Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     There’s something funny about watching grown men argue about what toys-guns they want to use. You don’t know any of their names but you know their call signs well enough, especially task force 141. Soap, Gaz, Ghost, Price, the whole damn lot. They bicker and banter like school boys who are still figuring themselves out in the world. It’s oddly charming. Although the more you think about the task forces’ dynamic it’s more like watching police dogs play with a worn out chew toy. They bitch at each other and shove their way to the best thing you’ve got in stock, even if the gun they want has just been cleaned or refurbished. That part is annoying. But you’re willing to look past that simply for the sake of your already graying hair.

     Your hands are tacky when Soap, with his goofy ass mohawk sticking to his scalp, comes up to you. He’s all smiles and sunshine. He looks at you with a flirty eye and pink cheeks.

“Hey bonnie.”

You already have a skeptical eyebrow raised before he can lean into the room you’re standing in, “What’s up chuck?” You ask easily, wiping your hands on your pants.

“How’s the fixin’ coming along?”

You make a noncommittal noise in your throat, “Going alright,” you bring another gun from the refub case onto the workbench in front of you. The poor thing is beat to hell, nicks and scratches cover the body with dark stains to boot.

“So what do you need? Antsy to get your hands on the latest and greatest?” You ask in a joking tone as you begin disassembling the gun.

     Soap doesn’t answer. He watches your deft fingers take apart the weapon with the precision of a killer and the sensuality of a lover. It’s mesmerizing to say the least. The silence washes over the two of you as you work. Your process is simple, working your way through the disassembly you organize the parts as you go, nuts are dropped into a plastic container with a magnet at the bottom to keep the nuts from bouncing out, the ammunition put away, the sight placed at the corner of the table to be looked at later on. You have a system and haven’t deviated since day one. As much as Soap doesn’t know you or really the minutiae of what you do in the armory all day, he wants to hold your hands and give thanks to you all night. You’re the reason that his weapons work and are ready to go when he is. Your diligent cataloging and data collection has kept the base and all operations, as a whole, supported from behind the curtain. It’s noble in a way that Soap doesn’t  know how to acknowledge without taking the time to get to know your fingertips and feel the way you treat the machines against his skin.

     “Hello? Earth to Soap.” You say, snapping one hand in front of you as you keep working. The sound is crisp and echoes back down the hall. The gun is no better inside and it makes you frown. Hardly anyone treats the damn things with any respect. The SA80 is open to you and you can’t help but admire it. It’s a beautiful piece of war, everything is tightly compacted into the least amount of space all the while keeping the lethality at an all time high. It’s gas operated, using the gas as both a fuel to send the bullet flying and to eject the spent casing. You’d love to sigh dreamily at the design but you’ve got your hands dirty and a gawking soldier standing in front of you.

     Soap blinks at you in surprise. “You know my call sign?”

“‘Course I do. That’s all I usually know about people.” It’s true, at least most of the time. The only people you know by name are your direct supervisors and colleagues. It makes interacting with other people a little awkward but it’s easy enough to ignore. You continue working, sliding the gas in-take under a magnifying lamp. The components are covered in grease and dust and everything the field has to offer. Such a lack of care.

“So, what do you need?” You ask again. You flick on the light and begin cleaning the compressor with a nearby rag. With only a few swipes the rag is dirty and you drop it to pick up another one.

     “I’m looking for something to do,” Soap says a little too quickly for your liking. “I’m itchin’ to do something useful.” He sounds nervous and that makes you look up. He’s grabbing at his pants, fisting the material tightly then letting go again. His pants are creased when he grabs and it’s clearly a habit. His eyebrows are knotted right above his nose and he generally looks uncomfortable. It’s an abnormal sight to be sure. He’s usually so chipper or at least hides his anxieties better.

     You hum and look back to the gun in front of you. “Why ask me and not any of your other buddies?” Your tone is a little too casual and if Soap were someone who cared just a little more then you might be standing in front of your own superior. But you know that Soap doesn’t care much for extreme formalities at the base. You’ve heard that from his own mouth while he talked with his fellows.

“I can’t. I know they’ll tell me I should be training or doing bookkeeping. I’m sick of doing that and I figured you’d be the next best thing.” 

You bark out a quick laugh, “Okay, I’ll bite.” You say, looking up from between your lashes. Soap’s face is a little pink and his eyebrows are lifted in surprise for the second time in this conversation.

     “I can clear you to come back into the workspace as long as you don’t make a mess and are actually helpful.” You tell him, wiping your hands on your pants. You fish into one of your pockets and reveal a keycard, quickly tapping it onto the interior reader to let Soap into the room. Once the door’s lock clicks open he pushes his way in and guides the door to close quietly. It’s a sweet gesture, most people simply let the door slam closed and it just adds to the noise of the base.

You watch as Soap looks around the room. He takes in the space with the precision that only those in the field can, eyes darting to and fro, gathering information as quickly and accurately as possible. He takes a few steps into the room and you let him keep looking around, opting to return your focus to the gun under your palms.

The SA80 is now clean after wiping away the grim from the internal components. You inspect further, gently turning the piece over in your hands and making mental notes of any damage or strain. The process of striping weapons down to their harmless parts alone is soothing to you and everything after that was a bonus.

     “Which one’s this one?” Soap suddenly asks from over your shoulder. You don’t jump. Just because you work in the armory doesn’t mean you’ve lost any of your edge from training and old deployments.

You tut at Soap but don’t turn to look at him, still inspecting the parts. “You should know this, Soap.”

“Call me Johnny.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t try distracting me. You should know what gun this is.”

“And if I don’t?”

     You finally look over at Soap, who hovers right where your peripheral vision begins. Ah, natural instinct. Keeping yourself out of sight but close enough to get your hands on the enemy. You know this tactic well. Memories flash behind your eyelids, the sound of breathing that’s not your own, muttered prayers from enemies who knew they wouldn’t meet God, the feeling of warm liquid heat seeping onto your palms.

     “If you don’t, then I’ll kick your ass out.” You tell him simply.

Soap leans away and laughs. It’s a true gut laugh. You roll your eyes, again. The internal components look good so all that needs doing is cleaning the exterior parts and reassembly.

“I like you. Why haven’t we talked before?”

“Too busy. So, tell me Soap, what’s the gun.”

“Easy, SA80. SUSAT sight, non-modified.”

“Good.”

You turn to face Soap fully. “Now are you going to help me or stand there bothering me?”

     As if he’s been hit with a taser, Soap shapes up and listens to your every command. Moving with confidence in the workspace like he’s been here for a lifetime. He fetches cleaning materials, organizes ammo, brings you paper and pencils. Hell, he’s not afraid to ask questions when he’s lost or doesn’t know where something goes. It’s nice to have someone else around other than your colleagues. As much as you like them, working with Soap is not the same and for whatever reason it's easy. The two of you chat. He tells you about his team, their relationship to each other, and to him. He’s kind and perceptive. It’s not shocking that he’s part of the elite task force. He talks about his childhood and homeland and his military accomplishments. He doesn’t get into the nitty-gritty and you don’t want to know. You’re happy to know what you do from reports and inventory lists. It’s your own way of connecting to the soldiers who rely on you. It keeps your heart from getting broken and grief from caging you behind its claws.

