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sylvesterelle · 3 months ago

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A few months ago I knew fuck all about Call of Duty. Then I saw one (1) TikTok of John Price, hallucinated an entire novel-length slow burn poly!141 fic on a 12-hour drive, then wrote the first 60k of it for NaNoWriMo. To get myself going again, I'll be posting chapters here as they're edited! Estimating 100-120k when complete and aiming for a chapter a week (though best laid plans of mice and men and all that).

ok love you enjoy

The Fallout Zone - Chapters 1 & 2

Poly!141 inc. Price/OFC, Gaz/OMC, Soap/Ghost, Price/Gaz/Soap/Ghost/OFC, and various other combinations within that

Images: X, X, and X

Sure, a murderous multinational network had very recently tried to bury them under a mountain, but lots of people had wanted to kill Price for some reason or another. He’d had the good pleasure of offing each and every one, and didn’t doubt he’d do the same here. The truth of the matter was that his boys were tired, he was tired, and this was the exact fucking break they needed. Heat off their back, a spacious—if fucking odd—safe house to shelter in, and a thoroughly enchanting enigma of a host he could already feel himself itching to take apart. A right bit of luck indeed, and John had long since learned to appreciate his blessings. Or: a poly!141/found family fic in which deaths are faked, hearts are healed, conspiracies are uncovered, and home is found in the most unlikely of places.

Chapters 1 & 2, 7.4k, general audiences (rating will go up), cw: canon-typical violence

Read on AO3 I Chapter 3 I Chapters 4 & 5

Chapter One - Price

John Price had had better days.

The captain tugged his gloves off with his teeth and dug his thumbs into his aching temples. God, his fuckin’ head hurt. Maybe not a concussion, but his bell had been rung but good.

The drone of the rotor blades was the shit icing on a shit cake, but Price was too grateful for the chopper’s role in their escape to take it personal.

Might actually kiss the old bird out of gratitude, really, delivering them from the apocalyptic shitshow they’d been stuck in. Definitely owed Nikolai a good snog for saving their bacon, Kate too—though she’d box his ears for trying.

The woman in question was currently sat up front, consulting a map and muttering directions in Nik’s ear. “Somewhere safe,” was all she’d said when he’d asked their heading, but that was more than enough for now.

Price scrubbed a hand over his beard, letting out a low hiss when he prodded the split in his lip, the blood throbbing angrily below. Dove when he should have ducked and took it straight to the gob like a right fuckin’ muppet, as Ghost would say.

The man in question was dead asleep between the bench seats; he’d collapsed from sheer exhaustion shortly before they’d boarded and it’d taken all three of them to heft his bulk on to the helicopter.

No one had gotten much rest in the past days, but Ghost least of all—the underground cave too much a reminder of things he’d rather forget. Three days they’d spent hidden away like rats under a peak in the Caucasus. Unsure if their desperate call for extraction had even made it through before running for the hills with a god damned army at their back, so many bullets in the air it looked like rain.

The snatch-and-grab mission should have been a cakewalk, especially for a team like the 141. A separatist leader with ties to a global arms network they’d been tracing, lying low with his personal guard in a remote lodge. Small team, minimal support. In, out, extract the target, bring him to a nearby base for questioning. Nothing Price hadn’t done a thousand times before on less intel and worse odds.

Maybe it was too easy, in hindsight. Maybe he should have expected a trap. But the 141 had been run ragged this past year, barely time to catch their breath and tend to their hurts between missions. No time to realize they’d missed the forest for the trees.

They’d been chasing their shadow network over five continents in nine months, with fewer successes than a man like John Price typically enjoyed. The enemy was diverse in their investments: funding a politically ambitious cartel leader here, facilitating a military coup there; illicit chemical and mining operations in half-a-dozen countries and a penchant for disappearing weapons transports that gave Laswell more than one sleepless night.

Wherever they went chaos followed, but for the life of him Price couldn’t figure out the pattern, the underlying goal. Every instinct told him there was a piece of the puzzle he was missing, something that would make it all make sense.

So when Laswell called with lead on a target, one with exactly the kind of information they needed and tucked up in a secluded valley all snug for him, well. Like dangling a bone in front of a starving dog, wasn’t it.

And so the trap had been laid, and laid well.

They lost comms the moment their boots touched ground, too swift and complete to be anything but planned. Took only a fraction of a second for Price to realize they were expected, a half-heartbeat more to shout a retreat, already ripping the emergency satphone from his vest.

