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bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus · 2 years ago

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Bloodhound. (A Ghost x AFAB!reader fic)

Act One, Chapter Two: Encroach

Chapter Two: The Electric Boogaloo!

I hope you guys enjoy... we're starting with Graves' perspective first so if you want to skip on down to Y/N's before coming back to Phillip's storyline, the continuation of your tale is under the three asterisks. :)

As per usual, remember to vote on the poll at the end! And if there are any grammatical hiccups, sorry in advance!

Word Count: 4,743

Warnings: Strong language and mentions of nudity (no I'm not elaborating further or I will burst into flames)

The men filed into the plane, walking up the ramp to go take their seats. A gorgon, standing proudly by the entrance, directed them to where they would sit.

The inside of the craft was bathed in a red glow, dimmed down for the sakes of the men’s sensitive eyes. Chairs lined the sides of the cabin, forcing people to face their fellow passengers directly opposite them for the flight, should they be spending it awake.

Graves was still trying to get used to the effects of the blood canisters, his head feeling heavy and light at the same time. He trudged into the transport craft, heavy boots clunking against the floor. The soldier at the front gestured to where he would spend the rest of the journey. He looked along her arm in the direction she was pointing and saw his two lamias already sitting in their seats, strapped in and everything. One was leaning on the shoulder of the other, watching her older companion scribble down something on a newspaper.

She briefly looked up to see Graves take his seat beside her, the other lamia looking across at him. They both had helmets on, though they looked more like what Phillip would expect in the military: rounded and tightly strapped to their heads by clips on their chins. The gas masks they bore were familiar too, compared to the alien attire he and the men were currently donning, along with blocky goggles, though one of the girls had elected to have the eyegear sit on top of her helmet, as opposed to actually wearing it.

It turned out that both girls were doing a crossword, to Phillip’s surprise, as he leant over a little to see what they were up to. Well, it was more like the one holding the paper was doing the crossword whilst the other watched and occasionally chipped in.

“You’ve been stuck on that one for ages, 23.”

“Can’t think of anything.” She replied.

“What is the prompt, again?” The other asked, stretching out and yawning.

“A vampiric, vengeful female spirit, from South-East Asia, who died an ‘unhappy death’ at the hands of men.”

“Hmm…” The lounger scratched her chin in thought, “What letters have you already got?”

“I’ve got ‘P’ at the beginning from three-down.”

“Yeah…”

“And then I have two A’s.”

“Huh…” She remarked.

“What are you thinking, 72?”

“It’s South-East Asian?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn… I should know this.” 72 sighed.

23 chuckled, “Well, it’s not like you’ve had much opportunity to explore your culture.”

“If I’m even from there,” 72 pouted as she mumbled, adjusting her mask so it would sit more comfortably on her face, “That’s just what the docs say.”

“Yeah…” 23 exhaled through her nose, staring at the crossword long and hard.

Heavy footsteps, similar to Graves’, clomped against the floor as another Arcadian Son made his way down the aisle to take a seat opposite to the two lamias. All three, Graves and the two girls, looked up to see who he was.

“Ah! I see the nippers are back at it again!” He chuckled, landing in his seat with a thud, “So, what is the clue causing you trouble this time?”

23’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him over the edge of her paper.

“How’d you know I’m stuck, sir?”

“Because you’re not writing, kid. You’ve been still for a while now.. Could see you looking stumped from the moment I came in!”

She hmphed.

He leaned back in his seat, tilting his head to one side as another soldier began fastening his seatbelt next to him

“So, what’s the clue?”

The girl looked off to the side, rolling her eyes, before reluctantly coughing it up.

“A vampiric, vengeful female spirit, from South-East Asia, who died an ‘unhappy death’ at the hands of men.”

“You tried banshee?”

“It has to be from South-East Asia.”

“Ain’t they?”

“Banshees are Irish mythology.” Graves said, bluntly.

“Oh.”