     You listen to Soap. Input when asked. You don’t tell him much about yourself and it seems he’s content enough to get the smallest snippets of your life. You talk about your childhood home, your time spent in high school. You mention that you have a degree but interestingly, he doesn’t push. The chatter is nice.

     “There you are John.”

You instinctually snap to attention and muster, “Captain Price.” You say evenly.

Captain Price looks at you for a moment. He seems to assess you briefly, checking the symbols on your arm and your appearance.

     “At ease,” Captain Price says, and you relax. You look at Soap and he has a grin that says ‘took you long enough’. He saunters up to the window where Captain Price stands and leans out. You move to sit away from the duo, opting to give them space to talk and for you to begin your usual data logging. You sit at the small desk that’s tucked to the side of the room and boot up the computer. You log onto your profile and begin writing the data you took on paper and pencil.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out.” Captain Price says to Soap. It’s not accusatory at least so hopefully they won’t bust your balls over it.

“Sure ‘hing. It’s been well fun working with the armorer.”

“Glad you had your fun,” Captain Price says. “You.”

You whip your head to Captain Price. He gives a slight nod and you feel your eyes and shoulders relax.

“John didn’t bother you too much?”

“No, sir. He was quite helpful.” You supply.

Captain Price hums, “Good. I do have to steal him now though.”

“Of course, sir.”

You stand and use your keycard to open the door for Soap to leave. Before he steps through the door frame he stops and claps you on the shoulder. 

“Thanks for lettin’ be bother ya, let’s do it again some time.” Soap smiles and leaves, falling right in line with Captain Price.

—

     “You like ‘em.” Price says as the two of you walk away from the armory. His foot falls are heavy and he jingles slightly from all of the shit that clogs up his pockets. He’s walking at a steady pace and Soap keeps up easily.

“What makes ya’ say that?”

“I’ve got eyes, John.”

“I don’t like ‘em like that. Didn’t even git their name.” Soap says, trying not to sound defensive. He liked working with you. You gave good and clear directions. Answered his questions with respect and didn’t make a fuss if he got into your space. You would make a good addition outside of the armory. He briefly imagines you in the barracks with the rest of 141, laughing and telling stories, out on deployment using your skills in the field. Fuck, he likes a competent soldier.

“Shame, could use someone like them. Especially if you get along.”

“I’ll be sure to get away from ya more often then.”

Price chuckles and nods, “I just might let you.”

Chapter Text

     Soap is sitting in the common room arguing with Ghost about nothing in particular. It’s been slow and he’s in the mood to bother someone. He dangles bait right in front of Ghost in an attempt to get the other to engage. But no such luck. Ghost is steadfast in his mission to be as passive as possible.

Soap throws his hands up and huffs a frustrated breath, “God LT you really have a stick up yer ass today.”

Ghost rumbles some kind of reply but is cut off when Price enters the room and passes Soap an unmarked file.

“What’s this about?” Soap asks, opening the file and being immediately greeted with a picture of your face. Ah. You look younger in the headshot. Your hair is longer and your lips are chapped. He quickly shuts the file closed.

     “It’s your beau’s file. Figured you’d want something else to have of theirs.” Price says all smug before bustling off again.

“Beau, huh?” Ghost says, suddenly interested. He sits up straighter and crosses his arms across his chest. He looks over and even under the balaclava Soap can tell that Ghost is making some self-satisfactory face. He’s not wearing any paint around his eyes and it makes a small part of Soap’s brain squirm.

“No, not really. Jus’ went to find something to do and somehow got put to work anyway.”

“You never stumble into work. Who is this?”

     “Who’s who?” Gaz asks as he walks into the common room. He’s damp from the showers and smells like the standard issued soap. He settles in the kitchen and starts messing with the cabinets to presumably make a drink.

“Soap’s got a beau.” Ghost says flatly. But everyone knows that he’s trying to rile up Soap without letting on too much. Too bad everyone is used to his tactics.

“Really? And you didn’t bother to tell the rest of us?” Gaz asks with his head shoved deep into the tea cabinet, trying to find his favorite brand that he keeps stashed away.

“Dammit they’re not my beau!” Soap says, getting annoyed. “Just found someone interesting is all.”

“Then enlighten us, Johnny.” Ghost says, leaning back on the couch and tucking his hands against the nape of his neck.

“I will.” Soap says in a brat adjacent tone, dropping your file onto the table in front of him and flipping it open.

     Your image looks back at Soap and Ghost. You look tired but not miserable. Your eyes are piercing and uninvolved. It makes Soap’s skin crawl. It’s like looking at a scarecrow hoping that it comes to life. Moving further down the first page he gets your name, simple enough. Your designation is Ironside, which represents your appointment as an armorer. But directly below your appointment, your callsign stares right at Soap in italics, Oxbow. Definitely a unique one.

“Oxbow? As in the river formation I assume.” Soap says, looking to Ghost for a moment before continuing down the page.

     Your personal details are redacted out. Home address, phone number, email, close relations. All that greets anyone opening the file would be the surface level version of yourself. It’s not too unusual when it comes to passing other soldiers’ information around. No need to show off extraneous information. Especially since it’s a physical file, anyone could take a peek - no authentication needed.

Soap reaches out and flips the page and is greeted with a list of your academic achievements and schooling history. You didn’t lie about the high school you went to and the degree you earned is impressive. Bachelor's degree in Mortuary Science.

“So how weird’s this kid?” Gaz asks, as he sits in one of the chairs by the table. He sips his tea and it smells spiced, cinnamon and star anise swirl in the air.

“Not too weird. BA in Mortuary Science though.” Soap supplies.

“Isn’t that for dead bodies?” 

“Yeah.”

     Ghost flips the page. A mission history. God you were a beast. Specializing in tracking and tailing on foot. Hell it was your preferred method compared to vehicles. Definitely a strange person. You were instrumental to many missions and you often had the highest kills or captured people of interest. You never seemed to stop. Clawing your way through the forest, mountains, or deserts. All because a high up asked, no demanded of you. You pushed and fought and screamed all the way, knowing that the pay wasn’t enough. Knowing that you might just die and wither away somewhere far from home. Where the only thing left of you would be your dog tags. Eventually, those too would be taken by the Earth.

“Tracking.” Soap says to no one in particular. There are many ways to attain information from torture, blackmail, lying. But you? You liked to avoid it all together. You strayed from the main plan many times. There are plenty of complaints contained on the following pages. Everything from insubordination to sabotage. But you always got the job done and returned home, no matter the possible punishment. You hardly had a strike on your record despite all the hell you seemed to raise while in the field.

“Yeah, that's a new one for me.” Gaz says. He’s definitely interested now beyond the teasing from earlier. No wonder Soap was taken though, something in your profile image spoke to Gaz as well. Maybe it was your eyes or your straight-as-an-arrow nose. Just about everyone had a crooked nose from being punched too hard.

Ghost flips the page again. A medical history. You experienced your fair share of nicks and bumps. Concussions, fractured bones, gun shot wounds. It wasn’t surprising especially for someone who didn't like using vehicles for tracking. The next few pages are what gets everyone’s attention.

     A dismissal from the field.

“What the fuck.”

Generally, when a soldier is pulled from the field it's a death knell to their service. But somehow you used your weight to push yourself into the armory and gunsmithing. You were hit with a chunk of rock that was exploded by a RPG. It hit you hard enough that it crushed a large part of your left side, ribs and organs included. You were brought straight back to base and given the most medical attention possible before being sent away for more treatment. There are images included in the medical report and they’re not pretty.