Could only hope that Laswell was listening as he bellowed their destination, the line going dead moments later. The rest was a little hazy. John’s head throbbed painfully when he tried to recall the grisly path they cut to the hills, each body seeming to be replaced by three more.

A bloody fucking miracle they made it, in hindsight.

The 141 were built to be Hail Mary team. The knife’s edge was where they performed best, a unit uniquely suited to excel at the precise moment when all seemed lost. But their survival this time involved no skill, no strategy, no plan of mouse or man. This was a shitshow; this was a run for their fucking lives.

The only reason the men of Task Force 141 were still among the living was a quirk of geology, a labyrinth of natural caves spiraling through the mountains of the Chechnyan border. They’d discussed the caverns as a contingency early in planning, but it was so far down the list of plans that it might as well have been another fucking alphabet. Not something they should waste time and resources LiDAR mapping, not on a mission as straightforward as this.

It was a decision Price cursed repeatedly over the next three days, holed up in a dead-end tunnel close to the surface and waiting for a rescue that might never come.

Seventy-two excruciatingly long hours of near-constant shelling, nerves frayed to breaking and blood clotted with mortar dust from jagged rockfall. Small comfort knowing your enemy didn’t have your precise location when they seemed happy to level the entire mountain. In different circumstances, John might have been impressed.

As it was, by the first night he was seriously considering if death by gunfire wouldn’t be better than waiting for the hit that would finally bring the walls down on them. Certainly better than wandering the tunnels in the dark, just running out the clock until their bodies gave out.

If their faces were anything to go by, his men had been thinking much along the same lines. Ghost didn’t utter a single word the entire time they were underground, back pressed to a wall and eyes drilling holes into darkness—creeping in around the light of their rapidly-dying flashlights. Price spent most of his time sitting next to his lieutenant in silence, grounding him with a hand on his neck and a thigh pressed up against his own. Watched as Gaz paced a rut in the floor and Soap shadow-boxed violently against the wall.

Price had near made peace with the fact they were going to die in that hole when a faint whistle had come from one of the branching tunnels deep in the mountain. The three-note song of a wood thrush; a bird native to the eastern United States, just like someone else they knew.

They followed that sound like the salvation it was, squinting as they emerged into a too-bright twilight. Price was so sick with relief to see Laswell and Nikolai standing there that he didn’t pay much attention to the corpses at their feet. Wasn’t until Gaz made a strangled sound that he looked close enough to realize they wore familiar uniforms, no doubt lifted from their bags back at base. Hell, they’d even found a skull plate to complete the picture.

John was already pulling his dog tags up and off before they asked, his neck tingling with its absence. Wouldn’t be surprised if he looked down to see the letters seared into the shape of him, time-worn into his skin.

A few discrete charges was all it took to bring the tunnel down with sufficient force to disfigure the bodies, the sound blending with the chorus of shelling and camouflaging their takeoff.

They’d been flying nonstop since, long enough that the dawn was creeping its tendrils over the horizon.

John groaned and stretched his legs out as far as he could, avoiding Ghost’s prone form. He could feel the weight of the past days in every aching bone, the lack of sleep burning acid in his veins.

God, he’d give his left bollocks for a cigar. Couldn’t even smoke it with his mouth all prettied up like this, but maybe the smell would steady his nerves, force down the acid in his gullet.

Price had been in some truly shit spots in his life. It was a necessity of the job he’d been doing for nearly two decades and the job that would probably kill him in the end. So shit spots…well. He’d had plenty of those.

But rarely, rarely had John Price run away from a fight.

On this mission he’d felt like prey for the first time in his life, and it left him nauseous in his very bones.

In truth, they’d gotten lucky none of them were hurt worse. So lucky he’d call it divine intervention, the part of him that still believed in that sort of thing.

Gaz got the worst of it: a dislocated shoulder yanked back into place on the cave floor, arm wrapped in a temporary sling. Ghost, like Price, had taken an unlucky blow to the head and bore a souvenir in the crack that spiderwebbed through his mask, threatening to shatter the whole thing. And Soap, well, Soap had been so soundly battered he looked like one huge bruise. But he was still breathing, snoring like a chainsaw into Gaz’s unhurt shoulder.

Battered, but not broken. A bloody miracle by anyone’s count.

His moment of relief was interrupted when Ghost gasped into consciousness on the floor. His lieutenant jackknifed violently, his weight shifting the craft and sending John clutching at his chest like his granny after a good scare.

