Chapter Text
Cooled desert air gently blows against your skin.
Only the stars shine above, for the pale moon is veiled and the rocky sands below lie shrouded in complete darkness.
This is where the night hides you far in the middle of the desert. Her shadowy mist shields you from view, but with night vision, the rest of the dark world reveals itself to you.
The green hues shining through your goggles makes the stars shimmer as you climb along a rocky hillside. In total silence, you keep to the neon-painted outcrops until you find the one ledge you’ve been looking for. Sinking to the jagged ground, you quickly set up your rifle.
A crude AQ compound lies in the distance surrounded by nothing but sand. Along its walls, small dots shuffle in metered paces but quickly transform into full-sized men with one look through your scope. You count five guards between your crosshairs. Two of them enjoy a smoke while three others watch the wilderness. They matter little to you. Rather, you shift your view to the adobe house settled in the middle of the compound. On the second floor, an opened window reveals your target.
The AQ commander (in the same likeness as his photo in your mission file) sorts papers among his things not likely going anywhere soon given the stress locked in his features. The ledge you found on the hillside gives you a perfect line of sight into his quarters, and loading a round into the chamber, you prepare yourself to carry out your task.
Your earpiece hums with light static as a familiar, deep voice draws through the other end.
“Bravo 3-8, Bravo 0-7. How copy?”
You reach for the radio strapped to your vest and respond.
“In position, Target spotted, second-floor north bedroom. Awaiting orders.”
There is silence on the other end and then…
“Fire when ready, Apollo.”
Apollo, the sun.
The name was given to you while on a training mission in the Greek islands. You were the only sniper hitting target after target with the precisest of accuracies. So well, in fact, your instructors started calling you Apollo in homage to 'the one that strikes from afar.' Like the twin god of archery, you bring swift death to your enemies and never miss a shot.
A few of the Greeks tried to call you Artemis on account of your gender, but you always liked Apollo more. Never before could you walk into a room and instantly subvert expectations. It felt liberating to suddenly have an equal footing in the world. You would’ve been a fool to turn it down, so you kept the alias and painstakingly built your reputation as Apollo the far darter.
It was on this reputation alone that Kate Laswell found you. She was missing a sniper on her special forces team and asked you to join. Two months later and a dozen missions in between, here you are in the middle of enemy territory cleaning up Hassan’s splinter forces.
“Standby,” you radio and begin your work.
The AQ commander paces in his room before slowly returning to his desk to scribble out notes on the sheets’ thin margins. His head taunts you as it bobs just above the lip of the windowsill, but you still take aim pausing only for the desert wind to still.
The occasional sound of howling wildlife drowns from your ears as you focus on one thing and one thing only: a slow breath, and then a squeeze.
In less than a second, your bullet meets its target.
The commander's head whips back with a fine cloud of red that plasters the far bedroom wall.
The white papers thrown from his hold settle on the floor.
Then everything stills… and silence fills the small bedroom.
Your hit was a straight through-and-through and now (disfigured) your target leans unnaturally against his chair. Pulling your scope to the ground, you search for alarm in the guards but they look the same as they did a minute ago. Thankfully, the bulky silencer on your barrel muffled the sound of the shot.
“Target KIA.”
“Copy. Movin' in.”
The rest of your team emerges like shadows weaving between buildings. They lurk unseen in total darkness, moving with lethal control. Your officer leads the charge with a knife in hand while your fellow sergeant trails behind holding a muffled pistol as insurance. Though, placed in their way stands a guard too distracted by his own feet to even notice the faint crunch of gravel behind him -the sound of a predator stalking his prey.
Moving behind the militant, Ghost plunges his knife deep into his victim’s throat. The guard struggles but to no avail; his major artery has already been severed and the quick withdrawal of Ghost’s blade sprays blood on the sand below. Even the sound of his panicked, garbled scream becomes muffled by the fabric of a skeleton-gloved hand suffocating any call for help.
The guard heavies, going limp in Ghost’s hold, before being dragged back into the shadows never to be seen by his friends again.
It was quick and clean.
As gracious as a death could be,
given at the hands of a phantom.
The two soldiers hide the body and continue their assault toward the center of the compound. It takes less than a minute for them to reach the adobe’s back door before Soap starts to pry open the lock with a thin tool. The handle gives way and the metal door swings open. The two men file in and disappear from your sight.
If it wasn’t for the sheets of plywood boarding up the first-floor windows you’d look after them should anything go wrong but you’re completely shut out and it unnerves you. Time begins to tick by waiting longer and longer for your team’s report but are only met with eerie radio silence.
The guards outside the house still look the same as they had before, but you can't entirely shake the feeling that something bad has happened. Reaching for your radio, you’re just about to call for them when Ghost appears through the second-floor window. Albeit a little more bloody than before.
“Arrived at target. Good work,” your masked lieutenant reports.
Ghost silently circles the commander’s body in its chair assessing the damage caused by your bullet.
“Had me worried there, Sir,” you tease.
