#brvo6

[codebreak]

her  knuckles  wrap  gently  against  the  door,  the  one  she  was  told  was  assigned  to  captain  john  price.  there’s  a  nervousness coursing  through  her,  wishing  that  agent  laswell  hadn’t  left  her  to  her  own  devices,  that  the  woman  would  have  introduced  them  herself.  she  knows  kate has  more  important  things  to  do  than  help  curb  june’s  anxiety  at  meeting  new  people,  doesn’t really  make  her  wish  any  less. 

“  hello,  ”  she  does  her  best  to  smile,  hands  tucking  themselves  behind  her  back,  “  agent  laswell  sent  me?  said  there  was  a  laptop  that  needed  opened?  ” 

@brvo6 / x

[hvndredbattles]

And the last of the trio of migrated pieces for @brvo6! This one again from Yves's POV, picking up after medevac reaches the team.

"Duke."

One of the medics is trying to fit her hands in to take over for Duke. There'd been some kind of acknowledgment from the man in question, when she'd expressed intent to do so, and then. Nothing. Duke hadn't made room for her, or ceded CPR over to her, and seems intent on ignoring her. Or- doesn't seem to properly register her, rather.

"Duke."

"Wha-"

Ghost exchanges some kind of look with the medic. She nods, and Ghost nods back, and then Ghost hooks his arms under Duke's to bodily drag him back.

(The medic, for what it's worth, leans in to take over before Duke has even been forced to fully vacate the space.)

"Get the fuck off me-"

When Ghost does let Duke go, it's with a shove away from Captain Price and the working medics. "You need to let them do their jobs."

Soap and Gaz stand just to Yves's left. It feels strange, the three of them there, ready to move out, ready to help and go, when their lieutenants look about ready to throw down. (Ghost to keep Duke from getting in the way, presumably, and Duke... Yves doesn't even know. He's never seen Duke that resistant to hand over control of a casualty he was overseeing, before.)

Yves catches something about a lung, and fractured ribs, and internal bleeding, from the medics.

"Gentlemen," Laswell's voice crackles in their comms, "time to go. Escort medical personnel to the helo and get the hell out of there."

"Rog."

There's a horrible, horrible moment, just as they start to move, where Yves sees the medic stop compressions altogether.

"What-"

Ghost is maybe the only thing standing between Duke and a murder charge, actually, literally stepping between Duke and the medical team before Duke can get more than a step back the way he'd come from.

"Pulse is weak, but there. Get the saline going-" the medics continue on, seemingly entirely unaware or uncaring of how close they had come to violence over a misunderstanding.

"He's alive," Ghost mutters.

Yves doesn't think the words are supposed to be for anyone but Duke. Except Ghost had opened his own comms line just before he'd taken over CPR, presumably, and Duke hasn't flicked his own settings back to push-to-talk. Privacy is non-existent in the face of radio transmission.

(Yves thinks it would maybe be worse to say something right in this moment, than let them have whatever interaction this is going to be, and pretend he's heard nothing.)

"He's alive," repeated, more insistently, as Ghost pushes at one of Duke's shoulders. "We need to move."

It gets a grunt, at least. Enough for now.

Ghost's gaze sweeps over the trio of sergeants. "Let's move out."

By some miracle, they actually manage to get out without further issue. Presumably, all three sergeants have a collection of potential-somethings in their packs. Their captain is still fucking alive when they board the heli.

Yves doesn't even catch who grabs Duke by the arm, never mind what might have been said. There's just the snarl on his face as he jerks away, yanking his arm back- oh, that. is blood.

Except Duke plants himself squarely within range of the care being administered to Price—not in the way, but there, monitoring and ready to jump in—and rebuffs whoever had made an attempt to look him over.

(Ghost, Yves thinks, because the medics have their hands full right now.)

The trip back is uncomfortably quiet.

He bumps his shoulder with Gaz's—more than once—for that bit of grounding. Soap, across the cabin from him, wedged between the corner of the seat and Ghost's rigid frame, gets the occasional kick of boot-to-boot.

They're the last to dismount after touchdown.

