates?” Kyle rasps. His throat is dry. They’re rationing water carefully. Enough to keep him conscious, but not comfortable. It's like this isn't the first time they've done this.
She ignores his question.
A tablet turns toward him.
Photos.
Price.
Soap.
Ghost.
Zoomed in. Timestamped. Surveillance angles.
“You operate in a small unit,” she continues. “Highly skilled. Extremely valuable.”
Kyle says nothing.
“You were separated. They will attempt recovery. We’ve calculated a 72% probability they’ll escalate beyond authorized channels.”
He stares at her.
She smiles slightly. “We account for that.”
The screen changes.
Audio waveform.
A voice plays.
Price.
“...can’t justify the resources if there’s no signal...”
If he listens closely, it sounds clipped. Chopped. Rearranged.
Kyle knows that voice. Knows the cadence, the weight behind it.
The sleep deprivation makes doubt sticky.
Another clip.
“...we proceed without him...”
The words echo too long in the concrete room.
Kyle’s jaw tightens. He says nothing.
But for one split second—
He hesitates.
The woman sees it.
And that’s when she knows where to press.
PRICE
They find the transport mark first.
Not tire tracks but dragging marks.
Compressed brush.
Displaced soil.
A faint trace of synthetic fiber caught on bark.
Ghost collects it in silence.
Soap is the one who finds the camera.
Half-buried. Camouflaged.
Watching the campsite.
Price stares at it for too long. Whoever this was, they've been planning this for far longer than they first thought.
“They were waiting,” Soap mutters, too weary of Price to speak any louder.
Price doesn’t respond.
He pulls every contact he has within the hour.
Old SAS extraction teams.
A black-market broker in Bucharest.
A CIA liaison who owes him a favor from Kandahar.
Patterns emerge fast.
Former military.
Contractors.
Disappeared in remote regions.
Reappear in private security contracts overseas under altered identities.
Some never reappear at all.
Ghost traces a shell company tied to “skill acquisition logistics.”
Soap hacks deeper than he probably should.
And then they find something that makes the air go cold.
An auction forum.
Encrypted.
Invite-only.
Listings coded.
One new listing posted six hours ago.
Asset: Active UK Special Operations Sergeant. Field capable. Minimal degradation.
“No,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes both Ghost and Soap exchange glances before straightening. “They’re trying.”
GAZ
The room changes again.
New tactic.
They bring in a man this time.
Older. Polished. Expensive watch.
“You’re not a prisoner,” he says conversationally, “You’re inventory.”
Kyle lifts his head slowly, the realization slowly dawning on him.
The man continues, “You have two options. Resistance—which decreases value and limits placement. Or cooperation—which ensures optimal reassignment.”
“Reassignment,” Kyle repeats flatly.
The man nods. “Private sector security. High compensation. Discrete operations. Your skillset is... desirable.”
Kyle laughs once, hoarse. “You abduct me and think I’ll sign a contract?”
The man tilts his head.
“You misunderstand. Contracts can be signed willingly... or neurologically encouraged.”
A small case is set on the table.
Syringes.
Clear liquid.
Kyle’s stomach drops.
The man leans closer. “Your team cannot find you in time. Even if they trace the forest site, you’ll be relocated before they breach. You’re already a transaction.”
For the first time since being shoved in the room, real anger flickers in Kyle’s eyes. “You don’t know my captain.”
The man smiles. “We’ve profiled him extensively.”
PRICE
Ghost secures the warehouse linked to the shell company’s regional office.
Soap intercepts encrypted traffic.
Price is kicking the door in before backup fully clears.
Every person inside is detained or unconscious within minutes.
Price drags one executive across a concrete floor and slams him against the metal table. Ghost hovers over his shoulder.
“Where is he.” It’s not a question.
The man tries to maintain composure, but Price only leans in closer. “You took one of mine.”
There’s no shouting. No raised voice. It’s eerily calm, scaring the man even more.
“Transfer hub,” the man finally gasps. “Mobile. Rotational. We don’t hold inventory in one place.”
Price presses the knife just enough to make the point clear.
“Where.”
Three hours away.
Airstrip.
Private transport is scheduled within ninety minutes.
Price releases him abruptly, leaving the warehouse.