“-Thought I needed to come rescue you.”
The soldier glares out the window and into the desert concealing you. It’s as if you can feel his sight melting the lenses of your scope.
Ghost tilts his head to his radio and deadpans, “…Funny.”
Your officer is not alone in the room and Soap steps into the view of your crosshairs. You watch him speak soundlessly to Ghost while the same thick red sheen that paints your lieutenant glistens over his body. It makes you feel nauseous just imagining the spree that must’ve happened downstairs. From the sight of the two of them you’re already dreading the smell of iron during the ride back to camp. Hopefully, at least, you can ask Price to roll down a window.
“Good to see you’re alive 7-1. Thought you were a goner for sure.”
“Och, ye of little faith,” the scot sighs.
“Mhm, how many left downstairs?”
“About three.”
“About?”
“Well, one’s bleedin’ out on the linoleum.”
You roll your eyes.
“Just find the intel so we can get out of here. I'll try to cover you but know I can't see much.”
“Affirmative,” Ghost responds before directing, “Keep your eyes peeled.”
“Copy.”
The mission is going perfectly. The boys will find the target’s stash of information and in no time you’ll be back at camp and melting into a nice hot shower. The scorpion-infested rocks you’ve been lying on will become nothing more than a distant, bad memory. But, until you get that final call for exfil you can only wait, continuing to track the AQ guards on the ground.
The two guards sharing a smoke still chuckle in conversation while the glow of their cigarettes light their faces with each long inhale. The three other guards walking their rounds still hold their rifles in attention as they listen aimlessly to the desert wind. The compound is completely quiet, sleeping unbeknownst to the threats lurking within… but its restful slumber doesn't seem to last for very long.
Movement in the corner of your scope pulls you back to the adobe. The back door sways on its hinges from being thrown open, and out of the mud house stumbles an AQ militant blood-soaked and clutching his chest. He takes three steps into the moonless night before collapsing to the sand. Your heart stops, but it’s too late for you to do anything. He’s already been spotted by a patrol.
MacTavish you son of a bitch.
Your hand slams against your radio.
“0-7, you’ve been compromised. Get out of there.”
“The fuck happened?!”
“Soap’s guard crawled off the fucking linoleum!” You shout, “I can draw their attention, but you need to leave, Now!”
“Copy 3-8, we’ll meet you at the extraction site.”
“Run.”
Leveling your aim on a group of guards running toward the adobe, you place one of them in your sights and exhale. You fire, expelling the burning shell onto the rocks under you before reloading another round. You fire again and again, and if the first shot of the night was quiet, the AQ militants are sure to hear you now. Overheated, your silencer does nothing to quiet your string of bullets as they cut through the night hitting your targets critically each time.
You manage six kills before they figure out where the shots are coming from, and hiding behind walls, they resort to shooting blindly into the desert. You take out the ones that peak behind cover but there are still too many of them hidden from view. If you can just keep the militants preoccupied for just a little while longer, it will give the boys a better chance to escape.
You ready your fire for one more hit as you place another guard in your aim, but in the distance, a revving engine steals your attention.
A Jeep full of angry AQ militants hanging out the back barrels toward the hillside. Another second later and a thick layer of dust blankets you as a cloud of bullets pelt the surrounding rocks.
Shit.
Scrambling like a bug, you scurry up the hillside with your rifle in hand. The terrain is loose but even under the constant hail of bullets you manage to reach the other side. You find a bolder and catch a quick breath. The jeep can't climb the ridge to get to you but the men riding in it surely can.
You sling your rifle across your back and draw your pistol. All you have to do is sneak into the desert and lose them, and then-
The sound of clattering rocks nearby disrupts your thought.
You barely have time to process it before your muscle memory takes over. Aiming with your finger on the trigger, the barrel of the gun points at the noise only to find a familiar white skull plate on the opposite end of your sights.
Ghost raises his hands,
“Easy.”
“Jesus Christ,” you say dropping your aim. “-What the hell happened to meeting at extraction??"
His voice says low, “Changed my mind,” before mocking you, “Think it a rescue.”
“And Soap?” You ask still trying to catch your breath.
“He’s ahead of us.”
Shouting erupts over the ridge. The AQ militants are moving closer with each second. Their blinding flashlights cut through the night, waving as beams in the sky while the sound of their jeeps multiply. If you don’t move now they will find and kill you.
“On me,” Ghost commands.
You quickly fall in line.
Jagged sandstone pillars pass in a dark haze as you snake along the path Ghost used to reach you. The passage is narrow and steep at times making it hard to keep up with your lieutenant. It's not your fault you have short legs, but it is his fault he has long ones. Standing on level ground, he has at least a foot over you and the height advantage lets him climb faster.
Ghost slows down just to yell at you to speed up even when you're going as fast as you possibly can. You pump your legs and climb along sharp rocks until finally you see the other side of the desert. Freedom from this sand pit is at last within your grasp. The only thing standing in your way just happens to be another team of militants moving up the hillside.
You curse under your breath.