Another Arcadian Son leaned in, sitting diagonally across from 23, opposite to Graves.

“You tried… uh… what are they called… ‘Manananggal’?

“Needs to have a ‘P’ in it.”

Soon the whole cabin was filled with scratching heads and mumbles of confusion… along with mild irritation.

Graves looked down at her half-filled crossword, taking in every clue he could find. He wasn’t usually one for these kinds of puzzles, but at this point, the man would do anything to distract his mind from his own thoughts. His brain was slowly being filled with a haze of sorts, a feeling he couldn’t quite place. It was probably the fumes of the blood canisters still trying to take hold of him but… but there was something else. Dread? No… Not dread…there was something about this sensation that was almost buzzing inside of him, as opposed to forming a pit in his stomach. It was a different kind of trepidation, sharp but not necessarily classic terror’s touchy dynamite. In between. He knew something was going to happen, but he just didn’t know what that something would be.

Anyways. Graves batted the feeling away, shoving it to the back of his mind, where it would do the least amount of distractible damage as it festered away.

He pursed his lips, thinking long and hard, trying to dredge up some morsel of knowledge related to this.

Hmm…

23 and 72 had found themselves looking up at him as he thought, tapping a gloved finger on his concealed chin, eliciting a quiet clink that could be heard if you paid attention.

“Have you tried ‘pontianak’?” He finally said, his much-anticipated response after half an eternity of silence.

“How do you spell it?”

“P-O-N-T-I-A-N-A-K.” He replied.

She tested it on the paper, tracing the shapes of the letters in each box, hovering her pen just out of reach, careful to not make any permanent scrawlings with the ink.

“It fits.”

He internally patted himself on the back.

“Go on and write it down, then.” He instructed, leaning back in his seat.

He tried to nestle into a comfortable spot on the chair, folding his arms. He tucked his chin downwards, almost into the neckline of his chest piece, hoping that he could maybe sleep away the hours.

Only for three loud bangs to resurrect him from his second-long nap. They all whipped their heads round to the front of the craft, where the gorgon stood.

“Listen up, Unit 7!” She announced.

Graves kept his arms folded, trying not to show the fact he had almost jumped out of his own skin. Some of the men were clutching the sides of their heads, looking to be recovering from the loud knocking like they had just had a bomb go off next to them. Sure, it was loud, but it wasn’t that loud… at least for an average human.

“As per the briefing, you know we have two jobs to do and luckily, we’ve received an update that both targets are within the same location. Instead of investigating the border, you’ll be transferred straight to Las Almas where you’ll rendezvous with El Sin Nombre-”

“By ‘rendezvous’,” one guy spoke up, albeit a little shyly, “do you mean-”

“Yeah, I mean sack over the head, put ‘em in a dark room and set out your demands.”

They all nodded.

The gorgon continued, “Once you’ve handed the druglord the package, half of you observe she delivers it to the target, infecting him, and the other keeps watch for the renegade lamia. Serial number is 96. We’ve received word that they and the other target are staying in the same building- i.e. A military base on the outskirts of Las Almas.”

“Who tipped the lamia off?” The gruff one sitting opposite to the lamias asked.

“Anonymous source, but we know they’re American Intelligence.”

Graves could not wait to see the look on Valeria’s face when she would come to in a shipping container once more, cuffed to a chair and realise her captor was the man whose dead body she saw as she was escorted away by the Mexican Special Forces. He couldn’t believe he was here himself… Although, his death had been fairly swift, like the ending of a dream, it was like he may as well have not died at all. Instead, just… slept.

After all, it only took a few operations and he was back to continue his story.

To be a plaything.

Shadow Company had given him control… until Shepherd. Shepherd fucked this all up. If he hadn’t panicked and given out those stupid orders to turn on 141, perhaps Graves never would have met his maker. Well, would never have come close to it.

How did that man ever earn the privilege of being a general?

“It’s capture or kill for the renegade. As for the newly infected, we cannot afford to have him die. The client wants the target alive. Understood?”