The medics hop out, and a stretcher is wheeled over from on-base medical personnel. In a flurry of raised voices and medical jargon Yves could only half-follow on a good day, they cart Price away and leave the rest of the 141 to fend for themselves.

Yves thinks they might have all stayed like that, if the heli pilot, bless him, hadn't tentatively pointed out that he has another flight already charted for later in the day. Which means he has to refuel, and do whatever the fuck else they do to get ready. Politely, GTFO.

Duke moves first. Naturally.

Yves is in the process of dragging himself off his seat when Ghost bumps past. (Soap grimaces an apology, but what's a shoulder check in all this, really? Yves shrugs back.)

The comms are quiet. Maybe the line has been shut down, or maybe Ghost and Duke have finally had the sense to kill their mics. Either way, Yves (and Gaz and Soap, warm presences behind him as they each hop down and move out from under the heli's spinning blades) have no context for whatever argument unfolds.

It's just raised voices with words Yves can't make out, and a sharp cut of Duke's arm through the air to point aggressively back at the line of them, the sergeants. (Yves jerks to parade rest like his life depends on it.)

Maybe two sentences from either of them worth of time later, and Duke stalks off toward... well, if Yves has to guess, based on his trajectory? Where medical has posted up. And yet, he somehow doubts anyone but Duke is going to look at whatever injuries his lieutenant had suffered in the blast.

"LT."

Ghost surveys each of them. "Anything in your packs you can't live without?"

A chorus of "No, Sir"s answer.

"Right. Leave them here, I'll sort Elis and initial debrief with Actual. I expect AARs, each of you, by tomorrow at lunch. Dismissed."

"Sir."

Three paper-and-equipment-filled bags drop to the tarmac a respectful distance from Ghost's boots.

He has no goddamn clue where Soap and Gaz are planning to go, but Yves is going to look for Singh.

[soapfcrce-a]

i know you think you're pretty clever with this plan to drink me under the table , but there's two problems ... you're not , .. & you can't . || @brvo6

“One, rude. Two, sounds like y’ cannae remember that layover in Poland very well, sir.” Oh, he was basically asking for it at this point, but there wasn’t ever anything wrong with poking the metaphorical bear. Or maybe literal if Soap tilted his head in just the right direction... 

Time to focus. Time to have some fun. 

“C’mon, surely ye wanna see if you really could outdrink a bloke from Glasgow.” He’s got one arm looped around the captain’s shoulders like its the most natural position and bonks him with the beer bottle in it. “Y’ make it through this round, promise t’ tell you where I stashed th’ good shite in me supplies.” There’s a beat, maybe now realizing what he’s just said. 

“Not--sayin’ I actually brought the oban or anything with me—” 

[facesblind]

♥      𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆  𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔  𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕  𝒕𝒉𝒆  𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓

i'm  over  5'5      /      i  wear  glasses  or  contacts      /      i  have  blonde  hair      /      i  often  wear  sweatshirts      /      i  prefer  loose  clothing  over  tight  clothes      /      i  have  one  or  more  piercings      /      i  have  at  least  one  or  more  tattoos      /      i  have  blue  eyes      /      i  have  dyed  or  highlighted  my  hair      /      i  have  had  braces      /      i  have  freckles      /      i  paint  my  nails      /      i  typically  wear  makeup      /      i  don’t  often  smile      /      resting  bitch  face      /      i  play  sports      /      i  play  an  instrument      /      i  know  more  than  one  language      /      i  can  cook  or  and  bake      /      i  like  writing      /      i  like  to  read      /      i  can  multitask      /      i’ve  never  dated  anyone      /      i  have  a  best  friend  i’ve  known  for  over  five  years      /      i  am  an  only  child