Ghost meets Soap’s eyes and shakes his head.
They move.
GAZ
They prep him for transfer.
Wrists restrained.
Sedation prepped and ready for use.
Black transport bag waiting.
The woman pauses, sparing a glance at Kyle. “You’re still resisting.”
Kyle’s voice is rough but steady, his eyes holding that fire that makes her sick. “Yeah.”
She sighs slightly. “Disappointing.”
A speaker in the room clicks on.
Static.
Then—
A gunshot in the distance.
Muffled shouting.
Another gunshot.
The staff exchange confused looks.
Kyle’s heart stutters.
That wasn’t a recording.
The man with the watch reaches for his phone.
It never finishes ringing.
Smoke.
Flashbang.
Shouting.
Kyle blinks through the haze.
And through ringing ears, he hears the one voice that cuts through everything.
“KYLE!”
His name. Not his call sign. Not his last name.
Price’s voice.
Not edited.
Not distorted.
Real.
And furious.
The syringe slides into Kyle’s arm before he can jerk away.
Cold spreads through his bloodstream almost immediately.
He knows that feeling.
The sedative from before, now diluted.
It’s not enough to knock him down instantly—just enough to make his muscles heavy and thoughts slow.
“Dose injected,” the woman says calmly to a nearby man. “We can wake him up during transport.”
Kyle tries to focus on the table in front of him.
Metal.
Scratched.
A single bolt in the corner.
Focus on something small. Something real.
Price’s voice echoes faintly in the back of his head—old training.
Control what you can. One thing at a time, son.
But the room tilts anyway.
The man with the expensive watch checks his phone. “Aircraft’s five minutes out.”
Kyle’s vision blurs. He tries to move his hands.
The restraints hold.
Someone lifts the black transport bag.
Another prepares a second injection.
Then—
The gunshots.
Everyone in the room freezes.
Another shot.
Closer.
Then shouting.
The woman frowns. “What—”
Kyle’s heart lurches, and he forces his head up.
The man with the watch reaches for his phone again. “Security—”
The door explodes inward.
A flashband detonates with a deafening crack.
White floods the room.
Kyle’s ears ring violently if they weren’t already. The world dissolves into bright static and muffled chaos.
Boots thunder across the floor.
Someone shouts, and bodies collide.
Gunfire erupts in sharp, controlled bursts.
Kyle tries to stand.
The sedative drags him back down.
Through the ringing in his ears, he hears something cutting through the noise. A voice, both familiar and furious.
“KYLE!”
Again.
Kyle blinks hard through blurred vision.
Shapes move through the smoke.
One of the traffickers grabs Kyle by the collar, trying to haul him towards the exit.
“Move him now!”
Kyle reacts on instinct.
Even drugged and barely hanging on, his training takes over.
He drives his knee upward with everything he has.
The man grunts as it connects with his ribs.
Kyle twists violently, chair legs scratching across concrete as he throws his weight sideways.
The chair tips.
They both crash to the floor.
Kyle’s wrists are still bound behind him, but he rolls, slamming his shoulder into the man’s knee.
The trafficker staggers.
Kyle swings his legs up and kicks him square in the chest, sending him back.
The room spins violently.
His muscles feel like wet sand.
But he forces himself onto his knees.
Across the room, another guard raises his pistol.
The shot never fires.
A suppressed round cracks.
The guard drops instantly.
Smoke clears just enough for Kyle to see three figures pushing into the room.
Soap first.
Fast. Aggressive. His face is red with fury.
Ghost on his heels.
And then Price.
The captain stops dead the moment he sees Kyle.
For half a second, the room goes still.
Kyle sways where he kneels, barely upright, wrists bound, pupils blown wide from sedatives.
Price crosses the distance in three long strides.
“Easy, lad. Easy.”
Kyle tries to focus on him. “Sir...”
The word comes out slurred.
Price’s jaw tightens when he sees the needle mark on Kyle’s arm.
Soap cuts the restraints with a knife.
The second the straps fall away, Kyle tries to stand.
His legs give out instantly.
Price catches him before he hits the ground.
“Whoa—steady.”
Kyle grips Price’s vest weakly, blinking hard. “Took... took you long enough...”