Stunned into his own wakefulness, Soap moved faster than John could follow, gripping the back of Ghost’s vest and saving him from tumbling out into open sky.

“You daft, spooky bastard,” Soap yelled as he yanked the larger man back to safety. “Don’t go dying after we went through the trouble of haulin’ your carcass in here.”

He settled the lieutenant against his legs, releasing his vest with an affectionate pat.

“That’s no mean feat, ya ken. There’s a bloody lot of you.”

Price shook his head, amused in spite of himself. Soap was good for that; seemed to bounce back faster than the rest of them. Got into trouble faster, too, but it kept Price from getting too maudlin—no mean feat in itself, he could admit.

He reached forward and tapped twice on his lieutenant’s knee pad, gaze assessing. “You broken, son?”

It took a worryingly long moment for Ghost’s eyes to focus on him, but the nod he gave was steady, and Price wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Laswell chose that moment to lean back, gesturing impatiently for them to grab the headsets off the wall. One arm out of commission, Gaz leaned over so Soap could slip the headset over his ears. Did the same for Ghost after, ignoring the man’s upraised hand and the little growl that followed.

John donned his own, turning to the front.

“Hello Kate, good to see you, wish it was under better fuckin’ circumstances,” he greeted her, adjusting the mic.

“You and me both, John,” she replied. “It’s good to see you boys mostly in one piece.”

Price snorted derisively. “In spite of all efforts to the contrary. You wanna tell me what the fuck that was? They were waiting for us with a fucking army, Kate. Four men against a bloody army.”He leaned forward with a finger punctuating his words, temper burning unchecked after the strain of the last few days. She’d understand. “You told us you the source was good, that the information could be trusted. You delivered us right into the mouth of the fucking tiger, Kate. What. Went. Wrong.”

She ignored his accusing finger and met his gaze, serious and heavy with guilt. They hadn’t had much cause to apologize to each other, but he knew real regret when he saw it.

“I’m so sorry, John,” she said, “I had no idea the danger you’d be walking into.”

“Danger, danger, she says,” Soap muttered beneath his breath, “more like a two-step with the grim bloody reaper.”

Kate kept her eyes on John. “The orders came from above, cream-of-the-fucking-crop of actionable intel, or so I was told. But I confirmed it two days ago—the target was never there.”

She leaned forward, eyes intense. “It was always about you, John. They wanted to put the 141 in the ground.”

Price’s fists tightened on his knees, knuckles creaking painfully. He forced himself to take a breath, spread them out. Stay calm, stay clear for his men.

“Who gave you the intel?”

“The director himself, John. Told me it came from a trusted counterpart in another branch, asked me to put my best on it. The director, John,” Laswell said, “That’s not an order I can ignore.”

“You think he’s in on it?” Gaz frowned.

Laswell shook her head, certain. “He has no reason to get rid of your team—you’ve gotten us too many wins. Even if he did, this isn’t his style. I’m not going to pretend I like the man, but he’s not wasteful, and he’d never okay a plan that drew so much attention.”

“So someone noticed the carpet bombing, then?” Ghost asked dryly, the grim humor a strangely reassuring sign.

John scrubbed his fingers through his scruff thoughtfully. “So we’re looking someone else. Someone high up enough that his intel wouldn’t be questioned. Someone who does have a reason to get us out of their way.”

“You boys? Making enemies?” Nikolai chimed in from up front, “I can’t believe it.”

John acknowledged the point with a low chuckle, “No shortage of enemies, but not that many with the power to call the director of the CIA to heel. That means top brass, someone protected. We’ll need to be delicate with this one, lads.”

“Oh wonderful, your strong suit,” Laswell said wryly.

His two-fingered salute was instinctive and drew forth her usual laugh.

“Delicacy takes time, which is a luxury we don’t often have,” Price said. “The stunt with the bodies—clever bit of work that—buys us time. We use it to rest and recover, to gather everything we know, then go at this with our heads on straight. We very nearly did not survive this mission, and that is on me.”

John held up a hand, silencing the immediate protests from his men.

“That is on me. I know damn well I’ve been pushing too hard. Too set on the fucking mystery of it that I forgot the most important thing: we change no lives from the grave. I’m sorry, and I won’t make the same mistake again,” he promised solemnly to his men.

Soap opened his mouth to argue, but the bite of Ghost’s nails in his leg cut him off. “Oh aye, you’re just gonna sit there and pretend he’s not talking bollocks?” he said to Ghost, casting him a frustrated look.

Gaz’s elbow to his stomach cut off any further comment. Gaz gave his captain a solemn nod to continue.