okay  so!  i'm  v  small,  i  have...  twenty  piercings  or  so,  and  few  tattoos,  my  eyes  are  rather  grey - ish  but  also.  very  light  blue.  almost  creepy.  my  hair's  currently  brown  and  purple!!  and  my  freckles  are  tattooed  and  inbetween  them  there  are  small  hearts  :3  i  love  wearing  make  up  and  the  reason  behind  tattooing  aforementioned  freckles  is  because  i  always  wanted  to  have  them  and  used  eyeliners,  brow  pencils  and  all  sorts  of  products  to  make  them  and.  i  just  wanted  to  have  them  forever.  i  smile  a  lot  though  i  have  a  resting  bitch  face  lol  so  if  i'm  not  actively  focusing  on  smiling,  people  ask  me  what's  wrong  :((  i  play  multiple  instruments  !!  (  violin,  piano,  flute,  ukulele,  guitar  ).  i  speak  english  &&.  polish  and  a  little  bit  of  french,  and  can  cook  and  bake  although  the  latter  not  being  the  strongest  suit  of  mine  annnnd  i  love  writing  and  reading  (  last  time  i  went  to  a  cafe  to  do  some  reading  and  missed  two  buses  home  because  i  was  so  invested  in  the  plot ... . .  ),  multitasking  is  hard  due  to  adhd  ;  i'm  currently  in  two  long  term  relationships  with  my  boyfriends.  my  best  friend's  name  is  rodia  and  i  know  her  for  around  10+  years  now!!!!!  she  used  to  be  my  social  media  moot,  she  did  my  first  piercing  and  she's  literally  the  love  of  my  life  (  teddybeardog  aside  ofc  ).  she's  hilarious  and  supports  me  no  matter  what  i  do  &&.  promised  to  watch  me  play  resident  evil  games  and  watch  the  movies  with  me  and  imma  hold  her  accountable  next  time  we  see  each  other!!!

tagged  by:  stole  it  off  the  dash  to  yap  abt  myself  tehee tagging:  @buriedabove,  @vulpesse,  @tragedysworn,  @thehollyverse,  @zendatsu,  @iirath,  @st0rybuilt,  @dinoxia  (hi!  &&.  nice  to  meet  you!!!),  @brvo6,  @tealbeats,  @razedhell,  @abysswarden  &&.  you!!!!!!!!

[deadwar]

soldier, poet, king.

The Soldier

"There will come a soldier Who carries a mighty sword He will tear your city down" Righteousness. Strength. Violence. You see a door and break through it. You wonder, sometimes, if anger is the only thing you can feel. Remember : love is passion too. You made your own rules and will follow them to death. You try and forget that there is only one rule, and that it is "FIGHT". You are tired of fighting. You try to forget that, too, and keep going. You dream of quiet. Your love is where you heal. God knows you deserve to. (Really. You deserve to.)

---

The King

"There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy" Duty. Strength. Resignation. You were told to do things and you did them. The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will. You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture ? You don't know. You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs. Your love is where you breathe. Come on, breathe. In. Out. It starts now.

tagged by: stole it from @brvo6

tagging: @pseudowar ( for trick and yeti ! ) , @118diazs , @codebreak , and whoever else wants to!

[fuprematism]

#жэсарт #фупрематизм #коммунальноеискусство #минск #беларусь #замалевич #вандализм #чистотаипорядок #minsk #belarus #colours #urbanwalls #rothkowall #fuprematism (at Minsk, Belarus) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrvO6-bnt9E/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=11ew65ptgewbt

[ebrighonlinestore-blog]

سایت ابریق استارتاپی هست که در کسب و کار تحول انجام خواهد داد www.ebrigh.com ما با سایتی متفاوت به نام #ابریق در تلاشیم تا کلیه مبادلات تجاری از جای جای ایران زمین را دراین سایت بارگذاری نموده وعلاوه بر ارائه ی سهام_رایگان درصدی از سود حاصله را به #سایت_ابریق اختصاص دهیم. بازاریابی_مدرن در ویترین اینترنت یعنی حذف_واسطه و دستیابی به برترین کیفیت ‏www.ebrigh.com #الیگودرز #جلینی #زنجان #شهریار #محلات #تهراکو #ملایر #تهران #مشهد #اصفهان #تبریز #شیراز #گرگان #سبزوار #قم #کرج #اراک #کاشان #لرستان #کاشمر #قزوین #ساری #لاهیجان #رشت #اصفهان #ساری #سمنان #چالوس ‏Www.ebrigh.com (at Shahrak-E Andisheh, Tehran, Iran) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrvO6-HAwt-/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=yl9fdrztqeqz

[hvndredbattles]

The companion piece to this piece from earlier! (Which means this is also for @brvo6 <3) This version is told from the POV of Yves, who is not totally dialed into the singular task of Keep Price Alive, and therefore could tell you more of what actually happened.