Soap barks a laugh from across the room while checking another doorway. “Listen to him! Gaz’s been kidnapped and dugged, but he’s still got a mouth on ‘em.”
Ghost kneels briefly, checking Kyle’s pupils.
“Sedated,” he says gruffly.
Price nods once. “Can you move him?”
Ghost shifts Kyle’s weight against him, one arm braced around his back. “Yeah.”
Kyle tries to focus, blinking slowly. The room still spins in slow, nauseating circles. His arms feel like they don’t belong to him anymore. “Sir...” he mutters, voice thick.
Price crouches so he’s in Kyle’s line of sight. “You’re alright, son.”
Kyle squints at him like he’s trying to make sure Price is real. “...thought that was a recording,” he slurs.
Soap huffs a soft laugh somewhere to the side while checking the last doorway. “Nah, mate. That ugly mug’s the real thing.”
Price shoots him a brief look but doesn’t argue.
“Transport’s clear,” Ghost says, after a moment.
Price nods again. “Let’s move.
The walk out of the facility is slow.
Ghost supports most of Kyle’s weight while Price stays close, one hand steady on his shoulder whenever he stumbles. Soap moves ahead, clearing the path even though the building has already fallen silent.
Outside, the cold night air hits Kyle’s face.
He sucks in a shaky breath, the stars blurring above him. “...feels weird,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” Soap replies softly. “That’s the drugs, mate.”
Kyle attempts a laugh, but it comes out more like a tired breath.
They reach the vehicle waiting near the edge of the airstrip. Ghost helps guide him into the backseat while Soap climbs in beside him.
His head droops forward.
Soap catches it gently and guides him back against the headrest. “Stay with us, Garrick.”
Kyle’s eyes crack open again. “Tryin’...”
The engine starts, and the vehicle pulls away from the facility, disappearing down the dark road.
For a while, no one speaks.
The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the quiet.
Kyle’s breathing grows slower, heavier.
The sedative is still working its way through his system, fighting against his dying adrenaline and dragging him down.
His head tilts slightly toward Soap.
“ ‘Tav...” Kyle mutters.
Soap glances over. “Aye?”
Kyle’s eyelids are barely open now. “...they said... you weren’t comin’.”
Soap snorts softly. “Yeah, well, they clearly don’t know us very well.”
Kyle tries to smile. It’s small and crooked.
His fingers twitch weakly against the seat. “Didn’t... think you’d let ‘em sell me.”
Soap puts his arm over the back of the seats, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Not a change, mate.”
Kyle’s breathing stutters slightly as the exhaustion deepens.
Kyle’s head leans fully against Soap’s shoulder this time.
Soap doesn’t move.
“You can let go,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Kyle to hear him.
Kyle exhales slowly. His grip on consciousness finally loosens.
He’s asleep within seconds.
Kyle wakes to the faint hum of ventilation and the sterile smell of antiseptic.
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
His brain feels slow, heavy, like it’s wrapped in fog.
Then he notices the softness beneath him.
A bed.
He cracks one eye open.
Fluorescent lights. Medical ceiling.
Base.
Memory rushes back in fragments—the forest, the needle, the concrete room, the door blowing open.
Price shouting his name.
Kyle shifts slightly.
Immediately, a voice nearby speaks.
“Easy.”
He turns his head slowly.
Price is sitting in the chair beside the bed, arms folded, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours.
Soap is leaning against the wall nearby, half-asleep with his arms crossed.
Ghost stands near the doorway, silent as ever.
Kyle blinks slowly. “…we’re home?” he croaks.
Soap opens one eye. “Aye.”
Price exhales quietly through his nose.
“You’re safe, Sergeant.”
Kyle lets his head sink back into the pillow.
“…good.”
For the first time since the forest, his body finally relaxes completely.
And this time, when he closes his eyes—
It’s just sleep.
It's a long one but it's here! I had so much fun writing this I couldn't stop. Is my writing format inconsistent through this? Ofc but some of my best works are. I saw the short story from @hyperfixationsgobrr and had to run to begin writing (once given permission ofc).
I'm out for midterm break starting today so please feel free to send me any asks!
Love’s such an old-fashioned word. There’s several kinds of love,
Familial.