“Yup!”

She nodded. “Good. If you need to contact us at any point…”

The gorgon raised her arm and unclasped a cube-shaped device which sat on a belt across her chest. At first, Graves had thought it was some kind of sash to mark her status, but upon closer inspection, he realised it wasn’t embellished with badges or jewels, but rather oddly decorative but practical devices. Once the piece of equipment had been removed, all she had to do was twist it like a rubik’s cube and send it floating to the centre of the cabin.

As if it weighed nothing, they all watched the thing hover in midair, strange, a strange red glow seeping through its cracks like luminescent blood.

“... Use one of these. There are more lexicons in the bag with your weapons, but they’ll have to be manually set up. Don’t worry though, they’ve been programmed to recognise you Sons for the blood seal, but not your lamias, 7223, so take that into account.”

Phillip nodded as the gorgon addressed him, looking fairly collected on the outside. On the inside, however, he was in a state of awe.

Holy shit.

Graves leaned forward, watching it rearrange itself, going from cube to diamond, to back to a cube.

This kind of tech exists?!

Its red light reflected off glossy helmets of every Arcadian Son, lining their plane surfaces with streaks of crimson.

He was fascinated.

“Organise amongst yourselves who’s who.”

With that, she took her leave and, in her absence, the cabin fell silent.

Soon, the engines of the craft revved to life, making that signature hum as the pilots got ready for take off.

“So…” The soldier sitting opposite Graves broke the silence, “... who here was a ‘commander’ or some shit?”

Phillip raised his hand… more like, only Phillip raised his hand.

“Okay, you’re in charge then, 7223. Take the lexicon.”

He did so, carefully drawing the item to his chest.

Well, that was suspiciously easy. Graves had expected a squabble for power, for people to start wrestling each other to the floor for the title but… it seemed these guys liked to keep things civil. A surprise to be sure, but, with his newfound chronic exhaustion, a welcome one.

The next few hours were spent in somewhat comfortable quiet, the guy, who was branded with the number 7152, directly opposite Graves having fallen soundly asleep. His soft snores blended into the muffled sounds of the engine. Phillip had tried to catch some shuteye himself but to no avail, it seemed that his brain was too busy to shut down. Instead, he had found himself watching 23 continue with her crossword, occasionally asking him for help.

72, on the other hand, had too fallen asleep, nestling into a comfortable position in her seat. Graves envied her, having yet to find that sweet spot.

“Okay,” 23 spoke up, snapping Graves out of his thoughts, “I have a ‘shovel’.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“You have a ‘shovel’?”

“Yeah. That’s the clue.”

“The clue is one word? The clue is ‘shovel’?”

“Yeah.”

He brought a hand to his face.

“Jesus Christ.”

As he was about to ponder what information the word ‘shovel’ could provide in enabling 23’s quest to complete the latest crossword on her dishevelled copy of the Guardian, the radio on Phillip’s chest crackled.

“7223,” The pilot’s voice spoke, occasionally breaking up with static, “We’re approaching the target location, got eyes on the cartel lieutenant's villa. Be warned, we also got visuals on potential hostiles guarding the perimeter.”

Graves pressed down on the device.

“No worries,” he assured, “We’ll take care of them. Just land us somewhere suitable.”

“Roger that.”

Graves decided it would probably be a good time to make sure everyone was ready.

“Okay, boys!” He yelled into the cabin, watching as people resurrected from their slumbers or returned from whatever daydreaming they had been doing, “We’re landing soon and the guys in the front said we gotta be ready for trouble so… prepare for combat, folks.”

***

You were still trying to steady your breaths as you watched him continue down the corridor. Having been given such a fright and realising you weren’t up to risking another one, you decided you should probably take Ghost’s advice and head back to the barracks.