John hooked his fingers in his vest and leaned back against the wall. Let a little smile play at the corner of his mouth; something that might look friendly if you didn’t look too close.

“Here’s the good part, lads: while we take our little holiday, fix all our broken parts, our enemy is going to deliver himself to us. The way I see it, all we need to do is lie low for a bit and see who gets a little bold in our absence. Who gets a little big for his britches, now he thinks mother isn’t looking over his shoulder.”

John let a little, pleased growl slip into his voice, already anticipating the pleasure of the hunt. Of the kill. “Maybe gets a little sloppy, our birdie. And there we’ll be, ready to clean up the mess.”

Even tired as they were, John could feel the energy shift in his men, hounds pricking up for the hunt. They would recover, they would recoup, and they would scorch earth on their return—that was a fucking promise.

“Alright boys,” Laswell said, “The more people we can convince that you died on that mountain, the more time we buy to uncover the whole rotten shape of this thing. That means you’ll have to go dark; lie so low you’re practically underground.”

“Too soon,” Gaz muttered under his breath.

“I’m taking you to stay at an old friend’s place—off the grid and not on any agency’s radar, as far as we’re aware. This is no crawl space safe house, boys, and I expect you to use every resource available to you. Whatever fight is coming, I’m going to need all of you at your best.”

Up front, Nikolai tapped Kate’s shoulder, signaling their final approach.

“Now, you boys ready to see your new home?”

Chapter 2 - Price

They’d put down in a small clearing a couple miles out from their destination, hefting duffle bags through dense forest.

It should have been peaceful, all mossy green trees filtered with sunlight, a sky so blue it hurt to look at it, and birdsong the only sound on the breeze.

But there was something…off about the woods.

The fucking talismans, for one thing. They spotted the first only a few moments after they landed, woven with birch and something that looked suspiciously like hair. Hung at irregular intervals through the trees, catching in John’s periphery when they moved in the breeze and making him feel like there were bodies in the trees, moving just out of reach.

They were probably just a folklore thing, superstition, John tried to convince himself. Gettin’ himself all worked up over nothing.

But then there was a flicker at the corner of his eye, a flash of blue and black and bone slipping through the trees. John startled like a babe when the image resolved into a fuck-off massive horse, all powerful legs and sweat-slicked black coat, steam rising from its nostrils in the early morning light.

John had barely begun to process its rider when his men caught sight. Ghost dropped to one knee and had his eye to the scope in a moment, but horse and rider were already gone.

Kate and Nik were entirely unphased.

“It’s just Jack,” Laswell said, like that meant anything to him. “Probably scouting the woods to make sure we weren’t followed. Now c’mon, we’re almost there.”

Price didn’t know of any asset of Kate’s by that name, but Laswell was a black box at the best of times; he’d gotten used to her seemingly inexhaustible resources and secrets alike. Whatever kind of man or beast this Jack was, they’d find out sooner than later.

John rested a broad palm on the back of his lieutenant’s neck and squeezed warmly. Bone tired and still protecting the rest of them.

“Good lad,” Price said softly, “let’s get you home.”

This thought proved less comforting in practice.

“Steamin’ Jesus, did you bring us to fucking Chernobyl?” Soap’s accent sharpened on the last two words, dragging them out in disbelief.

It should be a ridiculous question, but, well. The second they’d stepped out of the woods into a small clearing, all eyes went immediately to the narrow cement tower rising from the center of a dark structure, striped with red like a coral snake. A huge chunk was missing from one side, caved-in likely, and the sight of it did nothing for John’s nerves.

Warning, every inch of it said. Hazardous to your health.

“Can I just say,” Soap drawled, “I do think the safety of a safehouse is somewhat in question when it’s in a fucking nuclear reactor.”

“It’s decommissioned,” Nikolai said. “Very safe. Scout’s honor,” he promised, eyes glinting with mischief. Price sighed in resignation. He had trusted Nikolai with his life more times than he could count and he’d trust him again, but Soap had a fair fucking point.

He scanned the rest of the surroundings with an appraising eye.

The forest air became tinged with salt as they’d neared the clearing and sure enough Price could see glimpses of gray-blue beyond the trees. Probably used seawater to cool the reactor when it was live, he reasoned. Quietly hoped that it was not and had not been for some time.