There wasn’t a hole in your side but the bruising was black as night; not a hint of purple or yellow. The number of stitches was enough to make anyone sick to their stomach. The pictures of the amount of dead internal tissue removed were graphic in a way that made Soap’s mouth dry. The images were clearly taken in a lab. The glisten of the flesh was bright and it was all laid out in order of severity. Ghost didn’t say anything, he simply imagined the scar that you must be carrying under your fatigues.

—

     You’re watching your coworker argue with some jackass upstart who thinks he can bully her into giving him the best thing available.

“I cannot do that for you, Private.” Your coworker says, cutting his anger short. Your coworker, callsign Mars, was a short woman but she knew how to deal with idiotic men who thought they were hotshit. It was embarrassing for him in all honesty. She talked in a calm tone, never breaking eye contact. When he got to shouting again she cut him off and didn’t let him get a word in.

     You stand from your chair, leaving your current project on the table. It’s an older gun that’s on it’s last legs but you kept it anyway just so you had a project to work on when there was a lull in traffic. Mars is letting the guy go on and on, watching him passively. It was impressive how the guy didn’t seem to notice that Mars wasn’t listening. He was shouting about how he was a great shot and should be allowed something different from the rest of his platoon. He's not worthy of such a thing. You and Mars know it well. The only people who got anything different from the standard loadout were the higher ups and special units. No one else. And yet, this little fuck wanted something he’s not entitled to.

     Mars gives you the look.

You leave the armory and shut the door behind you. Mars takes a step away from the viewing window and the guy’s attention is now on you.

“Finally! You outrank her, tell her to give me what I want.”

“Why should I? Especially since I watched you call her every name in the book.” You are firm in your stance and words. You will not bow to a man who’s spit flies out of his mouth uncontrollably. The guy’s not tall and you’re not short but you cannot use your weight to knock him down the damn ladder he’s climbed in his mind. It’ll be a headache of paperwork and mustering in front of your superiors for God knows how long before you were let go. From service or the meeting.

“You are just a gun bitch! You bring the weapons you leave. That’s what you’re supposed to be doing, not fighting me on my right to have a better weapon.”

     Your innards curl and tighten, waiting for the moment your mind gives the green light to launch yourself at the pathetic man to cut his lips from his face. You can imagine it. Using your weight and strength to shove him to the floor and keep him there. To listen to him cry and beg for a different outcome to the one you have your heart set on. You would pull his lips as far from his face as you could and use your favorite knife to take his lips, philtrum included, from his offending teeth. Then maybe you might shove your fist so far down his throat that he chokes on your knuckles and will only leave marks on your forearm. Ahh, the dream.

But you are not allowed such violence anymore.

“I’m not a gun bitch.” You say, grabbing him on the shoulder leaning in very close to his ear. “But I will make sure that the kit you get will be faulty. It will fail and no one will care and I will get away with it because you will be a stain on the ground. Do you understand me, Private?”

—

     Okay wow that was a definite turn on for Soap, as he and Ghost walked towards you, having heard the shouting from down the hall. They watched you as the guy yelled and yelled, only to be met with a threat that was genuinely actionable on your end. They could barely hear it but they heard the part that mattered.

“I will make sure that the kit you get will be faulty”

     The two of them stand there and watch as you release your hand from the Private. He takes off running. You scared him good and it made something burn in Soap’s chest. Ghost watched with bored eyes but something told Soap that the look was to keep himself in check. You turn to look at the newly arrived duo and muster, Mars doing the same behind you.

“Lieutenant, Sergeant,” you acknowledge. The duo take a moment to take you in. You look unimpressed and bored. Your profile flashes in Soap’s mind and all of the injuries you have endured. Ghost on the other hand imagines you committing complete and utter carnage on that stupid boy’s face.

“At ease.” Lieutenant Ghost says. He watches you and your fellow colleague relax. You stand there and observe.

“What was that ‘bout?” Soap asks, his head tilting slightly. It reminds you of a curious animal. If you were a weaker willed person, that kind of gesture would disarm you easily and quickly.

“That individual was bothering my colleague about his kit. He wanted a different weapon that was provided to him.” You relay. No need to lie or stretch the truth. You know they heard the shouting and your threat. It was open and shut.

“You should report that.” Lieutenant Ghost says.

You turn to Mars and they watch the two of you have a silent conversation before she goes off further into the armory. You look back to Soap and Lieutenant Ghost.

“What can I help you with?”

“Needed to see the person who Soap helped out last week.”

“That would be me.” You tell them before returning to the armory. You walk back into the room and the duo move to the viewing window. You watch the two of them. They move in sync with each other, always aware of the other’s presence. It reminds you of your time in the field. You focus back on the gun in front of you.

     “I read your file.” Soap says suddenly. You look up from the workbench and place the tool you picked up back onto the table.

“Did you find something interesting?”

“Yes.”

You stare. Soap fidgets, clenching his pants into his fist. Lieutenant Ghost is unwavering. He looks behind you at the armory. Mars is typing something furiously on the computer in the back. There are no other members of staff which differs from any normal armory that Soap or Ghost have seen. Usually the armory is crawling with people, all working, cataloguing, chatting. But it’s just you and Mars. How odd.

“Is there anything you need from me, Sergeant? Lieutenant?” You repeat.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Soap and Lieutenant Ghost speak simultaneously. They look at each other.

“What do you mean ‘no’? That file was the most interesting one I’ve read in months.” Soap argues. He props a hand on his hip, cocking it to the side. It’s sassy in nature and the sight is weirdly domestic. It’s a well trodden conversation point it seems.

“I said ‘no’ because we can talk about it later.” Lieutenant Ghost replies.

“Yeah but when you say ‘no’ it’s supposed to stop the conversation.” Soap says.

Lieutenant Ghost shrugs and then looks at you, “Would you be willing to talk to 141 about yourself?”

Chapter Text

     The stool underneath you is soft and well used. Your ass sinks into the material like you’ve lived here your whole life. The bar is busy and conversations float in the air like dust, abundant and obvious. You’ve commandeered a faraway spot close to the back wall of the establishment and it comforts you to see the entrance and know that the bathrooms are more-or-less directly behind you. You watch the other patrons closely.

     There’s a small group of people at one of the booths. They’re rowdy and playing some kind of drinking game. They laugh and heckle each other, passing drinks and knocking back shots one after the next. They all look pretty young, maybe just out of high school or early college age. They certainly act like they’re newbies to drinking. They have a scattering of empty glasses and discarded shot cups all over the table’s surface.

     A different group of older drinkers are crowded over one of the small tables close to the entrance. They talk to each other and touch glasses often. Maybe they’ve just returned from a mission. If you were to guess then it would have to be one of the teams Mars helped. She complained about some older soldiers pushing for different weapons than the ones that had been sanctioned. They were successful it seems, everyone smiling and talking easily. 

You turn back to the drink in front of you. It’s a tame rum and coke, already half finished. You pick it up and slug the rest of it in one go. The glass is cold against your fingers  and the condensation drips onto your lap. You place the glass down and wave the bartender over.

     “What can I get you?” He asks, glancing at your chest before quickly meeting your gaze. 

“A shot of Fireball and my tab please.” You tell him.