A rumble rattles the building down to its foundations. Moats of dust drift down from the ceiling. The comms line is quiet. The-

The comms line is quiet?

Yves tightens his grip around his rifle.

When he looks over to Gaz, Gaz is already looking back, a mirror of Yves's own concern.

Normally a commanding officer would have chimed in by now. Price, ideally. He's captain, after all. But Yves would gladly take a lieutenant on the line! (Anything to suggest it isn't suddenly just the two of them. Is Soap even okay, silent down the hall?)

Following that train of thought, Yves takes two steps back to look out the doorway.

Soap stares back at him, looking just as baffled. Just as grim.

"The fuck was that?" (Yves doesn't think he's ever been so relieved to hear Ghost in his life.) "All stations, report."

"Bravo Seven-One, copy."

"Bravo Two-Six, copy."

"Delta Three-Four, copy."

And.

That's where Duke is supposed to chime in. And the captain. But there's nothing. Not even the suggestion of an attempt with a weak signal.

Yves strains to listen for the telltale pops of gunfire. Anything to suggest more to the silence, than just... They still have no clue what that had been.

"Delta-Four, Bravo-Six, how copy?"

"Dinnae ken what that looked like to you, LT, but sounded like an explosion from here," Soap says, surround-sound between his voice in the comms and physically just down the hall.

"No signs of structural damage from out here."

Fuck.

"Bravo-Six, Delta-Four, how copy?"

The agitation is fucking palpable.

"Price. Duke. How copy."

Yves glances between his fellow sergeants. "They went upstairs." Meet in the middle, had been the suggestion.

"Price would want us to stick to the mission." Gaz doesn't look particularly pleased with the admission, even as the words leave his mouth. "We should keep looking."

"Delta Zero-Four, Bravo Zero-Six, how copy?"

Static burst down the line.

"Delta-Four, copy." Worse for wear, from the sounds of it, but alive, thank Christ. "Hold for Bravo-Six."

They allowed themselves a singular moment, the three of them, before they scurry back to the hunt. And if Yves is a little slower picking through things, keeping his eyes peeled for things that could go boom? Well, it's just smart, after that scare.

"Partial ceiling collapse," comes Duke's voice again. "They knew we were coming. Keep it tight, prepare for retaliation. Someone had to have heard that."

Still nothing from Price.

"The captain?"

"Still lookin', Soap."

Fucking grim.

Most of what Yves is looking at is nonsense. Numbers and snatches of what looked like Belarusian, except the grammar makes no sense. (And yeah, maybe Yves has been scrambling at books for the past few weeks trying to get up to muster on a new Slavic language, but he doesn't think his grasp is that poor.)

Periodically, the line hisses with another burst of static, or Duke grunts and his radio picks it up. It's more than a little distracting.

"Think it's in code, if any of this shit even means anything," Yves mutters to Gaz. It's impossible for him to tell what might be important, and what is simply garbage.

Gaz whistles sharply and waves him over. "Think I've got something."

"We take everything. Elis can make sense of it all back at the FOB," is Duke's clipped response.

Everything? Fuck. Okay. Yves quickly slinsg his pack off his back and rips it open. "Let's get to it then." Papers in the bags, boys. Anything with markings is swept into a pile. (He's fairly sure he has at least half a dozen blank sheets, too. But whatever, fine, that's an Elis problem, not an Yves problem.)

"Incoming tangos, northern ridge. Wrap it up, sergeants."

It can never be an easy day, can it? He and Gaz share a grimace.

"Delta Four to Watcher-One, how copy?"

"Solid copy, Delta-Four, send traffic."

"Still no eyes on Bravo-Six. Anticipating need for medevac. Requesting permission to escalate to weapons free status."

Medevac.

The line is dead quiet.