Platonic.
Romantic.
The list goes on.
Simon Riley isn’t used to feeling any kind of love. There’s no family to speak of. He’s had girlfriends, sure, but none of them stuck. His team—they make him feel loved in way he never thought he’d deserve.
John Price is more of a father than his ever was. Never once has Price raised a hand to him, or even his voice. It’s likely that Price has a good idea of Simon’s upbringing, but he never speaks about it. The nights the two of them will occasionally spend outside sharing a smoke is admittedly some of Simon’s favorite moments. Then, they’re not soldiers or pawns of the military. They’re human. Price’s hidden looks of concern and reassuring pats are a stable of their bond. Price was there the day Simon truly broke. Still, Price never treated him like anything less than human.
Simon originally didn’t know what to think of Kyle Garrick. The best way to describe him is a guard dog, always at Price’s six since the day the captain recruited him. Admittedly, Simon was weary in the beginning until he noticed it was just Gaz’s nature. Whether Simon wanted him to be or not, Gaz would always show up when he needed him the most. Nights shattered by nightmares, Gaz was at his side saying nothing but doing everything. Before missions, Gaz would repeatedly check all of their gear at least three times before parting their shoulder. Gaz never touched Simon. If Simon wasn’t so cautious, he could almost call Gaz a friend.
Simon Riley loves John MacTavish. Anyone that doesn’t see it is a fool. The stolen glances, the panicked undertone when Soap’s response is delayed, the playful banter that Price hasn’t heard from Ghost since before Roba. Soap brings out the Simon in Ghost. They all have seen some of his softer moments, sure, but Soap is different. Soap has taken his bare hands and carved a place for himself in Simon’s heart. Neither have spoken outright about their feelings. They’d be court-martialed for fraternization. However, if the two of them shared a kiss after too much bourbon, who’s to say?
This is absolutely inspired by Under Pressure by Queen & David Bowie. I'm working on making an edit to the song rn but i doubt ill do anything with it.
It's also 100% inspired by the other post I made about death
No decorations. No cards taped to doors. No one mentions it outright. It just exists quietly on the calendar, like an afterthought—something meant for other people, other lives.
Soap notices first.
He’s in the kitchen early, hair still damp from the shower, rooting through a cabinet for coffee when he spots the date scribbled on the whiteboard near the duty roster.
Feb. 14
He grins to himself.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs.
Price’s love language has never been subtle.
It’s in the way he runs the team hard on training days, but cuts it short when he sees the edges fraying. It’s in the way he insists everyone eats something warm before a mission briefing. It’s in his presence—solid and unyielding, always there.
That evening, he cancels night drills without explanation. “Rest,” he says, arms crossed, tone flat. “You’ve earned it.”
No one argues.
Later, he sits at the table while the others drift around the common area. He pours tea without asking—four mugs, each filled exactly the way they like it. When Ghost pauses nearby, Price nudges one toward him without looking.
“Drink,” he says.
Ghost does.
Price doesn’t say I care. He never has.
He says stay, eat, rest.
And somehow, that’s louder.
Gaz’s love language is attention.
Not the obvious kind—the quiet kind. The noticing.
He clocks everything: Soap’s restless energy, Ghost’s tendency to hover near exits, Price’s stiffness when he’s overworked himself. He adjusts himself around them without a word.
When Soap starts pacing, Gaz tosses him a protein bar. When Ghost lingers at the edge of the room, Gaz shifts to sit closer—not crowding, just present. When Price rubs his temple, Gaz takes over the briefing notes without being asked.
Later, as they sit scattered across the room, Gaz leans back against the couch and says lightly, “You lot realise this is the closest thing to a date we’ve had in months, yeah?”
Soap laughs. Price scoffs. Ghost huffs.
But no one moves away.
Gaz smiles to himself.
Soap’s love language is effort.
Big or small—he just tries.
He disappears into the kitchen longer than necessary, swearing quietly under his breath as he attempts something that vaguely resembles dessert. When he finally emerges, he’s holding a plate of slightly uneven brownies.
“Don’t ask,” he says quickly. “Just—trust me.”
They’re not perfect. One part is a little overcooked and a corner is missing.
They eat them anyway.
