Chapter Text
You've made a lot of stupid decisions in your life, even if you don't remember them all, you're sure of this fact. Above all, you're certain your biggest was picking up the phone last April while your heart was lonely and weak. No one ever called your house phone other than telemarketers and him. You knew he was long dead, that whenever that phone rang next it would never be that familiar voice or deep booming laugh.
Despite knowing this, you always held out some hope. That when you woke up on that anniversary the past years would have been a dream. It wasn't his voice when you picked up the receiver, but someone else entirely. It wasn't his voice, but it was his code. You’d know it anywhere, the unique phrasing used by the Ghost Wolves.
While you knew it wasn't him, you let yourself believe. You let yourself stop thinking and listen to orders just like you always had. While you knew he was dead, it was easier to feed yourself the lie and float through the days in a dream-like haze.
You weren't sure what you thought at the time, but all the years before now certainly felt like a dream. You weren't sure of anything anymore, your brain feeling like a muddled mess of emotion, pain, and flashes of imagery. You’re never certain what memories were real anymore, and what ones were simply cobbled together images.
The bullet slicing through your skull and flesh left you a mess, but it did lead to one singular good thing. All your life, you’d just followed orders and let others dictate your every move. You’d always thought it easier to live this way. Less choices, less mistakes to make. You were bound by that fear your whole life, that need for approval. After you’d woken up in that hospital, head fuzzy and brain feeling like radio feedback, you wondered why you had ever even bothered. On that day you finally chose something for yourself. Revenge.
You’d ripped through the Russian mafia, an unrelenting beast of rage. You wanted to kill, maim, simply rip everyone to shreds until there was nothing left. Your bloodied hands wrapped around the throat of the man who shot you. Your knife, your bullet pierced the skulls of the Russian mafia leaders. It was a high like no other, an exhilarating feeling you couldn't help but love.
As you had stood on that balcony, throwing your mask off to the side and lighting a cigarette, you felt the familiar emptiness wash over you. The music and adrenaline came to a halt, the silence washing over you in the absence. It was a hollow and desolate feeling, staring out at the ocean and swaying palms.
You had your vengeance, you killed the police, your would-be murderer, the Russians who had dropped that bomb on San-Francisco. An old polaroid weighed heavy in your hand, a face that was likely your own next to the smiling grin of a redhead. You weren't sure what you expected to feel once it was all over, but it wasn't the soul crushing loneliness that burrowed into your chest.
You’d won. You’d gotten what you wanted. You were done now. The mission was over and you could go home now. What home?
You had heard the sirens approach, you had heard the retching noises from the officers, you had heard the cops scream at you to get down. You didn't hear the music. You didn't put up a fight. You weren't sure if you had any left in you.
And now you were here, orange jumpsuit, hearing voices and distant noises, but your ears still full of that radio static silence. Time didn’t feel real anymore. Did it ever? Days blurred together and life dragged by at a snail’s pace. Was it even living? Every day was the same, that fuzzy noise and blurry vision. That hollowness was the same, the silence was the same. Are you the same?
Every morning you followed the same routine: wake up with ringing ears and static buzzing in your brain, struggle not to retch up your food that sat like a brick, ignore the restless shaking of your fingers craving to wrap around something. It was hollow, monotonous, he sometimes wondered if he was already dead. It certainly felt like it sometimes, and endless torture loop.
You’d convinced yourself that it was- and then the loop broke.
Your cell was cold and familiar, but your silence was shattered by the ear splitting sound of the prison alarm. Suddenly, the world was awash with red, siren lights spinning and bathing the halls in their crimson hue. You watched, unmoving, uncaring, as prisoners ran around outside, like frantic headless chickens.
The blare of the sirens was overtaken by the sound of blood curdling screams. The unmistakably familiar sound of bodies slamming to the floor in a disgusting slap of flesh against blood puddled concrete. The change in tune stirred something buried deep in your bones. You grit your teeth and sink further into the floor as it swelled up inside of you. Unmistakable anticipation. Yearning.
Your hands clenched tight into your jumpsuit, yearning for your stress ball or any familiar grip to relieve the shaking itch.
And just as swiftly as it started, it stopped. Everything went black and the violence moved away from you. Despite this though, the twitch in your hand didn't stop. Your hands itched to curl around something solid, something deadly. The radio static rose deafening to your ears and drowning out all noise. You’d felt the itch for months, but now it overcame you, consumed you with the familiar urge.
Do you like hurting other people?
When the lights go off, you watch the hallway until the static splits like the sea, replaced by steady footsteps. You didn't move from your spot as they neared, closer and closer, sounding so much like the first rolling notes of a song. A familiar tune.
Then the man took center stage, washed in darkness with only safety lights illuminating him from the bottom. He swung a pair of keys absently around his finger, rhythmic, musical. He turned and your eyes met, dull and dead blue met piercing teal. A sharp grin covered his face as he shoved a key into the lock. The door slammed open like the harsh beat of a drum.
You stared at his face, unmoving and frozen to your spot and taking deep and uneasy breaths. You felt like you were going crazy, a familiar face standing before you. You’re supposed to be dead. You remembered vividly, the image of that man’s skull smashed open like a melon, blood and brain leaking out like juice.
“Miss me, you rooster fuck?”
You wanted to believe he was a hallucination, it wouldn't have been the first. But hallucinations didn't open the doors to prison cells. They didn't have footsteps that clicked like guitar strings. He seemed entirely unphased by your silence, voice hitting your ears like a song’s chorus.
“Come on, dude, we’re dead meat if we stay here.”
He tossed something to you and your hand shot up against your will to effortlessly catch it. Your twitching fingers cease their itch as your fist wraps around the handle of the knife. When you meet his eyes again, you hear it. The music starts again, that beat, that familiar rhythm that gets your body moving and blood racing through your veins. Every beat synchronizes to the one of your heart. You took a deep breath, the air coming easy to your lungs as you rose to your feet.
You chose not to question why the man, familiar as a picture, was breaking you out of prison.
You simply let the rush of music and adrenaline rush through your veins as you ran, a faded memory urging you to come with him.
You had no idea what was going on, but the smell of blood and carnage overtook your sense. You didn't know the story, why he was here, but you weren’t getting left behind.