#and i'm also not tired my sleep schedule is scuffed so

[tacticalhimbo]

EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD: A POST-BLACK OPS: COLD WAR FICLET

WORDS: 1.6K FANDOM(S): Call of Duty Black Ops Cold War WARNINGS: Mentions and descriptions of murder, violence, and injury.

The arctic shores were unkind to Bell on that fateful day, and everything would come full circle. Inspired by my personal canon for the Call of Duty: Black Ops universe where Bell survives the encounter with Adler during the "good" ending because, frankly, I believe Adler deserves to be haunted by a (living) ghost.

This was a WIP that's been sitting in my drafts for ages and I've been bitten by the productivity bug... So enjoy!

Things had finally been finished. There was no more Perseus. No more nuclear threat to the West. No more lies. The truth had come to light after a grueling series of injections. A hard-fought resistance and a mad spiral down the rabbit hole. Bell knew who he was now. Knew his role within the grand scheme of things. And, like any good actor, he played it perfectly. Followed the team into the end, and stopped a third world war from breaking out.

Yet the familiar chill of the coastal air did little to ease the man as he followed his handler once more, though this time to seemingly celebrate their victory.

"Arctic air. Clears the head, doesn't it?" Adler's voice was level. Calm. Almost eerily so. But Bell knew better than to raise alarms; to question his motives. Adler was not a man to be questioned.

So Bell simply nodded, offering little more than a dull. but polite, expression in response. Adler continued.

"Bell, you made two extraordinary sacrifices to stop Perseus. One was without your knowledge. The other... you made that decision of your own accord." He brought the flickering cigarette to his lips, gaze turning to the vast waters ahead of them as smoke encircled his vision. A slow, gluttonous inhale. A tired, level exhale.

Bell stayed away from the cliff's face, tired eyes watching the agent's every move. The senior would simply have to forgive him if he wasn't so trusting of his motives, considering everything he's learned over the past few days. Considering Adler had turned him into his own Pavlovian dog. A tool to do the CIA's bidding. Sure, he had ultimately chose to turn his back to Perseus... but it wasn't to help them. He could give two shits about the wishes of the American government.

He did it because he had no choice to. He did it for survival.

It was true that he could have led the team astray, but to what end? To be gunned down like a rabid animal? To die alone in Duga with nothing more than the crows to accompany him as they'd tore into his flesh? No, that was not a fate he was deserving of. To lie down and waste away in insignificance. He would rather fight for it, make his mark on those who'd dare bring death to his doorstep. But now, he wasn't so sure it was the right choice. Not as Adler turned his attention back to him.

"I just want you to know that this little thing that's happened with you and me," a calculated pause, "It was always for the greater good."

A quick flick of gloved fingers, and the cigarette was sent over the edge and into the arctic waters. Adler continued. "You're a goddamn hero, you know that, kid?"

There was that feeling again. Muscles clenching in anticipation. An uneasy wave of nausea in his gut. A cold sweat beginning to trickle down the back of his neck. Bell swallowed back the rising bile, simply nodding once more in response to the conversation. Of course he was. Ex-KGB spy turned American war hero. He could practically see the headlines. The circling rumors.

It made him sick.

"Heroes have to make sacrifices. That's why when I ask you for one more, I hope you understand..."

Shoulders squared as the agent turned his back; squared as Bell's fists clenched and unclenched. A terse silence settled between the two, hands stiff at their sides as they focused entirely on one another.

"It was never personal."

Time seemed to slow as a downpour of adrenaline overloaded Bell's nerves. Pupils grew wide, swallowing every ounce of light in his eyes as they synchronously aimed their sidearms. The gestures were so matched that, to an outsider, it would have appeared coordinated. One final dance, shared as the sun set on the horizon. One final mission, memorialized in a wicked flash of gunfire. Everything went dark, the echo swirling in Bell's mind as he crumpled to the ground. Drowned out the uneven, fleeting footsteps of his captor. Drowned out the Kittiwake's abundant cry.

To the world, it was business as usual. Nobody had known who he was, code name or otherwise. It was just another death in the grand scheme of things. A fleeting moment of simple insignificance.