Soap watches their reactions with barely-contained anticipation, beaming when Gaz nods approvingly, when Price mutters, “Not bad,” when Ghost takes a second one without comment.
Later, Soap flops down on the floor, leaning back against Gaz’s legs, unapologetically close. Gaz rests a hand on Soap’s shoulder without thinking.
Soap grins, satisfied.
Ghost’s love language is action.
Not words. Never words.
It’s the blanket he drapes over Gaz when he thinks no one’s watching. The way he quietly switches off the harsh overhead light. The way he positions himself so everyone’s within reach—protected, even here.
When Soap’s laughter gets too loud, Ghost nudges him gently with his boot, grounding him rather than silencing. When Price stands to leave, Ghost guard raises and he doesn’t let himself relax for a moment until the captain resumes his spot nearby. Only then does he allow himself to sink a mere inch back into the couch.
At one point, Gaz shifts, shivering slightly.
Ghost adjusts the thermostat.
No one comments. They all notice.
It happens slowly, naturally.
Price settles back into his chair, Soap half-sprawled on the floor, Gaz on the couch, Ghost standing close enough to touch any of them if needed. A constellation of habits and care, years in the making.
Soap breaks the silence first, voice softer than usual.
“Y’know,” he says, staring at the ceiling, “this isn’t... bad.”
Price snorts. “High praise.”
Soap grins. “I mean it.”
Gaz hums softly, eyes half lidded. “Yeah. Me too.”
Ghost says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
Price looks at them then. Really looks. His team. His people.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says gruffly, like the words feel unfamiliar in his mouth. For a heartbeat, no one responds.
Then Soap laughs quietly. Gaz smiles. Ghost inclines his head just enough to count.
It’s not flowers or cards or grand confessions.
It’s tea. Brownies. Warmth. Staying.
And that’s more than enough.
The night stretches on without anyone really noticing.
The common room grows quieter, lights dimmed low, the storm outside tapping softly against the windows. Soap’s laughter fades into something lazy, tired. Gaz’s posture loosens. Even Price looks softer.
It starts unintentionally.
Soap shifts first, rolling onto his side and knocking lightly into Gaz’s knee. “Sorry,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.
Gaz just snorts, adjusting without complaint.
Ghost watches for a moment—always watching—then moves. He lowers himself to sit on the floor with his back against the couch, close enough that Gaz’s calf rests against his shoulder. It’s not dramatic. Just practical. Warm.
Price exhales through his nose, considers the scene, then surprises everyone by standing and pulling the extra blanket from the back of the chair.
“Shift,” he orders quietly.
They do.
Soap ends up wedged comfortably between Gaz and the couch cushions, Gaz’s arm draped loosely around him. Ghost stays grounded at their feet, one hand resting on Soap’s ankle like an anchor. Price sits last, close enough that his shoulder brushes Gaz’s, the blanket spread over all of them in an uneven heap.
No one comments on it.
Their breathing syncs slowly, bodies settling into shared heat. Soap sighs contentedly, a sound so soft it barely registers. Gaz tilts his head until it rests lightly against Price’s shoulder, trusting. Price doesn’t move away.
Ghost adjusts the blanket once more, tucking it closer where the cold might creep in.
This—this—is how they say it.
Not out loud. Not all at once.
But in the quiet, in the closeness, in choosing to stay exactly where they are.
And when sleep finally takes them, tangled and warm and ungarded, Valentine’s Day passes without fanfare.
But none of them will forget it.
(i did my best i swear i've never written poly before)
The word is so meager compared to the aftermath. The grievances. The funeral. The friends and family that are affected. The tears shed, the words said, none of it feels real in the moment. None of it will feel real for days. Maybe weeks or months.
Grief. Five letters. One syllable.
There’s synonyms for grief, but none can put this exact feeling into words. It can’t describe the particular tightness in your chest, or the way you’ll remember them in random moments. The fact that you know they won’t see you grow.
John Price hasn’t stopped bargaining from the moment he saw the gun turn on Soap. He hasn’t stopped since he put a bullet in General Shepherd. He’s running out of ways to bargain, but even then, he known his Sergeant won’t be returning anytime soon. The only comfort he has is that Soap was not alone, and he went quick. As far as he’s concerned, Soap never felt any pain.
