In 20 years, some idiot is going to suggest a federal holiday to commemorate the COVID-19 Pandemic, and the rest of us are going to have a psychotic episode because the last thing any of us need is more free time at home, trying to come up with stupid ways to entertain ourselves with family.
A more realistic end to the "Countdown" mission because you don't just 'recover' from gunshot wounds.
Soap has a terrible, horrible, very bad day.
Turns out Ghost is capable of emotion.
TW: blood, violence, graphic descriptions of injury, angst, anxiety, profanity, mention of surgery.
"Hassan had him by the leg, dragging him towards the massive windows. He was speaking, but all Soap could hear was the blood rushing in his ears".
The boxcutter was a clumsy tool, but it did the job. Pulling it from the man’s neck, he got to his feet and checked did a visual check of the room ahead of him. A spray of bullets peppered the concrete walls, several catching the back of Soap’s Kevlar vest. The force of it knocked him to his knees, forcing the air from his lungs. He turned just in time to see Hassan fire again, and this time, the rounds punched through his chest with a spray of blood.
He fell backwards, searing pain radiating from his left side as he blacked out.
Fuck.
Instinct took over; words drilled into him every course since basic: don’t panic. Control the breathing. Don’t panic.
The course staff never mentioned was how hard it is to not panic. Assholes.
He sucked in a few deep breaths. It fucking burned, but his vision came back, dark and hazy.
The blurry figure of Hassan slowly stalked towards him.
Dragging himself backwards with his right arm, he desperately searched for a weapon. There was none.
Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
Hassan aim the rifle. Soap put up his left hand defensively—as if that would save him— but Hassan suddenly changed his mind, instead driving butt of the rifle drove into Soap’s temple. The pain was debilitating.
Everything went black.
Drifting somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, blurry shapes danced above him. Something was moving.
Oh.
It was him.
Hassan had him by the leg, dragging him towards the massive windows. He was speaking, but all Soap could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. He sucked in a wet, shallow breath, fluid seeping into his throat as he tried to think clearly.
He should fight.
Arms too heavy.
He should run.
Legs won’t work.
He should shout, scream—anything!
No one to hear.
A moment of clarity punched through the shock-induced haze.
Ghost.
Hassan dropped his leg and moved to one of the windowpanes, pulling something from his coat pocket.
IED.
Shaky hands moved to his comm, praying it still worked.
“Ghost…”. His voice rasped in the back of his throat, distorted by pooling blood
“Soap!”
Tears prickled in his eyes as relief bloomed in his chest.
“Watch the window--!”
Hassan stepped back towards him as the window blew out in a blinding flash of fire, shards of glass bouncing across the floor. Still shouting, he reached down and grabbed the shoulders of Soap’s tac-vest and dragged him to his feet. Pain ripped through his chest and the fluid shifted in his lungs. Vision swam. The scream died in his throat.
His feet scrabbled underneath him as Hassan hauled him towards the open window. They were at the edge now, darkness stretching out below them punctuated by blurry city lights. Shards of glass crunching beneath his feet as Hassan held him over the ruined windowsill, and his stomach churned as he felt his heels rock back into nothingness.
He’d seen this before. He’d been here before. A dream of a dream; free-fall and agony. Lungs full of blood and ears full of wind. Panic was flooding his chest again, breaths coming hard and fast, shallow gasps that fought to pull oxygen into collapsing lungs.
Hassan’s grip on his shoulder straps eased, and his stomach dropped as he felt himself rock backwards.
The kiss of a bullet snapped by Soap’s ear, followed quickly by the tell-tale crack of a high-calibre rifle. Hassan fell backwards, dead, and Soap dropped to the floor.
Relief screamed through his body as cool concrete pressed up against his palms. He vomited immediately, and then dragged in a ragged breath, shaking hands reaching back up to his comm.
“Perfect shot, Lt”.
“You called it, Sgt”.
The comm went dead and Soap let out a choked sob as he fell forward, desperately dragging himself away from open window. He was hyperventilating now.
You’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive…
His right arm gave out and he rolled onto his back with a shuddering groan. There was chatter on the comms, but he couldn’t parse out the words.
Pain was overtaken by the creeping chill of shock.
Vision was next to go, followed closely by consciousness.
His body went slack, and the world went black.
Ghost sprinted across the street, weaving between cars to get to the half-finished office building opposite his sniper’s perch.
“Price! Soap’s down!”
“Copy that”.
Laswell’s American contacts were swarming the bottom of the building, a mix of SWAT, EMTs, and FBI. Ghost could hear Price’s voice on the comms coordinating with Laswell as he pushed through the mass people, desperate to get into the building.
Angry shouts followed him, and he spat angry curses over his shoulder.
By some miracle the service elevator was still functional, and he ran it all the way to the 30th storey, unsure exactly which floor Soap had been on. A slew of bodies confirmed that he’d gone through the level. Ghost sloppily cleared the floor, then checked the East windows. They were all intact, so he moved to the next floor and did the same.
Fear knotted in his stomach, but he refused to acknowledge it.
Fear makes mistakes.
He cleared five floors before finally finding the blown-out window—and Soap.
Ghost grabbed his comm as he ran to the body of his Sgt, sliding down beside him.
“I’m with Soap! We’re on the 35th floor”
“How is he?”
Ghost stared down at the broken body in front of him, hands shaking. There was blood—so much blood.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!
Pressing a hand to Soap’s neck, Ghost clumsily searched for a pulse. One excruciating moment later, Ghost felt the weak flutter against his fingertips.
He let out a shaky sob breath and got back on the comm.
“He’s alive, but it’s bad!”
“Copy. Sending a med team to you now”.
“Tell them to haul fucking ass!” Ghost shouted, cradling Soap’s head as he checked him over.
From what he could tell, he’d taken several rounds to the left side of his chest, where the Kevlar cut out to allow for full range of motion. Grabbing a pressure bandage from his tac-vest, he ripped through the packaging and pressed it down on the bloody holes in Soap’s side, grateful that he was unconscious; combat medicine hurts like a bitch.
Ghost had no idea how long it took for the medics to reach them, but by the time a pair of blue medical gloves reached in to take over, the bandage was soaked and his hands were slick with blood. The medics moved Soap to a stretcher and carried him back to the service elevator, before disappearing from view.
Ghost stood in the empty level, dragging in heavy, ragged breaths as he wiped shaky hands on the rough fabric of his pants.
He took the stairs down.
Soap was in surgery for 5 hours. Ghost spent that time writing his after-action report and prepping for the debrief, avoiding the anxiety attack that waited for him on the other side of the inevitable adrenaline crash.
It happened every time he lost soldiers—a devastating torrent of emotion that sent him spiralling into the darkest parts of himself. It was unpredictable and uncontrollable—sometimes violent, sometimes loud, sometimes silent, sometimes an hour, sometimes days, always hellish.
He preferred to do it in private.
Five hours later, the reports were done and Soap was lying unconscious in an ICU bed, the noises of the medical ward buzzing quietly in the background. Ghost leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed and jaw clenched tight.
The adrenaline had burned off.
Pushing off the doorframe, he jammed his hands in his pockets and stalked down the hallway, darkness rising in his chest.
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