All of it was enough for Price to get a rough estimate of their location—likely somewhere on Russia’s northern coast, Kara Sea maybe. He frowned slightly, something niggling in his mind about nuclear testing on the nearby Novaya Zemlya. Ah well, beggars and choosers and all that. Could certainly appreciate that the threat of radiation poisoning might be effective in keeping visitors away. But who the hell would voluntarily live here full time?

Price swept his gaze over the dark, Brutalist façade of the structure built around the tower. Two, maybe three stories. More windows than he expected and a surprisingly charming study in contrasts, blocky concrete lines softened by the glossy, sprawling vines that covered its surface and crawled partway up the tower. With the forest surrounding it on all sides, it looked like the building was slowly becoming one with the wilds. He even spotted some quaint wooden structures through the trees—probably a stable for that damn demon horse.

All told, if Price ignored the distinct feeling of menace coming from the tower, the place could be something from a fairy tale. Maybe a princess waiting for rescue inside, he thought idly, uncharacteristically silly with exhaustion. Just as likely to be the kind of place a Bond villain would hole up, mustache twirling as he plotted world domination. If they found an underground submarine launch for a clandestine escape, John would happily stay there for a time, radiation or no. Maybe even grow out his whiskers to complete the picture.

Kate led them through the clearing into the open mouth of a concrete tunnel, Nik bringing up the rear. When the sea air blew the right way, rattling the metal lights above, it almost sounded like the tunnel was breathing. John wasn’t too proud to admit it brought up the hairs on his neck, especially after their little jaunt through the forest.

The discomfort didn’t abate when they reached the end of a tunnel, an eye-wateringly yellow metal door barring their way. John’s Russian was a little rusty, couldn’t quite translate the bold red Cyrillic on the door, but he knew a warning when he saw one.

Kate didn’t hesitate a moment, punching in a code before leaning over for the thumbprint and retinal scan. The resulting grind of dozens of locks went on long enough that Ghost muttered an impatient “fucking hell” under his breath. When the keypad finally flickered green, he grunted in the way that communicated reluctant respect. Price had spent enough time with Simon to learn he had a whole vocabulary of the things.

“There’s a more discrete entrance closer to the stables, but I wanted you boys to get the full effect,” Kate said with a knowing smile, heaving the door open. “Welcome to Wichita.”

The first thing John noticed was the noise.

Someone was playing music and loud. Christ, how thick must those walls be, that they couldn’t hear it even just outside the door? The sound was echoing off the curved walls of the large atrium they stepped into, flooded with light from a massive, circular skylight above.A casual glance around showed no visible speakers, but there must be a subwoofer the size of tank somewhere, heavy bass rumbling in Price’s chest as he swept over the three visible stories.

Not another person in sight.

Kate motioned for them to drop their bags and follow her down one of the halls leading off the atrium, following the noise.

“This some kind of sick CIA torture protocol, Laswell?” Ghost called over the music.

“Ol’ Dirty Bastard!” Soap crowed at him, and Price raised an eyebrow.

“Gonna let him get away with that, Simon?” he asked.

Soap rolled his eyes. “S’the artist, sir. Though now that you mention it…”

“That’ll do,” Ghost cut him off firmly, though with that undercurrent of amusement he always seemed to develop around Soap.

“‘Shimmy Shimmy Ya,’” Gaz piped up. “Fucking banger, that.”

“Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck with,” Soap said, nodding sagely.

“What do you think, Kate?” Nikolai’s warm, rumbling voice called from behind. “Good mood?”

Laswell tilted her head, listening thoughtfully. “Good mood,” she confirmed after a moment. “It’s that godawful emo crap you have to watch out for.”

“Don’t go giving away all my secrets now,” a light, amused voice came from down the hall.

John’s head snapped up. Christ, the thought came unbidden, a princess after all.

But that thought only lasted a moment.

Price had seen a panther once, hunting below the sniper’s nest he’d built at the edge of a thick forest on a mission in the Cordillera de Talamanc. He’d been holed up in the perch for a few days, waiting on the target’s caravan, when he caught the glint of eyeshine in the undergrowth: a black body well-camouflaged in the night.

For all that Price would consider himself a fairly dangerous man, the sight had sent a wave of instinctual, hind-brain fear through him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as he tracked the cat from his perch, watching as it patiently stalked a wounded deer through the edge of the forest for hours.

It wasn’t the size or muscle of the animal that made an impression on him, but the way it moved. Sinuously, even gracefully through the brush; all that potential energy coiled and waiting as it tracked its prey with complete, unwavering focus.

It was that panther he suddenly thought of as he took in the lass standing in an open doorway off the hall, one hip propped against the doorframe as they considered each other. Eyes bright for all she pretended ease, a coiled tension in her limbs just waiting for release.