Within one step, a yank on your vest immediately stops you in your tracks. And in another, you feel yourself being dragged backward.
Ghost pulls you behind a boulder before the militants have time to spot you. The rock, however, is far too narrow for the both of you. He tries his best to fit by leaning closer into your space. His hand, wrapped tight in the loops of your vest from pulling you back, holds you still while the smell of blood streaking his body consumes your senses. It leaves a foul taste in your mouth but he only presses in, caging you against the rock. His heat warms you, and his wide and splattered chest only blocks more of your view as he avoids the fast sweep of a guard’s light.
The bulkiness of your helmet makes it near impossible to look up at him towering over you, but it doesn't stop him from leaning down. His rich voice dances along your skin as he whispers low in your ear, “Don’t move.”
His free hand drifts low, fingertips slowly reaching for his thigh. With a faint click, he gently pulls out the pistol from his holster.
Ghost aims it at a target you can't see, tracking it slowly as it moves up the hill.
The soft clatter of boots on shale quietly comes into earshot, and with each increasing crunch, your heart beats wildly.
Blood begins to ring in your ears hearing the boots only get louder and louder. You hold your breath for fear of being heard.
Closing your eyes, you expect the loud *BANG* of Ghost’s pistol next…
but the boots recede in the distance…
before the sound ceases altogether.
You breathe out as quietly as you can.
The masked officer leans down again. This time whispering closer to your ear, “Get to the jeep Apollo, I’m behind you.” And gently pulls away letting you move freely again.
Peering around the rock you were just sandwiched against, you watch the militants search for you in the opposite direction -and most importantly- away from their ride. Ghost nudges you forward to run but you don’t need to be told twice to take off down the hillside.
Sliding in the loose rocks, you almost roll your ankle twice before reaching the parked jeep. Luckily, no one is inside and you climb into the driver's seat. Seconds later, Ghost follows into the passenger’s.
You check all the usual places for the keys in a frenzy: the dashboard, sun visor, underneath the seat, but still can't find them anywhere. You'll have to hot-wire the car to get it started.
Ghost roars at you watching the militants turn around, “Apollo hurry!”
“Give me a minute!” you shout back under pressure.
Fumbling out your knife, you pry open the plastic covering under the steering wheel. You grab blindly at the exposed wires in fist fulls before you find the three you need. Severing the wires with a *snap*, you peel back the electrical insulation and strike them with one final check of the colors.
The jeep’s engine roars to life.
In gear, you tear off into the night spiraling dust clouds behind the tires. The back glass shatters instantly with a shower of bullets (a consequence of the militants realizing their car has just been stolen) and you quickly shut off the headlights. It shrouds the jeep in total darkness, hiding in shadows as you drive deeper into the desert. You leave behind the hillside, listening only to the hum of the engine to fill your mind.
After a minute, Ghost is the first one to break the silence.
“Where the fuck did you learn that?”
“…Huh?”
“The wires,” he says, nodding to the amalgamation of twisted copper still hanging from the steering wheel.
Partly because of the adrenaline, and mostly because it seems so trivial after what the two of you just went through, you laugh.
A shy smile spreads across your face as you glance up at his bloodied skull mask.
“Public school.”
He scoffs, “You're lyin’.”
-You weren't-
The static crackling through your earpiece ends your conversation.
Soap’s voice speaks through on the other end but it’s too garbled to make anything out. You must be just out of range.
Ghost’s voice doubles in your ear.
“Bravo 7-1, Bravo 0-7. Repeat transmission.”
You press on the gas speeding closer to the extraction point.
“Arrived at extraction. Y’ure takin’ yer sweet time L.T.”
“Patience Johnny, ETA: five minutes. We’re in a jeep, don't shoot.”
“Where’d you get a jeep!?”
“Lifted it. Stay out of sight 7-1.”
∽ ❂ ∼
Approaching the exfil site, the hood of a tan humvee slowly takes shape in the dark. Leaning against the driver’s door, the hatted outline of your captain soon follows.
In a soft glow, Price’s mutton-chopped face becomes illuminated by the slow puff of his cigar.
You bring the stolen jeep to a stop close by and file out of the car. Soap rounds the armored humvee with Gaz but even while he smiles lightly you can see the worry on his face. It seems to lessen when he finally sees Ghost with you, but it still takes every morsel of control in your body not to punch him in the face. At least he has the target’s laptop in his hands though.
You shout with your full chest, “Hey, asshat! The next time you kill someone make sure they’re actually dead!”
Soap’s light smile disappears.
“N’ how dead can dead be?!” he shouts back. “-Ah only shot em in the fuckin hart!”
Price barks, “That’s enough!”
Unhappy with how the mission went, he snuffs out his cigar before yelling, “Get in.”
Ghost takes his seat in the passenger while the rest of you are subject to the back. Squished between two men, you find yourself in the middle seat while Gaz and the blood-soaked Soap sit at your sides.
It's far too cramped and smells of iron, but you don't care. It’s time to go home.
Mission accomplished.