He nods and shoots off to pour your final drink. You check your watch and a shot is placed in front of you along with a receipt. The tab isn’t huge, just a few rum and cokes, a beer, and a shot. You pass the paper back to the bartender with your card and he bustles off again.

You can smell the cinnamon in the whiskey, sharp and bright. The shot gleams in the low light of the bar and you drink it quickly. The warmth in your mouth and throat is immediate. A nice wave of heat to fight off the chill from your previous drink.

     The bartender returns with your card and you tuck it back into your wallet. You stand from the stool and make your way to the entrance, avoiding oblivious groups of people and loners who can’t seem to find a place to sit. You push through the door and you take a deep breath. The air is muggy and it sticks to your skin and body hair. You take another deep breath. It smells like wet pavement and an incoming storm.

You didn’t bring a car so you start walking back to base. It’s only a ten minute walk. You watch a car pull into a parking space. It jolts to a stop when the parking brake is pulled and people begin clamoring out. It’s Soap and his unit.

     You keep walking, finding your earbuds and tucking them into your ears. Your phone automatically begins playing music, starting where you left off as you walked into the bar earlier. The music is loud and it muffles the sound of your footsteps and heartbeat. The guitar whines and the vocalist roars.

—

     Soap’s gaze follows your shadow as you leave the parking lot. You walk with a purpose, footfalls evenly paced and hardly making a sound. You recede into the dark once he can’t keep tracking you.

“Price was right, you are obsessed.” Gaz says, nudging Soap’s shoulder.

“Ha ha very funny.” Soap argues, following the rest of his men into the bar. “I jus’ think they’re interesting.”

“Funny way of showing it.” Ghost says before wandering off to order drinks for the table.

     They find a booth and tuck themselves into it easily. Ghost comes back with three beers and places them onto the table, tossing everyone a coaster as well. Soap grabs a glass and takes a gulp. Bitterness floods his mouth and the cold from the drink makes his teeth ache. He wipes his mouth and places the glass back onto the table. Ghost and Gaz look at him.

“I am not interested in ‘em like that.” Soap says before the other two could accuse him of anything. The images of you walking into the night press into the backs of his eyelids. You looked so alone.

“Actually, speaking of them,” Gaz says, sipping his drink. “What happened to getting them to stop by our way? Didn’t look too interested just now.”

Soap takes another gulp from his drink, “Said ‘no’.”

Ghost nods as he pulls the bottom of his mask down. “Was very adamant about it even.”

“Not surprising but what happened?” Gaz repeats, leaning forward against the table. He looks interested, expression open and inquisitive.

     “LT over there asked if they were interested in talking to 141 about themselves.” Soap takes a swig from his drink, “Gave the firmest ‘no’ I’ve heard I could’ve imagined.”

“What happened before that?” Gaz pushes.

Soap sets the scene that he and Ghost found you in earlier that day, “Some idio’ was shouting about wanting something different than everyone else. It was ridiculous.”

“And far too loud.” Ghost tacks on.

“But they stood their ground and refused the kid. I could see steam coming from his ears abou’ that.” Soap says. “Made a real threat too,” he adds on, laughing heartily.

“The threat was impressive! All intimidating.” Soap replays that moment. You grabbing the kid’s shoulder, leaning down next to his ear. Muttering the threat in a flat tone that sent the asshole running for the hills. The cold chill in your eyes when you looked at him and Ghost as if they were interrupting something fun.

“It was wild! Very Ghost-like if ya ask me.” Soap finishes his beer. “It was great! Made me want to know more, ya know?”

Ghost finishes his drink as well and he hums in agreement.

“What if I were the one who talked to them?” Gaz asks, nursing his beer.

“I’m not sure man. Seemed against everything.”

“Oh I’d still like to try anyway.”

—

     The air is cold. Your breath leaves your mouth in puffs of steam as you jog around the training track. The ground is hard and it jolts you every time your feet hit the ground. Hardly anyone else is around, just a few older soldiers and higher ups idlying warming up. You stop at the starting line and check your watch. Your mile time has hardly changed since you were pulled from the field and it makes you proud. You stretch your shoulders, taking your left wrist into your right hand and pulling up and over; then doing the same on the other side. It makes your elbows creak and your back pop.

     “Mind if I join?” A quiet voice asks off to your right.

You look over to see a man dressed for a workout. He’s wearing shorts and a long sleeve shirt. He’s far overdressed compared to you, shorts and a ratty tank top. You shrug and lean over to touch your toes. Somewhere in your mind he’s a familiar face but you can’t put your finger on it. He's got dark skin, slightly sad shaped eyes, and close cut hair. Maybe he’s been to the armory recently? Or maybe he talked to you in the cafeteria?

     “If you want. I will be sprinting.”

“I can work with that.” The man says as he warms up. He does the standard toe touches, lunges, hip extensions.

“Ready when you are.” You tell the man as you bounce on your toes, feeling your tendons stretch and retract. The pressure in your legs is a nice change of pace compared to your everyday spent standing, sitting, and walking from room to room. You don’t always work out in the morning but this particular morning is your exception.

“I’m good.” The man says after a few more stretches. “What’s the plan?”

You move to the starting line and lean down into a sprinter's start, “Oh there’s no plan. I run until I can’t.”

The man nods and mirrors your pose, “May the best runner win.”

     You count down and shoot off like a bullet. You don’t bother to look over at the man as you progress your way through the track. It’s a standard 400 meter track and you push through each curve, keeping yourself in the lane you’ve chosen. You feel your feet hit the ground. Your tendons pull and your muscles push. It’s a game you’ve played before, trying to sprint as fast and as long as possible. It wasn’t ever mandatory for your training but it’s nice to feel the burn in your lungs and the air rush in your ears. You imagine that your body is a machine. Your tendons are springs anchored to metal pieces that are built into a skeleton designed to hold your guts and blood. The burn in your lungs is exhaust leaving the system. The rumble of your flesh is what pushes you. The feeling of metal under your fingertips is what brought you back to the military despite having the best reason to leave. The knowledge that you can strip weapons down to their organs and treat them better than anyone else can. It’s deeply intimate and you will never tire of intimacy on your terms; whether it's man or machine.

Chapter Text

     Mars’s nose wrinkles as you walk into the armory. She’s sitting in front of the viewing window, tapping away on the laptop used for inventory. It’s an older thing that stutters no matter how good the wi-fi is. The fans are always blowing as hard as possible too. She looks up at you.

     “Why do you smell like disinfectant? God it's like you walked out of a hospital.” Mars says before returning to scrolling through the never ending list of guns that needs repairs, or cleaning, or organizing.

“I don’t know. I just use the stuff I like.” You tell her as you sit at one of the other desks in the room. There’s already a few pieces of paper scattered on the surface and you pick them up to read. 

     The first page is about an upcoming mission’s gun requirement. You skim the names and kit requirements. Nothing out of the ordinary, all members except the high ranked are receiving the standard loadout and a few extra flashbangs. Looks like an exfil mission based on the number of people and the length of the needed resources. You hum to yourself and tack the page to the desk in front of you with a spare thumbtack you keep around for this very reason.

     The next page is a staff meeting request with the other armorers. You frown. You don’t mind meetings, information has to be spread somehow and in-person is usually better than online, but you know for a fact that you will end up doing most of the talking. Especially considering that the other side of the page has information that needs to come from you specifically. The talking points are standard fare, what needs replacing, supply refills, more work overall. Always more work. You take a pen you keep in your chest pocket and circle the information needed for the meeting.