To the CIA, they had tied their loose ends. Bell had no longer existed—he never did. MK-Ultra was a mere conspiracy. A story handcrafted by the enemy to shake the public image of the intelligence agency; to stir distrust in the government, and make it easier to peddle whichever agenda felt most convenient to blame at the time.

To the Russians, Danya Maximovich Kapitsa had died on that airfield. He was another casualty of their war, though he had at least had a name for himself. Perseus, or whomever it was that took up the mantle, did honor him, just as he would any of his closest associates. A noble sacrifice for their protection. Their ultimate undoing, if rumors of his survival were anything to go by.

But all of this mattered little in comparison to the searing pain brought on by a weak breath; by a return to the land of the living. Muscles screamed with every movement, vision hazy as light suddenly appeared before him. Blood soaked the man's vision as he attempted to find his focus, the dark world around him shrouded in an awful crimson hue. Blood that had once run smooth coagulated against pallid features, staining the skin beneath and drawing a stark contrast to the cold eyes that scanned over the horizon. There was nothing there. Nothing besides him. Even so, he could not trust his vision, not as the sparse moonlight accentuated the darkening spots that'd etched themselves into his sight. All those damned injections...

The crack of a branch caught his attention, head snapping and bringing about a shock wave of pain that manifested as a whimper; the sound of a dying animal. Calloused hands dug into the earth beneath them, drawing all of his strength and grounding him as he'd rolled onto his stomach. Inch by inch, he curled in on himself, bringing his knees into position to hold him as he'd pushed. Inch by inch, he rose onto his hands and knees, jaw clenched and teeth grinding as the pain consumed his every thought.

"Fuck..." More whimpering. A gasp. "Son of a—"

Nothing, besides the sharp rattling of his ribs as he'd forced himself up further. Pain spreading from the epicenter as he'd stood, briefly stumbling forward and catching the closest tree. Bark scratched against roughened palms, smearing dirt and debris and grounding Danya once more. He blinked. He blinked again. And there was still nothing. He was truly alone, envisioning things as his final moments played out on his peripheral. The crack of a gun, bullet piercing through the air and finding itself comfortably lodged in the bark just beside the agent's hand, glistening beneath the pale moonlight as his gaze fixated on the deep abyss ahead.

It stared back; coaxed him forth. Encouraged the slow, heavy steps that guided him away from his grave and into the unknown. Lazily, he passed by the Scots Pine and Norway Spruce, paying little mind to the blood he smeared on them as he'd made his way inland. Worn boots sunk into the swampy terrain, weighing the agent down further and bringing him to his knees more than once. Every time, the song and dance began again. Roll. Dig. Push. Over and up, back onto his feet. Wading through the muck until dim lights broke the darkness. Until the treeline broke and before him stood a glistening lake with a well-groomed landscape. No tall trees stood before him, though in the distance the landscape became less natural. It was brutalistic, in its own way; comforting in another. Like the abyss, it coaxed him. Encouraged the quickened pace as muscles grew tired and his gait grew sloppy. Over the marshy shore he'd stumbled, watching as the moonlit brick grew taller and wider. Along its perimeter, a comfortably dressed man was trimming at the shrubbery, whistling an idle tune and oblivious to the passerby quickly approaching.

Thud. Thud. Thud...

A calloused hand steadied itself on his arm, drawing a panicked breath as a corpse stared back at him.

"Help..." The only word to escape before he'd collapsed once more, embraced by the warm darkness that'd overtaken him as fire ignited within his skull.

When he awoke he was alone again, but he was comfortable. The pain in his body was no longer screaming, and there was ease in his muscles. A relaxation that he had not felt in a long time overcame him, though his mind shot itself into a spiral. Where was he? Who had seen him? Who had him? Who knew of his existence, and what would they do with that information. After all, he knew he was still within Russia's borders; it could be any moment before Perseus, or a KGB's representative would burst the door down to apprehend him. This, or until Adler and his boys came back to finish the job as they couldn't before. A part of him almost wished it would happen; agents of chaos to put him out of his misery. But the warmth of the sunlight trickling in, and the numbness coursing through his veins as he'd felt the sheets shift and settle upon his battered form coaxed the thoughts away. Lulled him into a near-contented state as he simply existed in this limbo.

And it would be where he would remain until he was on his feet again, the new world before him and with immeasurable weight on his shoulders.