Kyle Garrick is not bargaining, though he hasn’t accepted the death either. He’s fallen into a deep, depressive episode that has Laswell wondering if she should put Kyle out on medical leave. She decides against it. It’d only make things worse. He replays Soap’s death over and over. He wasn’t there, but he heard the shot. He heard Ghost yell. He only dared look at the scene once the bomb was disarmed. He hasn’t said much since, keeping conversation to the bare minimum.
Simon Riley is angry. Angry at General Shepherd. At Makarov. At Price for letting this happen. At Kyle for shutting down. At Johnny for not wearing that bloody helmet for once. Most of all, he’s angry at himself. For once, he thought he could let someone in. He thought nothing bad would come of it. For once, just maybe, he could let someone get close to him. Seeing Johnny in a pool of his blood, he kneeled there like he was going to help Johnny up. Instead, he carried his limp, cold, dead corpse out of the tunnel. So yeah, Simon is angry.
John MacTavish accepted he was going to die in that tunnel. Call it a second sense, or a gift from God. He’d never felt that way before. His heart beating steadily despite knowing the situation. His questions to Price in search of reassurance. He accepted it when he felt a bullet hit his shoulder plate and he went down. Seeing Price stare down the barrel of the gun, he made the decision. If he really was going to die, he’d make sure his captain got out safely.
Not all at once. That would’ve been too easy. It came in fragments, the way bad thoughts always did—quiet, patient, waiting for him to connect them like a sick puzzle.
The first was the location.
They were still two days out from their next op when the briefing packet hit Soap’s tablet. He skimmed it the way he always did, half muscle memory, half instinct—terrain, ingress routes, extraction windows.
Then his eyes stopped.
Coordinates.
He stared at them longer than necessary, pulse ticking up in his ears. He didn’t need to cross-reference. He didn’t need to double-check.
They were burned into his head already.
Same city. Same grid. Same extraction corridor that had been listed in Gaz’s file.
Soap looked up from the tablet. Gaz was across the table, boots hooked under a chair, flipping a pen between his fingers. Relaxed. Unbothered. Alive.
Soap said nothing.
The second thing came over the radio.
They were running a routine training sim—close quarters, urban layout, recycled scenario they’d done a dozen times. Ghost took point, silent as ever. Price called adjustments from behind. Gaz covered the rear.
Soap was moving through a doorway when Price’s voice cut in, calm and precise.
“Smoke’s not holding. Adjust your line.”
Soap froze.
Not because the order was wrong.
Because he’d read it before.
But that wasn't right. It said that the smoke wasn't holding during an op. So how was Price saying the same thing during a training sim of all things?
Same phrasing. Same cadence. Even the timestamp from the file flashed in his head. He stumbled just enough for Ghost to glance back at him.
He doesn't say anything, but his words were clear. Pull yourself together.
“Sorry,” Soap said too quickly. “Boot caught.”
They finished the sim without incident, but Soap couldn’t shake the feeling that they were rehearsing something they hadn’t agreed to perform.
The third thing was command.
The message came down official—clean, sanitised, wrapped in strategic language that made Soap’s skin itch. Joint operation. High-value target. Time-sensitive.
Mandatory.
Price read it in silence, jaw tightening the longer he went/ When he finally looked up, the room felt smaller. Gaz looked like he was about to be sick.
“That’s the op,” Gaz said quietly.
Soap nodded slowly. “Same window. Same extraction route.”
“Same bloody death report,” Gaz added, voice cracking.
Price folded the tablet shut. “Intel changes. That doesn’t mean the file’s right.”
Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “It means someone wants us there.”
“And?” Price shot back.
“And someone already wrote how it ends.”
Silence stretched between them.
Soap felt it then—the frature. Not a break. Not yet. Just the faint, hairline crack running through something solid.
They trusted each other. That wasn’t in the question.
What they didn’t trust was the path in front of them.
“If we pull out,” Gaz said slowly, “and the report’s wrong… we’re disobeying orders over a coincidence.”
“And if we don’t,” Soap said, “and it’s right…”
He didn’t finish.
Price looked at each of them in turn. Commander. Executioner of bad odds. “We don’t make decisions basedon fear.”