It seemed the night had chosen you to be the victim of its machinations and the only way to escape was to sleep. Sleep would also probably do you a world of good. However, sleep also meant you’d have to be in your own mind, and you didn’t want to face whatever your imagination had cooking up for you. Brains sometimes had a funny way of processing things and you suspected yours was still struggling to make heads or tails of what had happened… what you had seen, what you had felt and so on.

Ready to take your leave, just as you thought Ghost had, you spun on your heel and began to make your way back… Only for a voice to call after you from behind.

“You alright?” He asked.

You turned around to see him standing in the centre of the corridor, looking at you. His head was slightly tilted to the left, like a quizzical pup, as he awaited your answer.

“I’m fine.” You replied, “I’ll… I’ll head back.”

“You seemed a bit rattled.”

You chuckled weakly.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I? Look, I’m just tired and the dark was playing tricks on me. I’ll do as you said and head back.”

“Do you want me to-”

He began to approach you.

Your eyes widened.

“It’s fine!”

He stopped in his tracks. You covered your mouth with a hand, realising you had said that a little too angrily than you had liked. Before you could even apologise, you watched him draw back his outstretched arm, resuming his two-handed hold on his assault rifle. A pang of guilt tugged at your chest as you watched him nod to himself and vanish back into the black.

That morning, Laswell found you sitting by your bags with your armour slumped over your rucksack, sprawled like a dead body.

“I still think you should have breakfast with us, Y/N.” She sighed, taking a seat beside you on the floor, “You know ‘social eating’ is apparently a very good way to lift your mood.”

“I’ll go to the canteen when I’m hungry.” You replied, tone robotically even.

She shook her head, giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts. As she did so, Kate peered at what you were up to, looking over your shoulder as you leaned forward to prod at your chestpiece once more. A nostalgic smile creeping onto her face; seeing you work on your gear took her back to when she was your age, maybe a little younger.

Oh, to be young!

Nah, Kate thought to herself. She wouldn’t change a thing about herself now and she most certainly would never want to return to who she was in her youth. You know, some people say you’re constantly evolving and Kate found that to be true in a sense. Every version of herself that grew more and more distant from her years in the Foundation was most certainly better than the last. Laswell hoped that perhaps the same fate would befall you and you too would find yourself away from it all… the experiences of your life as a lamia being a distant memory that only occasionally reared its ugly head.

“I see your hepta-plate has stayed somewhat intact after we removed the trackers.”

You looked at her, only to see Kate gesture to your gear.

A little reluctantly, you nod.

“Yeah. Though, the shroud mechanism’s fucked up, I’m trying to get it to work again but…”

Your voice trailed off into a sigh as you poke at it again with your tweezers, watching the thing hiss and spew a few sparks. Laswell coughed, waving away the smoke as you cup your cheek with your hand.

“My armour never agreed with me, you know.” Kate scooted herself forward to get a better look at the mildly smoking disaster, “But you both learn to settle your differences.”

She held out her hand, fingers flexing as she gestured for the tweezers. You gave them to her, seeing as you yourself hadn’t been of much use. Kate gently ushered you to the side so she could have room. Upon laying eyes on the armour properly, it dawned on her just how far the Red Room had come from when Kate was a little girl. This armour looked almost alien, its namesake heptagonal plates only giving themselves away as the light caught their edges. Had it not been for the morning sun shining through the windows and that one gaping hole in the roof, Kate would have never spotted those interlocking, seven-sided scales making up your glorious armour. Back in her day, the plates were so big and so clunky… it was pretty much like you were wearing chunks of plastic sewn into your baselayer, similar to a poorly put-together Halloween costume.

Nowadays, though, it seemed the Foundation had ditched the honeycomb-chic of Laswell’s time for something sleeker, something which looked almost… reptilian, organic.

“You got three plates here that are not connected.” She muttered as she gently lifted an example from its backdrop of black material to show you, “I think that’s what’s causing the shroud mechanism to falter.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, not wanting to get your hopes up in case her tinkering also led to sparks and disgruntled mechanical groans.

Kate shrugged.