Medevac. For their captain.

"Confirmed, weapons free. Good hunting, boys."

"Price-"

From across the room, Gaz stills to hear their lieutenant's call. Clearly not meant for them.

"Lieutenant?" Laswell prompts when Duke does not immediately elaborate. "What's his status?"

The line is still open. If Yves strains, he can just make out what he thinks might be Duke's medical kit.

A muttered curse turns into a string of swears fit to make a sailor blush.

"Lieutenant." The sharpness of Ghost's tone has Yves (and Gaz, he saw it) starting to snap to attention.

"Need that medevac. Urgent."

Urgent is never a good word, especially in these situations. (Yves shoves the last of the papers in with markedly less care than before. A corner rips under the zip of his pack as he yanks it shut.)

"Gaz, Yves, southeast stairwell, third floor, second door on the right." They are, the pair of them, setting out of the room before Duke has even finished the order. "Beginning compressions."

Gaz's gait falters for a step. "Compressions?"

"Little busy, Gaz." The effort of the compressions, or the force of them, or whatever, jars the cadence of Duke's words. "Watcher-"

"I'm here."

"Medevac's gonna need to come to us."

Oh, shit.

They go from jogging the stairs to mounting them two at a time.

"Ghost, coordinate?"

"Rog."

Duke has an open line, still. (And it isn't like he's going to be able to change that now, a little part of Yves's brain supplies. He needs both hands for compressions.) There's no silence anymore because they can all hear the puffs of Duke breathing as he pushes his weight down, and the quiet as he applies rescue breaths.

"Soap, cover that rear entrance. I don't want any surprises."

"Got it, LT."

"Gaz, Yves, you almost there?"

"Top of the stairs now, sir," Gaz reports.

"Watcher, what's the ETA on that medevac?"

"Six and a half minutes out."

Hell of a speedy scramble, if Yves does say so himself. Perks of such a local FOB, maybe.

"Come on, you stubborn motherfucker."

Yves doesn't... Fuck, has he ever heard that tone from his lieutenant before?

They reach the doorway in time to watch Duke let go of Price's limp wrist and start in on the next set of compressions.

"Don't you fucking dare."

There's something almost painful in watching. His lieutenant looks to be throwing most of his body weight into every compression, and their captain doesn't so much as wheeze, and it's so bloody quiet, otherwise.

Uncomfortable heat crawls up the back of his neck. He posts up to guard the door, back to the room's interior, lying to himself that it's just a matter of protecting them, and not avoiding the taut air of their maybe-dead captain and their lieutenant trying to force him back.

"I'm headin' down the hill. We'll hold your position until evac. Gaz, need you to cover me."

"On it."

The pop... pop of Gaz's opening shots mark the beginning of their engagement proper.

Yves listens to Gaz execute shots, and Ghost quietly mark his kills as he circles 'round to meet up with Soap around back, and Duke grunt the rhythm of compressions, and itches to be useful.

He could have cried, seeing Ghost and Soap crest the top of the stairs, and wouldn't have been able to tell you if they would have been tears of relief or frustration.

The automatic rattle of Soap's suppressive fire join the fray. He calls the away of his first frag, and then it's open season.

"It's gonna be tight."

"They're too close now-"

"I know."

Yves sharply yanks his gaze back to the stairwell at the first sign of Ghost pulling at the hem of his balaclava.

"Swap."

"Ghost-"

"It's been minutes, you need to rest. Go again in a few."

Yves almost expects to hear an argument about it. A fight- except there couldn't be one, when at least one of the lieutenants has to be actively beating their captain's heart for him.

A quick glance over his shoulder at the rustle of movement shows Ghost's hands now pressing down on the captain's chest, Duke rocked back on his heels.

"Exfil is three minutes out."

Yves fixes his gaze back on the stairs.

"Copy."

[hvndredbattles]

Content warning: The following includes canon-typical violence for the CoD franchise, including non-graphic treatment of an injury, and descriptions of CPR

I wrote this for @brvo6 on my other blog, and am shuffling it and the two companion pieces over, with some updates! <3

Reflexes alone save him from the shrapnel that had been the table across the room and everything that had been on it. Duke hits the deck with fractions of a second to spare, arms coming up to shield his head. He feels rather than hears dust and chunks of wall raining down around him.