Ghost tilted his head. “What about patterns?”
That landed harder than Soap expected.
Because fear was easy to dismiss. Patterns weren’t. Coincidences, sure, but patterns meant intentions. Patterns meant someone was getting sloppy.
That night, Soap lay awake listening to the low thrum of the transport, replaying everything in his head. The coordinates. The radio call. The timing.
Too clean. Too precise.
Or every step they took was already accounted for.
Soap stared up at the dark ceiling and wondered which was worse:
Avoiding fate and being punished for it…
Or walking straight into it, just to prove it existed.
They were wheels-up, rotors beating the night air into submission, red cabin lights casting everyone in the same dull shade of red. Gear checked and rechecked. Muscle memory was doing its work while their minds went elsewhere.
Soap watched Price instead.
The captain stood near the ramp, one hand braced against the frame, eyes fixed on the tablet that hadn’t changed in five minutes. No barked orders. No clipped confirmations. Just stillness.
“Sir?” Soap said finally.
Price looked up. For a split second, something unguarded crossed his face—calculation, maybe. Or doubt.
“Stand by,” he said.
That was all.
The mission clock ticked on.
According to the command, they were to proceed as briefed. Same route. Same smoke deployment. Same extraction window.
According to the file, that was where Gaz died.
Soap shifted in his seat, the realisation settling heavier than before. The files hadn’t predicted chaos. They hadn’t described improvisation or failure.
They described obedience.
“Command’s pushing for confirmation,” Gaz said quietly, tapping his headset. “They want us on rails.”
Ghost gave a humourless huff. “Funny. Feels like we’ve been here before.”
Price’s jaw tightened. “We’re not deviating without cause.”
Soap swallowed. He understood what Price was really saying. Deviating meant doubt. Courts. Careers ending in silence.
Following orders meant clean lines.
The transport banked slightly. Ten minutes out.
Soap closed his eyes and replayed Gaz’s file—not the death itself, but the structure of it. The phrasing. The way it read less like a prophecy and more like an after-action report written by someone who already knew how the command preferred things to unfold.
Smoke fails.
Fallback denied.
Friendly fire during extraction.
Contingencies.
His eyes snapped open.
“Sir,” Soap said, leaning forward. “Those files—”
Price cut him a look. “Now’s not the time, Sergeant.”
“They’re not predictions,” Soap pushed. “They’re plans.”
Ghost sat a little straighter. Gaz bristled in his seat. Price slowly turns his head to look at Soap.
“Say again,” Gaz said.
Soap gestured vaguely, as if the thought might shatter before he can voice it. “They don’t account for variables. Just compliance. What happens if we do exactly what we’re told.”
Ghost nodded slowly, like their brains linked thoughts. It's not the first time they've done that. “They assume we won’t push back.”
Silence.
Price looked down at his tablet again. Same orders. Same timing. Same route.
The death report hadn’t forced his hand.
Command was doing that all on its own.
“Sir,” Gaz said, voice tight. “If we follow this, we’re stepping into it.”
“And if we don’t,” Price replied, “we’re insubordinate in the middle of a joint op.”
Soap met his gaze. “But Gaz would live.”
The transport hit turbulence, a brief shudder that rattled teeth and nerves.
Price exhaled through his nose, long and controlled. He looked older in that moment. Not tired, but burdened.
Someone, somewhere, had expected his hesitation. Had counted on it.
Had wanted them to believe the future was already written, that resistance was pointless.
Price straightened.
“Change of plans,” he said after several moments of silence.
The words hung in the air, fragile and dangerous.
“We adjust the extraction route. Hold smoke until my mark. If command asks, I authorised it.”
Soap felt his chest loosen just a fraction.
Ghost’s eyes flicked toward Price. “That’s not in the brief.”
Price met his stare evenly. “I know.”
The clock kept ticking. The future—whatever it was—waited.
Soap sat there, heart pounding, and wondered not for the first time who had written those files.
And how many commanders before Price had read them…
…and chosen wrong.
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(im ngl, i have this entire story written out but i don't want to post them all at once (unless u guys think i should?) i feel like it's more appropriate to space out the posting but idk someone give me guidence)