She was somewhere in her late 20’s, if he had to guess. Tall for a woman and built strong--he knew a fighter when he saw one. Especially when they were dressed like goddamn Zorro, Price taking in her all-black outfit with a trickle of amusement. It was charmingly anachronistic: billowing linen shirt open at the neck, suede breeches curving along powerful thighs, wicked leather boots laced to the knee and flecked with mud.

Our forest rider, then, Price internally confirmed.

But for all the fright she’d given them this morning, her face held surprisingly more mischief than malice. He should know better; how many fools had failed to look past his own easy smile and paid the price for it? But still, there was something…disarming about her. She’d made a heroic attempt at tying up her dark hair but wonky curls sprung out to frame a face speckled with more freckles than he’d seen on one person, layered like stars on the darkest night. She had a rosebud mouth that sat incongruously above a stubborn chin, and a clear spark of humor in her eyes as she looked over the men in their tactical gear and black balaclavas—donned as an extra precaution on their trek through the woods.

“Aw Kate, you brought me a stripper-gram? It’s not my birthday but you’re very sweet. I accept,” she said with a grin.

“Maybe if you ask them nicely,” Laswell snorted. “Meet Task Force 141. Captain Price’s men,” she said, nodding toward him. “They’ve run into a spot of trouble and need a place to lie low. Maybe some help to whip them into shape,” Kate tacked on with a grin, ignoring the noises of offense from Soap and Gaz.

“You don’t say?” the girl said with a curious glint in her eyes. “How very exciting. C’mon then, you can explain while I finish breakfast. No offense, but they’re looking a little…well-used. When was the last time they were fed and watered?”

“Too long,” Ghost muttered darkly.

Soap groaned in agreement. “My stomach’s cannibalizing itself.”

The girl led them into the room beyond, and John was pleasantly surprised to find it didn’t immediately give him the heebie-jeebies like the rest of the place.

It was welcoming, even—especially when she tapped a few times at the device strapped to her wrist and the pounding bass was replaced with something soft and classical that slipped into the background and calmed his nerves.

Price lingered in the entry, taking in the space. While the atrium and hallway had been constructed with the same Brutalist vision as the outside of the building, all concrete and stark lines, this space clearly must have been added later on.

The floors were a rough hardwood, the same material as the wood beams that braced the high ceilings and little lighter in color than the brick walls. Several massive, arched iron-paned windows were set into the far wall, flooding the room with early morning light and highlighting a few lazy specks of dust floating in the air.

It reminded John a little of a place he’d saw once on leave, years ago. Friend of a friend’s party, some factory-turned-loft on Brick Lane. Never cared much for the poncy shit who lived there but remembered thinking he’d like a place of his own like that one day. Somewhere open and warm, almost heavy with light. Like as not Price wouldn’t live long enough for real estate, but a lad could dream.

On the right side of the room was the kitchen, open wooden shelving interspersed with tall glass cabinets and a wrought-iron ladder on a neat track to reach it all. Glassy, emerald tile gleamed between the cupboards and the wooden countertops, the same material that topped an island roughly the size of a Fiat. On the far wall stood a bright red cast iron stove, big enough to feed a family of twelve (or roughly four SAS operators).

Price didn’t spend much time in kitchens, more used to shoveling down whatever high-protein slop was served on base and palate shot to hell from cigars. But even he could tell someone had poured a fortune into the space, all top-of-the-line appliances and gleaming copper cookware on the shelves, glass jars filled with ingredients Price couldn’t even begin to name.

The opposite side of the room was no less stunning. A long wooden table stretched under a cluster of pendant lamps that hung suspended from copper chains—green, petaled glass glowing in the sun. There were benches in place of chairs, but they looked wide and sturdy enough to hold even Ghost. Price also made mental note of two doors set into the wall behind it—pantry or storage, like as not, but he’d feel better once he could get a proper layout of the place. Not knowing his exits made him itchy.

Impressive as the space was, what rightfully piqued John’s curiosity was what lie beyond the kitchen. Moving further into the room, he realized what he’d taken as another set of arched windows in the far wall were actually doors, the slightly warped glass revealing verdant plants crowding beyond when he started forward. From what Price could see of the size of it, something less like a domestic greenhouse and more like a full-blown conservatory.

Unusual that, for a nuclear reactor.