His ears ring in the aftermath of the explosion. The earpiece for his radio crackles to life with voices, but they're muddled, difficult to make out over the high whine.

His left arm hisses a quiet protest (graze, keep moving) as he pushes himself back to his feet.

Still blinking dust out of his eyes, Duke pulls his rifle up, swinging the barrel toward the door. The assault he expects to follow the blast isn't forthcoming. No grenades. No hostiles. Nothing but-

but a hole in the wall that hadn't been there before. Nothing but a hole in the wall leading into the room Price had gone into.

"Captain!"

(It had been clear. The room had been fucking clear-)

"Price!"

"-ta Zero-Four, Bravo Zero-Six, how copy?" It doesn't sound like the first time Ghost has tried for them on the radio.

"Delta-Four, copy," Duke grunts into his radio. "Hold for Bravo-Six."

He steps over the remains of a chair and through the hole into the next room. Or, rather, what's left of it.

"Fucking hell."

Whatever had gone off, Duke has little doubt as to where the origin point had been. Twisted, torn metal is half-fused to the floor, where it hasn't been blasted apart and away entirely. It might have been some kind of storage receptacle, before it had become debris. "Price!"

There's no blood. It would be comforting, if the room weren't also full of half the goddamn ceiling.

He flicks his radio to keep his comms line open so he can dig and report at the same time, "Partial ceiling collapse. They knew we were coming. Keep it tight, prepare for retaliation. Someone had to have heard that." He grunts as he rolls a slab of concrete toward him and off the pile.

"The captain?"

"Still lookin', Soap."

Every small shift of the rubble has Duke freezing, waiting in horrible moments of stillness to see if he's made a wrong move and brought the whole pile in on itself.

From out of the silence, Gaz reports, "Think I've got something."

Oh, good. Because if they'd had anything here before, they sure as fuck don't now. "We take everything. Elis can make sense of it all back at the FOB," is Duke's clipped response. He's the only person with proper medical specialization on this fucking op. Dread tastes bitter in his mouth.

"Incoming tangos, northern ridge. Wrap it up, sergeants."

Fuck.

"Delta-Four to Watcher-One, how copy?"

Price has to be at the bottom of this goddamn rubble. Duke wants to throttle someone.

"Solid copy, Delta-Four, send traffic."

"Still no eyes on Bravo-Six. Anticipating need for medevac. Requesting permission to escalate to weapons free status."

He has no room to feel any particular way about Laswell's beat of silence on the other end of the line. They're moments away from hostile engagement, they have no clue if they've actually managed any actionable intelligence gathering from this, and he's still-

Shoulder.

"Confirmed, weapons free. Good hunting, boys."

"Price-" He still has to be fucking careful, slow in the removal of concrete and whatever-the-fuck else. Shoulder and chest and blood. And Price is too still.

Laswell prompts, "Lieutenant? What's his status?" when Duke fails to elaborate.

The velcro of Price's tac vest clings stubbornly to itself. He struggles to get a proper grip with the way it grabs at his gloves.

Price's chest isn't moving.

Colorful swears and teeth-in-glove-fingers later, Duke's bare hands rip the straps open. The velcro can protest all it goddamn wants.

"Lieutenant."

(Duke doesn't even think to bristle at Ghost acting like he had rank to stand on, to call for him like that.)

"Need that medevac. Urgent." Fucking- decomp needle- That hiss of air is going to fucking haunt him, despite it technically being an improvement on the situation.

Price's chest doesn't expand again.

"Gaz, Yves, southeast stairwell, third floor, second door on the right." He interlaces the fingers of his left hand over those of his right. Small rocks (fucking debris) dig into his knees as he shifts into position. "Beginning compressions."

"Compressions?"

"Little busy, Gaz." Yes, compressions. "Watcher-"

"I'm here."

"Medevac's gonna need to come to us." A rib cracks under his weight. Richie doesn't dare stop. "Ghost, coordinate?"

"Rog."