     The final page is from TF141, Captain Price specifically. You click your tongue and hunker down in your chair. It’s a request to go off base to train. You haven’t done that in a long time but just seeing that it’s from Captain Price and TF141 as a whole? It makes you nervous. It’s possible that this request is a nicer form of retaliation to your refusal to talk to the team before. Although, this kind of training seems different than standard procedure. For one, the request has landed on your desk first instead of getting through your superior and then making its way to you. Secondly, it’s meant to be in a nearby forest ground and not some bombed out training field. There’s no other information, just an email to a secretary most likely to tell the team you’ll be going. You sigh and push the paper away.

     “That was one helluva sigh.” Mars says from across the room. You look over your shoulder. She’s not even looking at you as she works on something.

“Yeah. Most of it is the normal stuff, but there’s a special request.”

“Ooh, someone's moving up in the world.” Mars teases.

You take out a gun from the ‘needs a new everything’ box and drop it onto your table. “Don’t say that. It means I’ll be swimming in paperwork in no time.”

Mars laughs and stands, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom. Don’t burn the place down.”

     You watch as she leaves the armory door and heads down the left hall to the bathroom. You look back to the gun in front of you. It’s a L129A1 sharpshooter rifle with a 927 millimeter butt stock and a 406 millimeter long barrel. A heavier-than-it-looks rifle that sits at about 4.5 kilograms. You pet the side and frown at the damage. It’s covered in nicks, scratches, discoloration, the whole nine yards. It’s disheartening for you to see such a beautiful machine in poor shape. But you know how to fix the exterior issues to where it looks less beat up.

You look around for your tool kit and bring it to sit on the table’s surface. The kit is covered in grease and has a few spots where the material has been burned away. It’s your baby. It’s been with you since your first day as an armorer and you cannot imagine a day without it. You reach your hand into one of the many pockets and pull out a small screwdriver to begin disassembling the L129A1. The screws are organized into containers based on their location. Exterior? Goes into the right cup. Interior? Goes into the left cup.

At some point during, Mars returns from the bathroom and she too begins working. The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, talking, passing tools, working on the computers. You test the flexibility of the bipod. It’s meant to have four different degrees of spread, 0, 45, 90, 135, and 180. However, as you work the bipod only one of the legs has full range of motion. You remove it from the bottom of the gun and put it to the side to take a better look at later.

Once the bipod is removed you fully take apart the gun, placing the body pieces off to the side and making your way into the guts of the gun. The interior is beautiful. At least to you. The mechanisms are in rough shape however. The end of the barrel has dirt inside it, the gas tube and the ejection port are very dirty. It’s a sad sight but easily fixable. You pick up one of the clean rags you keep on hand and wipe away at the dry matter that’s gumming up the dirty areas.

     You eventually finish working on the L129A1 and you pass it to Mars to re-rack the gun you just finished fixing. She checks it over and gives you a thumbs up as she places the gun into a rack next to her.

“Want to get lunch?” Mars asks, standing from her chair and stretching.

You check your watch, 13:32. “Yeah, might as well.” You stand from your chair as well, reaching for the door.

—

     “I was a lot hungrier than I thought,” you say to Mars as you sit down across from her in the mess hall. Your tray is full with the day’s lunch. A bread roll, chili, green beans, mashed potatoes, an apple, and banana. 

Mars laughs, “Yeah me too.” Her plate is just as full, but with two bread rolls and no banana.

“How much work have you done so far?” Mars asks around a mouthful of food.

“Not as much as I needed to. That damn L129A1 took a lot longer than it should’ve.”

“What was even wrong with it?”

You swallow your bite of food, “What wasn’t wrong with it? The bipod was messed up, the ejection port was dirty, man, even the gas chamber had dirt inside of it somehow.”

Mars gives a wide eye roll, “Of course. I have a feeling that none of the Privates listened to any of their weapon field care courses or trials.”

“You said it. But hopefully I can break through more of the work. I still need to send off some emails and get a slide deck together.” You dip your bread roll into the chili and top some green beans on top of the roll.

“A slide deck? What for?” Mars has managed to finish her food in a total of five bites. She nudges her empty tray away and leans back slightly in her seat.

“I have to be in a meeting later this week with the other armorers. Something about inventory and taking stock of every armory on base.”

“I don’t envy you, like, at all. Sounds like hell.” Mars says, taking her first sip of water during the meal.

“It will be, I'm sure. I like talking as much as the next guy but why on Earth do I need to be the only one on this side of the damn base to have to give so many talks? Like, why can’t you do any?”

Mars sits up, “Oh hell no. You are not conscripting me to go to any meeting, let alone talk at one in front of everyone.”

“I knew you’d say that.” You say, taking the final bite of your meal. You check your watch, 14:45. “Shall we head back to work?”

“Nose to the grindstone.”

—

     You plop down in front of your desk and open the laptop Mars handed to you as soon as the two of you walked into the door. You log in, and open up the email application.

Dear fellow armorers,

     As I’m sure, many of you have seen a meeting call on your desks. There is an upcoming meeting about inventory and supplies. I expect you all to be there and prepare questions or statements for myself and/or any of the higher officers regarding the topic at hand. I personally will be giving a presentation on the new inventory tracking system that will be rolled out the first of next month. Please be on time, and not for my sake.

Thank you,

Second Lieutenant “Oxbow” - Head Armorer Eastern Wing

     You reread the email and send it off. It’s sometimes considered rude to only use your callsign in an email, but it doesn’t seem to bother anyone so you will continue to do so until someone chews you out. As soon as the laptop gives a little confirmation sound to being sent successfully, you open another empty email.

Dear Captain Price,

     I am honored that you have reached out to me regarding a training opportunity. Before I agree, I do have a few questions. 1) Has this been pre-approved by my superior? 2) What is the expected time of departure and return to base? 3) If I am to go, is there someone who will take my place in the armory while I am away? 4) What is the training for? 5) Am I necessary for the training to take place?

I understand my barrage of questions may not be optimal, but I would have to have all or most of the above questions answered before I can leave the base in good conscience. 

Thank you for understanding,

Second Lieutenant “Oxbow” - Head Armorer Eastern Wing

—

     Price’s computer pings. He tabs out of the report he’s writing to his email, quickly glancing at the subject line and the sender. He reads through the email and begins typing up a response in record time.

Hello “Oxbow”,

     Thank you for reaching out to me. To answer your questions, 1) Yes, your superior has been notified but you will still be expected to let him know that you will be off base for the day. 2) The time of departure is 0730 and the expected return time will be 2200, 3) I have been assured that there will be a replacement provided if you accept. 4) The training will be for on-foot tracking. 5) You are not technically needed but you being there would be a good example for my men.

Hopefully all of your questions have been answered sufficiently and I look forward to your response.

Captain John Price

Chapter Text

     “Why the hell do we need to be here for this meeting?” Soap asks with a cocked eyebrow and a tilted hip.

Him and Price are standing in the back of a meeting room while people begin filing in and finding seats. It’s a normal debriefing room with tables and chairs all pointed to the front of the room where a podium and projector sits. People chat quietly to each other with some carrying notebooks, tablets, or laptops. Most of the occupants look like the standard nerdy type with glasses or too many pens stuffed into the pockets of their shirts. It’s much quieter than many other briefings that Soap has been to before.