Price’s curiosity would have to be sated later, as Ghost’s questioning presence at his shoulder had him up and moving, joining the others in the kitchen proper. He accepted the bottle of water and protein bar Nikolai pressed into his hand with a warm smile and leaned against the island, tuning in as Kate finished summarizing the legendary cock-up that had been their last mission.

“All that said, they need somewhere to disappear for a while,” she was saying to the lass, “and someone they can trust to aid in what comes next.”

“Oh, I do love a good resurrection,” the younger woman said, leaning by the range. “But I rather remember someone telling me I was retired.”

“Benched,” Laswell replied with the weight of an argument long held. “And, with any luck, your immediate threats will resolve well before theirs. I’m ‘thinking positively,’” she said, making quotations with her fingers.

The girl snorted. “Bea?” she asked, correctly ascertaining the source.

“The very one.”

Price marked the mention of Kate’s wife; few knew she was married, much less the name of her spouse. Hell, Price had only been allowed to meet Bea for the first time only a few years prior.

The girl hummed, taking a moment to check on something in the oven and sending a wave of deliciously-scented warmth into the space.

“Alright, then,” she said good naturedly, straightening up to face the men. “Introduce me to the puppies.”

Price took that as his cue, pulling off his balaclava and scruffing down his hair a touch self-consciously.

“Captain John Price,” he said, nodding in greeting when Jack met his eyes, a lovely hazel threaded with blues and greens that caught the sunlight.

“These are my men,” he said, broad hand coming to rest warmly on Ghost’s neck. “Lieutenant Simon Riley. My right hand, though you’d do better to call him Ghost.”

Ghost grunted his acknowledgement, and the girl smiled at him, clearly undeterred by the cracked skull mask he still wore.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” Price continued, moving down the row.

His sergeant had already removed his balaclava and gave her a charming smile and a wink, hurt shoulder or no. “Call me Gaz,” he said affably.

She gave Gaz the same warm smile she did Ghost before her gaze snagged to the side, eyes going wide as a newly-unmasked Soap rubbed a hand over his mussed mohawk.

“And this is Sargeant—”

“Johnny MacTavish,” she said in disbelief. “You devious little shit, is that really you?”

Soap was clearly surprised, but Price could see something flickering in his gaze as he looked closer at the girl, eyes lingering on the wide smile that split her face. It was the deep dimple that finally did it, carving out of the girl’s right cheek as she grinned, waiting for Soap to catch up.

“You, you—” Soap stuttered, momentarily struck dumb with recognition. “You bonnie wee menace, get over here.”

He moved even as he spoke, gathering her up and spinning her in dizzy circle as she hugged him back tightly, their exclamations and laughter overlapping. John shot a questioning look at Ghost, but his lieutenant seemed as in the dark as he was.

“I cannae say why or how you’re here, but I’m mighty fucking glad to see you, hen, really I am,” Soap returned her to the ground, running a hand wonderingly over her curls. “I didn’t recognize you with hair. Never realized you were hiding such bonnie curls under that buzzcut.”

“It’s called change, Johnny, it’s good for you,” she said, scruffing a hand over his own signature cut. She made a face when it came back covered in dust, wiping it on his shirtsleeve.

Soap didn’t react, too busy roving his eyes over her face. “Change indeed,” he said, tweaking the half-moon of hammered silver at her septum with delight. “Lookin’ like a wee highland cow and ev’rything.”

She batted Soap’s hand away only for him to grab her cheeks instead, eyes taking on an almost feral light as he squished them together until her lips pursed and she had to hold back a laugh. “D’ya still have it? Show me, show me, show me,” his sergeant begged, miles from the focused weapon of a man he was on the battlefield.

She rolled her eyes but obligingly poked out her tongue, revealing a matching glint of silver in the center. Soap crowed his approval, shaking her head a little as he grinned. He let go when she went to smack him in the stomach, stepping back with a laugh.

Price caught his eye with an amused smile. “Care to share with the class?” he asked his sergeant.While intellectually a recommendation from Kate was hard to beat, seeing the affectionate way Soap treated the lass—the way he was with no one but his team—set Price more physically at ease than he’d been since they landed. Bleeding out some of that tension inevitable with unknown quantities in their line of work.

“Oh aye, Captain,” Soap said grinning. “The lass and I are acquainted, sir.”

“I gathered as much,” Price said dryly.