“Wouldn’t kill us to see, now would it?”

You supposed so as you watched her use the tweezers to manipulate each tiny plate to slide against each other and lock in place. She then turned to you.

“You got something to seal these with?”

Quickly, you procured a small can of bonding agent from a pocket on the thigh of your cargo pants. A small shiver crept up your spine as you laid eyes upon the Foundation’s branding. Anyways, before you’d let yourself fixate on it, your hand promptly dumped it in Kate’s.

“Thanks.”

After a few minutes of delicate handiwork, Kate finished up repairing your loose hepta-plates. A smile crept across your face as you watched the piece of gear slowly return to its familiar, former glory. Although, the scuffs and scratches from your escape could still be seen on the surface if you looked hard enough. The armour was never going to resume its perfect state but… this would suffice. Well, it would suffice if the shroud mechanism would get to working again, which you hoped it would now.

“How do you activate the shroud mechanism on this thing?”

“You just double tap on the chest, like this.”

Laswell watched you lightly press twice on the sternum-like structure running through the centre of the upper-half of the chestplate. Then, to her amazement, the armour began to fizzle, almost like a glitching television screen before vanishing from sight. If one had a keen eye, they’d be able to spot the slight distortion marking the armour’s outline, but Kate was certain that if this mechanism was employed in the heat of combat, the user would surely vanish from their opponent’s view.

“The Foundation has certainly come a long way since my time.”

You could hear the dread in her voice, her tone turning melancholy.

“Yep.” You set the can of bonding agent on the floor, “That it has.”

Suddenly, you hear something crackle, then a short fizzing sound emitted from the armour and within thirty seconds, it reappeared. Your shoulders slumped and you sighed.

“Is it meant to do that?”

“No.” You shook your head, “It’s supposed to stay invisible until, you know, I want it to come back.”

A growl escaped you as you give the can a little kick, knocking it onto the floor. Kate gave you a sympathetic smile and put a hand on your shoulder.

“Look, I know just as much as the next lamia, that our armour sets are our babies but I’m gonna be honest, unless we get this to someone who knows Red Room gear… this is as far as we're gonna get the mechanism to work.”

Your eyes had grown big and Kate could see your brow was lined with worry. You had relied on this armour to keep you safe, to keep you hidden. This had been your saving grace, the edge you very much needed over your enemies. And now, your guardian angel lay before you, flickering in and out of view, caught in the limbo of being a working piece of gear and something which deserved to be dumped. Disappointment formed a pit in your gut and you just stared at it, hoping that maybe it would get its act together under intense observation. Laswell could see your hand tensing, readying to tinker with it further.

“Y/N, don’t bother. It’s not worth it. I’d rather we keep it in the state it is now, where the mechanism is actually somewhat usable, than run the risk of breaking it entirely.”

She was right.

Reluctantly, you nodded and relaxed.

“Come on,” Kate said as she rose onto her feet, “Maybe getting something to eat will make you feel better, huh?”

“I need to brush my teeth.” You mumbled as you got up.

She paused.

“You haven’t brushed your teeth, yet?”

You laughed nervously, “Nope, I went straight to this! But I’ll…”

Your voice faded into silence. You could see she had a look on her face. It wasn’t as extreme as disgust, but it did make you feel as though you should probably grab your toiletries from your bed and get a shift on. You nod to yourself and scamper past her, doing a brisk walk to the barracks, hands balled into fists as you swing your arms in tow with your steps.

Patting around for the items in question, you managed to feel for your toothbrush and toothpaste. You let out a monster of a yawn, stretching your arms upwards.

The barracks were virtually empty, with you sharing the vast space with one other person, but you knew most of the base was still nearby…. Hearing distant activity from beyond the walls.

You looked over to the doorway and spotted your company a few beds down, throwing a towel over his shoulder as he knelt down on the ground to fetch something from his bag.

The guy in question was Gaz… if you remembered correctly.

“Hey!” You called, “Gaz!”