     “Why do you think we’re here?” Price asks, checking his watch.

“So you can bore me to death.”

Price laughs, “Surprisingly, no. We’re here to watch the meeting and try to be a bit more involved with the armory.”

“As if you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.” Soap snarks as he pulls a spare chair from a nearby table and sits down. “I know you want to get into the good graces of the armory so you can get your hands on Oxbow.”

Price sits in the chair next to Soap and takes out a small field notebook, “I can’t say you don’t know me, but that’s not the only reason.”

Soap leans back in his chair so far back that the front legs lift off of the floor, “And what’s the other reason? Looking to get to know them better?” He wiggles his eyebrows but Price doesn’t acknowledge it.

Price shushes Soap as soon as he sees you enter the room, carrying a notepad and a laptop. You talk quietly with an officer and she nods, gesturing to the podium. You nod and walk to the front of the room. The room goes quiet as you plug in your laptop to the projector and watch as it boots up.

     The first side appears, Inventory: Running Numbers Under a New System .

“Good morning everyone.” You say, standing at the podium. “I know it’s early for a presentation but I promise that this won’t take up too much time from your busy schedules.” 

You tap to the next slide. It’s an acronym for the new system, N.A.S.E

“I hope that you read my email, but for those who didn’t, this will be about the new inventory system for every weapon. This includes ammo, modification parts, maintenance materials, and everything else relating to any armory.”

Your eyes meet Price’s and Soap’s for a moment before you continue scanning the room.

“I will happily answer any questions at the end but please do your best to listen.” You move to the next slide that defines the acronym from the previous.

     Number, Ammo, System, Extras

“While the current system works just fine by organizing the armories by abundance, weapon schematics, and additions. There have been issues with the system not updating fast enough and overall lacking accuracy. So, this new system will be optimized to the utmost ability.”

     The next slide, Number has a few bullet points marked out but you don’t bother reading from them. Instead you consult the notepad you brought, quickly bringing it up to your face then dropping it back onto the podium.

“The first thing the new system will prioritize is the number of weapons that are in active use. Then it will order the stocks alphabetically. This may be confusing but there will be a search and filter system integrated.”

     Moving to the next slide, Ammo .

“This part of the system will catalog weapons, regardless of size, by their ammo type first. This includes standard NATO sizing and alternate versions. This too can be filtered down into specific types, weights, or effective distance.”

     Second to last slide is, System .

“‘System’ means the specific schematics of a weapon like if it’s a gas piston or breech loading. And finally-”

     You move to the final slide, Extras .

“This is the catch all for everything else needed to maintain any and all weapons that are on or off base. This includes cleaning, tools, replacement parts, and any accessories like bipods or scopes. As a reminder, this system will be officially rolled out and integrated on the first of next month.”

You glance around the room for a moment. “Are there any questions?”

     No one says anything or moves. You nod, seemingly to yourself and close the laptop. Price looks over at Soap and he grins. Soap is enamored, sketching you as you paced behind the podium and talking with authority. He leans over a little more to get a better look at the drawing.

It’s a scratchy sketch of your face. You look excited, almost, to be talking about the armory and the new system being introduced. Soap has captured your eyes perfectly, neutral slant but with a small gleam in them at getting to lead a meeting about something you clearly care a lot about.

     “You should show them that.” Price mutters, as you answer someone’s question.

“God no. I don’t even know ‘em like that.” Soap says, quickly flipping to a blank page and shooting a frown at Price.

“What? You showed Gaz one of your sketches after only knowing him for a few weeks.”

“Yeah after living in the same space, and going on a fuckin’ mission.” Soap defends.

“Oh look, everyone’s leaving. I need to talk to them so you’re free to go now or you can stay.” Price grunts as he stands from the chair. He walks straight over to you just as you finish talking to one of the other head armorers.

—

     You look over as Captain Price and Soap approach you. “Hello. I didn’t expect to see either of you here.”

“Shit I didn’t expect to be here if it makes you feel better.” Soap says with Captain Price gently whacking him with the back of his hand.

“Well, I decided to check in and see how the new system works.” Captain Price reasons. “I figured it would be best to hear it from you and not through some long email.”

“If you say so. Did you have any questions for me about the new inventory system?” You ask as you pocket your notepad and pen.

“Not a thing. Just wanted to ask if you will be joining us for the training.” Captain Price says, lifting an eyebrow and looking to Soap.

“Oh.” You pick up your laptop from the podium, “I would like to talk with my colleague about it before I can agree.”

“I understand that, but I would like to remind you that we are leaving in two days and I would like to have your response before then.” Captain Price pushes.

“I will have a response for you tomorrow.” You tell him firmly with furrowed brows.

“C’mon Price lean off the bonnie would ya?” Soap says, giving you a charming smile before nudging his Captain.

“Right, right. We’ll be off. Hopefully you will join us for the training.” Price says.

You nod, “I will let you know.” You tell him, trying to keep your annoyance from your tone.

Chapter Text

     Your mouth is so, so dry. The wind is loud as it screams in your ears. The horizon stretches infinitely in front of you, ever out of reach, a terrible moving goal post. You’ve long since shed you flack vest and your spare weapons. All you wear is a tank top and cargo pants that are void of anything important. You trod through the plains, the grass catching your skin and leaving you with little cuts that slowly dribble blood. You’ve been left behind. Someone is to blame. Is it you? Where have you been? Where will you be in a few hours?

     You spot a small songbird. It chirps and calls, seeking a mate or someone foolish to believe that it’s a good omen. You are foolish. You find a rock and throw. The bird no longer sings and you are left with something to eat. Something to drink. You are a fool as you pick up the small bird and slit its throat and slide your lips up to the gash. You drink and drink and drink. Too much iron. Too many feathers. Too little meat. 

     You make a fire. It smokes and billows from the green wood it’s burning and the new growth grass underneath it. It’s an awful fire. A rush job with no preparation. No foundation. You open the creature up with your knife, driving your knife around the organs. There are undeveloped eggs. Three. You wrap them into a large leaf and place them by the fire. You stake the gutted and empty bird with a branch and burrow one end into the dirt next to the fire. The bird is bare, skin pimpled from where its feathers used to be. Its abdomen is now a cavern where its life used to sit. Blood oozes down the stick. It makes the fire pop and hiss and smell of the wild. You watch the bird cook. Its eyes catch the living light from the fire. You look away. It watches you all the same, wondering if you are the fool you think you are.

     The English moorland is unforgiving. Cold nights with wind that reminds you of a screaming dog. Hot and humid days that seek to drown you in your own sweat. The plains are beautiful. 

     When you find a patch of forest land you find a good tree and tap it for water. It’s a slow process that takes time and energy that you don’t have. The water from the trees is sweet and earthy but never enough. You stash away as much as you can. You drink your own urine instead. A sharp tang of salt and urea that burns your throat. The animals watch as you lap up your piss from your cradled hands. You feel their eyes judging. You hear their wingbeats and it sounds like laughter. There is nothing out here for you. Have you learned that yet?

     You have since learned that. You still sleep in a tight ball, tucked under yourself and cradling your own head. People watch you like the animals from the Moor. You can feel their eyes. The medical staff keep hushed but you know they talk. You know they balk at your blood draws. You know they write every little thing down. You know they have their lips curled when they watch you sleep. 