He lets it all fade to background noise, aware only vaguely of adjusted positions, and Ghost and Laswell's voices as they plot the team's exfil. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

"Come on, you stubborn motherfucker," he mutters.

Price tastes of smoke and blood.

There's a horribly rumpled index card (rescued from the recycling bin for their little back-and-forth) carefully tucked into his gear, Price's neat print outlining a plan for a night out when they get back.

"Don't you fucking dare." Don't you fucking dare die on me now. You owe me a drink. He owes him more than that.

(Repeat.)

(Repeat.)

Gaz drops into his line of sight, knelt on Price's opposite side to take stock. He doesn't look up to check, but Duke has faith that Yves is posted up at the door, covering them.

"I'm headin' down the hill. We'll hold your position until evac. Gaz, need you to cover me."

"On it."

Thirty.

One.

Two.

(Repeat.)

The sergeants chatter calls around him. Solid pops of Gaz's gun punctuate his shots as he dutifully covers Ghost's descent from his position as Overwatch.

All at once, this quiet snatch-and-grab is an all-out firefight.

Thirty.

One.

Two.

Ghost's familiar skull mask dips into view. "It's gonna be tight."

"They're too close now-" He isn't fucking leaving-

"I know."

(By all rights, by training, they're meant to. Leave Price, that is. He's non-responsive, and with Richie administering aid, they're down two guns, they have no idea if they have what they came for-)

Richie catches sight of the downward twist to Ghost's mouth out of the corner of his eye before the dark shape that is the other lieutenant looms closer.

"Swap."

"Ghost-"

"It's been minutes, you need to rest. Go again in a few."

Duke sits back on his heels only when skeleton-glove-clad hands are already laced together, Ghost ready to take the next compression.

Fuck.

His knees protest as he pushes himself to his feet.

If this room had been rigged to kill, maybe there's something still in it worth taking.

This trip will be fucking worth it, even if he has to rip the value from the foundations.

"Exfil is three minutes out."

"Copy."

[hvndredbattles]

soldier, poet, king

(Richie.) The King.

"There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy" Duty. Strength. Resignation. You were told to do things and you did them. The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will. You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture? You don't know. You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs. Your love is where you breathe. Come on, breathe. In. Out. It starts now.

tagged by: @brvo6

tagging: @juramentum (wyll), @nezemny (graves), @lighthouseborn, and you!!

[facesblind]

×     𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁

are  you  a  soldier,  a  poet,  or  a  king?

[  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲  𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲  𝗮  𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁  /  𝘄𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲  𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗽𝗼𝗻  𝗶𝘀  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱   /  𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹  𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘆  𝘆𝗼𝘂  𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵  𝗵𝗶𝘀  𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗲.  ]     loneliness.  strength.  joy.     you  are  powerful,  but  struggle  believing  it.     you  think  you're  not  enough.     here's  the  truth     :     you  are.  you  sing  songs  and  hope  they  carry  faith,  because  you  have  run  out  if  it,     &&.     yet  you  still  throw  your  heart  out  to  the  world  and  hope  it  makes  it  through.  you  convince  yourself  that  pain  is  art  because  at  least  then,  you  will  always  have  something  to  create.     you  are  tired  of  stumbling  through  life.     you  dream  of  a  ground  you  can  stand  on.     one  day,  you  will  dance.     your  love  is  where  you  feel     —     without  fear.

tagged  by:  @brvo6.  sorta.  >:) tagging:  okay,  but  with  my  guesses  because  I  CAN.  @vulpesse  (a  poet),  @buriedabove  (a  soldier),  @tragedysworn  (sasuke  -  a  soldier / king,  natsumi  -  a  king,  akari  -  a  poet,  kabuto  -  a  king,  orochimaru  -  a  king,  lee  -  a  poet),  i  ran  out  of  people  i'm  sure  i  can  tag,  uhhh  @oftoska  (a  king)  &&.  @juliankayed  (a  poet),  @zendatsu  (a  soldier,  but  i  also  think  the  poet  fits!),  @croftborn  (a  poet!!!!!)  &&.  whoever  else  wants  to  do  it  :3