He turned around to see you and waved, smiling.

You waved back and then got straight to business.

“Can you remind me where the bathroom is?”

He nodded.

“Turn right, down the corridor, first door on your left.”

You gave him a thumbs’ up and hopped out of your bed, toiletries in hand. The bathroom was exactly where he said it was, a plain almost beige door marking its entrance. Yawning again, you pushed it open.

To your surprise, you could hear running water. However, you paid no attention to it, sauntering in to go pick from the row of sinks before you.

That is until you realised that the sound of running water was from the shower unit. Before you could even register fully what you would bear witness to, you were out of there in a flash. The exchange preceding your prompt exit went as follows:

Creeeak!

“Hey!”

“AH SHIT! SORRY!”

Slam!

This was a military base, afterall, and you had forgotten that some military bases had open shower units… which had now resulted in you trying to unsee the image of a pale man’s arse that had seared into your brain. If you hadn’t fully been awake then, you sure had woken up now.

Goddammit!

You leaned against the wall, gently banging the back of your head on the plaster, hoping that by some grace of God, you’d receive a concussion and forget this ever happened. The urge to just keel over and die was only increasing in strength with every passing second. Your heart was in your mouth, your breaths shallow and fast as you dug your hands into your face.

That was beyond embarrassing.

You really were living your ‘walking disaster’ fantasy, huh?

First, you pulled a gun on an ally and now you had just walked in on some poor sod completely naked trying to have a solitary shower.

After a few minutes, you heard the squeak of the valve being shut and the sound of water abruptly stopping.

The door creaked open once more and out stepped…

Oh no.

A lump formed in your throat, your mind going into full denial-mode. However, your eyes played no tricks on you… Oh God… You drew in a shaky breath.

Not him again!

A man wearing a skull-patterned balaclava along with his darkly coloured base layer and cargo pants stepped over the threshold. His eyes immediately fell to you.

You swallowed hard, putting on your best, although also your most nervous, smile.

“Uh… bathroom’s free now.” He gestured for you to enter; a towel draped over his arm.

You nodded and slunk past him, internally screeching as you felt yourself brush lightly against his clothes. The last thing you wanted to do was make physical contact… especially after that. You presumed he probably thought you had it in for him or something, even though a part of you prayed he didn’t see it that way.

Besides, the number of awkward encounters was only two… you’d need to do something stupid in front of him a third time in order to make it a pattern. However, the two run-ins you’ve had with this guy were in pretty short succession.

Yeah… You sighed, nose wrinkling as you cringed, give it a few more days and you’ll never see him again, Y/N. You can forget all this ever happened.

Although, knowing your mind and its habits, those memories of your idiocy would come back to haunt you at an inopportune moment in a few years.

Squirting a blob of toothpaste onto your brush, you lazily brought it up to your mouth, beholding your tired, tired reflection in the mirror. As you were about to get on with cleaning your teeth, your mind decided it hadn’t actually processed what had just occurred.

A flash of him in the shower took over your field of view for a brief moment.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

You coughed, spluttered, and almost choked on your toothpaste, leaning forward over the sink so it could catch the fallout.

After a short while of wrestling with your own brain and the awful new weapon it had found against you, you waddled back to the barracks. And he was there, packing stuff away… kneeling down by the bed next to you.

You froze.

Ghost’s eyes slowly looked up to meet yours. You’d practically stopped mid-step, shoulders drawn up to your ears, looking like a cat caught stalking its prey. He did not like the way your eyes were wide, mouth hung slightly open and lips curled back a little… the face of trepidation. Regret grabbed hold of his insides and twisted them slowly.

He should have locked the door.

“Uh….” It almost came out like a whimper from your lips.

He just stared at you.

Your foot hovered above the floor, yearning to take another step, but your hip had fervently locked itself in place.

He was still staring at you.

Fuck.

#bloodhound fic #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #cod mwii fic #ghost cod x reader #phillip graves cod

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