     There is nothing for you. But sometimes you dream of the little song bird watching you under the light of popping embers. Sometimes you dream of the heat rising from your urine as you drink it like holy water, hoping it can deliver you from dehydration. Above all, you still dream of the birds laughing through their wings and feathers. There is nothing the Moor can give you as long as you’re a fool. Didn’t you know that?

Chapter Text

     You’re watching over a room full of wanna be armorers and you’re bored. They’re all the newest someone can possibly be in the military, having just gotten out of basic and still bright eyed. You pace the room, taking notes on those who seem to be doing better or worse than their neighbors. It’s a grueling process but one that is necessary. There are more than enough soldiers who are willing to go on deployments or face the enemy on the front lines but there’s hardly anyone who’s willing to work behind the curtain.

The work in front of the Privates’ is a simple worksheet that is a technical drawing of a Glock 19, with said gun next to it. The goal is to correctly label all components–internal and external–to then be able to disassemble the gun. Many participants have already finished the written portion but there are some who are lagging behind. You stand behind one of the Private’s who is slow.

He’s slouched over and on the last component on the worksheet. On examination, all of the parts are labeled correctly. The only thing he’s missing is the trigger pin, which holds the trigger in place and is the part that allows the trigger to move. You hover over his shoulder for a moment and he glances back. You tilt your head and stare. He flushes and returns to his sheet, finally filling in the last label. Correctly as well, to your satisfaction.

     While most other members of staff who do these kinds of observations tend to yell, either to keep people in line or scare them, you prefer to watch. Many people who are interested in the more maintenance oriented jobs do not respond well to violence or loud outbursts. You also like to keep your voice and only shout when truly needed so that people listen to you better. Many of the Privates you have trained and helped before sing your praise and all have had successful careers. It’s just your way of doing things.

You check your watch, “You have fifteen minutes. Do what you must. Remember, the physical portion has more weight than the written portion.”

The room shuffles, the noise level picking up as people begin to rush to make sure everything is done before the time runs out. You keep walking among the workbenches. You stop at a woman’s space and you frown. All of the components are in one large pile, nary an attempt at organization in sight.

     “What the hell is this?”

The woman turns to look at you, “The Glock is disassembled, Second Lieutenant.”

“I can see that. But why is it not even partially organized? What would happen if something fell or got lost?”

“I wouldn’t know?” The woman looks worried, sucking her lower lip into her mouth and pressing it against her teeth.

“Correct. Fix it and stop biting your lip, you’re not here to continue with bad habits.”

“Yes, Second Lieutenant.”

     You step away and return to pacing. No one cheats or talks to each other, just as you instructed. Those who pass will continue with the program while those who fail will be given a second chance or moved to a different profession of their choice. You move to the front of the room and watch another woman finish disassembling the Glock.

Her space is clear minus the parts, worksheet, and pencil. The components are organized by position, top down. You make note of her number and name in your notepad. She would be a great addition to an armory if she can keep that level of organization under pressure.

“Five minutes.” You say to the room.

—

     You watch as the Privates file out of the room as quickly as they can. The test ended right as the cafeteria opened for lunch. You watch as they group off together and walk away, chatting and probably complaining to each other about the test they just went through. You look back to the room and sigh. Time to reassemble the guns and collect the materials.

You start at the front of the room and work your way back. The guns come together quickly. You have long since memorized the reassembly of the Glock 19. 

     First, you insert the trigger mechanism back into its housing. The pin slides into place perfectly which ensures that everything is held correctly. Next, you return the trigger bar into the housing as well and double checking that there is no movement. Third, you install the slide stop by pressing it back into frame with the angled side down. Next, the recoil spring is added by fitting the assembly into the front and back notches to prevent malfunction. Next, the barrel is added back with the chamber facing out using the rear notch to keep alignment and listening for a solid click to confirm it’s locked into place. Seventh, the lock pin is reinserted using the external hole on the side and pushing until it’s perfectly flush against the side. Finally, run a dummy shot by racking the slide and pulling the trigger. Once the gun is reassembled and successfully fires a dummy round you can continue to the next workspace. You’ll collect the paper and pencils on your way back through.

     “Need help?”

You look up to see Gaz(?) from task force 141 poking his head through the open door.

Gazing around the room, you’re already half done. “Sure, if you’ve got time.”

Gaz smiles, “Of course I have time.”

He walks into the room and begins picking up the papers from the desks you’ve already collected the guns from.

“Sorry, but you’re Gaz. Right?” You ask as you continue assembling guns. The sounds of rustling papers and metal clicking fill the room.

“Yes. I ran with you a few days ago.”

“Ah okay, I thought I recognized you from somewhere.”

“Yep.”

     Silence returns. Gaz stands next to you as you work your way through. He follows like a shadow cast onto a wall, quietly present. He doesn’t rush to the next table to assemble the gun or push his way into your space to collect the test materials as you’re working.

“You know, I’ve never seen anyone run as fast as you. What’re you doing as an armorer?”

You had a feeling that he would ask that. “I was in the field, now I’m not. I assume your friends told you about me.”

Gaz makes a thoughtful noise in his throat, “They did, but I prefer hearing it from the person’s mouth. Ya’ know?”

“I do.”

     More silence. The two of you have already worked through two-thirds of the room.

“I hear that you’ll be joining us for training tomorrow.”

“That is correct. Your Captain went out of his way to find me after a meeting.”

“That he did. Soap was there too.”

“I saw. Seemed pretty occupied though.”

Gaz huffs a laugh through his nose, “Yeah he’s like that.”

“Is there any reason for me to be there for your training? Captain Price was vague about the purpose.”

“It’s something about tracking.”

“You don’t know anything else?”

“Not a thing.”

“Oh, okay then. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

—

     “You’ll never guess who came by while you were gone.” Mars says as soon as you’re through the armory door.

“Was it the jackass guy?” You ask, making your way to the storage rack for Glock 19s.

“What a guess! It totally was.”

“What’d he complain about this time?”

“How he still deserved better.”

“Can’t give it up, huh?” You begin putting away all of the guns you used for the test. You rack each gun individually and the cabinet slowly begins to fill back out again.

“Apparently not. But thankfully one of your friends from 141 came by and scared him off.”

You look up from your task in surprise, “What?”

Mars gives you a mischievous smile, “Oh yeah, the one in the balaclava. Was a real sight to behold.”

You shake your head, “Okay, so no. None of those guys are my friends. I don’t even know them.”

“I think they think otherwise. When you’re not here sometimes one of them will make themselves known and ask for you. I think you’ve got them wrapped around your finger.” Mars says as she types away on the work laptop. 

“Funny, but no.”

Mars laughs, “Okay if you say so! How’d the test go? Anyone terrible?”

“Yeah, a couple of Privates definitely shouldn’t have been there. Poor things, looking at me like I knew why they were there.”

“Happens every time. Was there anyone good?”

     You finish putting away all of the guns. Stepping back from the storage, you visually inspect the case and nod when it passes your quick inspection. You move to the other laptop and log that all of the weapons have been returned successfully.

“Surprisingly, yes. There were a few stand outs. They were weak in the speed department, of course, but they could label everything and had organized the disassembly just fine.”

“Ooh sounds like we might get some home help over here. Now that would be great.”

“What happened to the older guy who used to help out? I haven’t seen him in a while.” You spin in your chair to face Mars as she sips from her water bottle.

“Oh you haven’t heard?”

     You shake your head.

“He’s going part-time. I think it has to do with his wife being pregnant again.”

“Makes sense.”

Chapter Text

     You step out of the truck and stretch your back. Sitting in a vehicle crammed next to three men who each needed two seats was not ideal nor your idea of a good car ride, yet here you are. You watch as 141 get out of the car and move towards a low building that’s partly tucked into a treeline. You’ve been brought to an off base training ground that’s surrounded by beautiful forest. You follow behind the men and they make themselves comfortable as soon as they’re through the building’s door.

     “What is this place?” You ask no one in particular as you look around the room.

The couches are dingy things that sit far too low to the floor and the coffee table has scuffs all around the edges from people putting their feet up on the surface.

“This is a training ground. It’s not used much anymore but it’s the perfect place for the training I want you all to do today.” Captain Price says, leaning against the wall.

“Speakin’ of which, what’re we doing exactly? You haven’t been the most clear with us.” Soap says, lounging back on the couch with his feet already kicked up onto the old coffee table.

“I was going to wait for a little bit, but since you’re so excited to get started I’ll tell you.” Captain Price says, pushing off of the wall and standing in front of everyone.

“You are going to play paintball.” Captain Price grins. “There will be two teams, 141 and Oxbow.”

“How come I’m by myself?” You ask, hands on your hips in both annoyance and question.

Captain Price turns to you, “I’m hoping you can teach my boys a few things.”

     Your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline. Of everything you expected, teaching 141 about anything was not on your list let alone playing paintball or tracking them. You look over at the rest of the room and the men seem excited and maybe a little apprehensive.

“How’s that fair? They’re by themselves.” Gaz says, standing from his spot on the couch.

“Oh I think they’ll be just fine on their own.” Price says, giving you a quick nod before gesturing for everyone to follow him.

—

     You pull the neck gaiter over your nose and mouth to dampen the sound of your breath. You’re walking briskly between trees and crouching behind bushes. The goal of the game is easy, return to the safehouse without getting hit. You and 141 were driven out deeper into the woods and dumped with a map and compass. You have no idea where the others are. You keep walking.

     The forest is humid, the canopy keeping much of the heat under its leaves. The pine needles under your feet crackle and shift. Animals scurry about and birds sing. The sounds of the woods remind you of something, but you can’t remember what. It scratches at your brain and tickles at your hippocampus, but it's lost in translation. The woods are beautiful, the late morning sun filtering through the trees and the world is quiet; fantastically absent of human noise. You find yourself in front of a small creek.

      The water burbles and catches the light. You watch the surface, the water gliding over stones and debris easily. You rinse your hands in the watch and scrub your face. The water is cold and it shocks you. You shake your hands free of the water and glance around. Using the map, you find that the safe house is circled in red while the location you were dropped is marked in green. You count the space between the two points. You’re five klicks away.

     You tuck the map away and begin moving again, crossing the small creek. You’ve been listening out for the other men's voices, but you haven’t heard a lick of anything abnormal. The forest keeps living and nothing changes. You find yourself underneath a tree and jump, grabbing onto the branch above you. Hoisting yourself up, you find another good branch and climb that one too. You look down. You’re about eight feet from the forest floor.

     You decide to use the trees’ density to keep you concealed. You move from tree to tree, sidestepping branches and clawing into the trunks. It’s fun and it reminds you of childhood, playing in the woods and climbing in trees that were just strong enough to hold your weight. You check your map again, using any landmarks indicated to find your location. You find the creek you were at earlier and trace your finger along the paper until you find a large mass. It looks like a boulder. You look up and spot the boulder. It’s a great thing that’s covered in moss and has clearly been in the forest for a long time, likely a glacial erratic.

     Muttering.

     You silently fold the map away and tuck it into your pocket. Flattening yourself against the trunk of the tree, you listen. There are three pairs of footsteps. Each gait is different from the last. The pine needles move underfoot and give away the group’s location. You see the tops of the mens’ heads.

Soap is first, gun slung across his front but keeping his hands on it. Second is Gaz, who keeps his hand on the pistol tucked against his hip. Third is Ghost, stalking with his gun at the ready. The three of them look to be scanning their environment but not bothering to look up at the canopy. They seamlessly transition between positions, Soap moving back for Gaz to take over and Ghost moving to the middle. They’ve done this before and it makes you excited. You continue climbing between the trees, letting them walk a few paces in front of you.

The men mutter to each other. You can’t hear what they’re saying but you can hear the rumble in their throats and the sounds of their tongues against their teeth. They’re probably just confirming sight with each other and reminding each other of their position. 

Suddenly, Ghost looks up into the canopy. You freeze. His balaclava grins back at you in frightening stillness. You can see his eyes. They dance from point to point, taking in anything and everything. You breathe silently with your mouth open to prevent your nose from whistling. He watches and watches. It goes on forever. It’s hard to fully tell what he’s looking at but his gaze never lingers anywhere too long.

     “Spot anything?” Soap asks slowly.

Ghost hums, “No.”

The group continues further away and you follow them. You keep a few paces further back from where you were initially stalking. Your heart hammers in your chest and your fingers twitch. One hand on the trees, the other on your pistol. The shaking of the trees helps cover much of the sound you make while climbing between the trees. There’s not much wind but the forest is alive in its own way.

—

     You have been following the group for some time, only stopping when they do. They don’t talk much. Maybe it’s a testament to your skill, the lack of knowledge they have about your abilities, or the fact that they’re simply not talkative. They continuously switch positions, ensuring that not one person is in one spot for too long. After a while the men stop to check their positions on the map. You do the same.

Based on how long everyone has been walking, the safe house is only one klick away. It’s your time.

     You put your map away and take out your pistol. You aim and pop Soap, who’s facing away. Bright green paint splatters across his back. The other two spring into action and paint hits where you were just standing. You use the trees to your advantage, slipping between trunks and using the lower branches to block any paintballs. You climb higher into the canopy and hit Gaz, who shouts in frustration.

“How long have you been following?” Ghost asks, eyes cast to the sky above.

You don’t respond, continuing to move from tree to tree. Ghost moves quicker than you thought he could and he smoothly keeps up with your pace in the trees. Paintballs fly and you doge, slipping from one layer to the next. Ghost’s damn skull watches the branches shake and you hit him with a closed pinecone.

     “Now that was dirty, and you know it.” Ghost says, almost angry.

You can’t tell if he knows your exact location but you know that it’s too risky to stay in the trees any longer, in case you slip and fall. You line yourself up and drop.

       You land on Ghost’s back, who grunts as the two of you hit the forest floor. For a moment, the two of you are a tangle of limbs each trying to get the first shot on the other. You manage to get situated on his back again and you press the trigger. His back is now fully coated in your paint color. He riles up and you fall off of his back into a pile of your own limbs.

The other two catch up and their faces hover over you. Soap is grinning and Gaz is looking at you with interest. You grin back at them.

     “My God that was amazin’!” Soap says, offering a hand up.

You accept Soap’s hand and you’re quickly pulled onto your feet. Gaz claps you on the back and shakes you a little.

“That was quite impressive,” Gaz says with a smile.

     Ghost walks up to you. You make eye contact with him. He watches you for a moment. Whatever he finds in your expression and body language seems to satisfy him. He offers his hand. You accept his offered hand and give it a solid shake, all the while grinning up at him.