Soap spun the girl around to face his teammates, one arm slung proudly around her shoulders. “Her da was stationed at the same base as my cousin. Spent the summer wreaking havoc together fucking what, twelve? Thirteen years ago now? Christ. Thought I’d never see you again, lass,” he said, squeezing her tightly. “Let me introduce you properly. Lads, this here is—"

The girl slapped a hand across his mouth, cutting him off. “Nickname only these days, I’m afraid,” she explained over Soap’s muffled protests. “Just call me Jack,” she told the men with a smile.

And oh, Price should have guessed. Not like they’d seen anyone else here, after all.

“Jack?” Ghost asked, gaze resting on where Soap’s arm still curved around her shoulder.

“Of all trades, naturally. Blackjack if we’re being formal. But if you call me BJ, I’ll stab you in your sleep,” she told Ghost pleasantly.

“That's my little Ripper,” Nikolai said fondly as he came forward to greet her, one big hand ruffling her hair. She tilted a cheek up to receive his kiss, smiling warmly.

“Jack is an artist with a knife. You’d like to see her work, Ghost,” Nikolai said with a nod to his lieutenant, who looked a touch skeptical, but at least not outright hostile. Ghost could be a right stuck-up bastard about his knives, Price knew well.

“I’m retired, remember, Nicky?” The lass—Jack—said, shooting an expectant glace at Kate.

“Benched,” the woman muttered right on cue.

Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Gaz mouth Nicky to himself in surprise. Fair point, that. John would consider Nikolai one of his closest friends—closer than that even, a time or two—but he still wouldn’t venture that nickname without expecting a swift punch to the gut (or more likely a titty-twister that would have him aching for days—Nik fought dirty as hell.).

Soap, now unmuzzled, had more questions.

“No’ a fan of your proper name anymore, then? It’s a fair pretty one,” he asked Jack, giving her the same pout that had gotten him out of trouble with Price more than once. Ghost every time.

Laswell answered him, brooking no room for argument. “Jack’s got as much heat on her as you do right now, maybe more,” she said firmly. “It’s as much for your own protection as hers.”

“That right?” Price said, quirking an intrigued eyebrow.

Jack flashed him a grin, holding his gaze as she called to Nik. “What’s the current count, Nicky?”

“Eh, twenty-seven, last I checked,” the man squinted, thinking. “Might be twenty-eight now, Mogilevich just found about those accounts you drained in Tambov.”

Her eyes shot to Nik, pleased. “Took him long enough,” she said.

Price found he didn’t much like the loss of her attention. “Twenty-eight what?” he queried, feeling little hum of satisfaction when her gaze flicked back to him.

“Contracts, of course,” Jack informed him with a proud smile.

“You’ve got twenty-eight hits out on you?” Soap said, outraged. “Are you out of your bleedin' mind—” he started to form something Price thought might be a name before Jack elbowed him in the stomach. Hard.

She ducked out from under his arm while he wheezed, grabbing the oven mitts off the counter and pulling out a couple trays trailing maple-sweet steam.

Soap glared pointedly at the seated men as he caught his breath. “Some back-up you are. Just gonna let her get away with that?” he groused, hooking a thumb in Jack’s direction.

“You earned it,” Ghost said, and Jack shot him a bright grin.

“Children, play nice,” Kate said, gathering plates and utensils together. But she, too, sounded more amused than angry.

Though Kate had been growing more comfortable with Price’s men, softened no doubt through the many years of their friendship, she was still somewhat…reserved with them. But this, well. This was as friendly and open as John had ever seen her, and he couldn’t help wondering about the nature of her relationship with Jack.

Kate wasn’t close with any of her family—had shared the details of that particular story with John long ago, a few fingers deep into some shitty whisky at a shittier bar. So not a blood relative likely, but she was clearly fond of the girl. Easy with her in a way she was only with Bea, Nik, and himself. But it’d taken him almost two years to get Kate to smile at him like that. Another year or two before she’d ever tease him back. She must have known the lass a long time, but then why wouldn’t have Price heard of her before now?

A stacked plate slid under his nose and drew him back to the present, the mouthwatering smell suddenly reminding him he was near fucking delirious with hunger.

“Hope you like French toast sticks,” Jack said, distributing plates to the rest of the men. “I figured quantity over quality would be paramount based on the fuckin’ size of you lot. These are my favorite though, so you better enjoy them.”

“I am going to kiss you on the mouth,” Soap told her seriously, earlier gripes forgotten.

“So fickle, Johnny,” Ghost chided, his lieutenant plainly enjoying himself.

John reveled a bit at that, at the sheer fucking luck of it all. Simon didn’t always…take to new people. And with the stress of that fucking cave still fresh in his mind, well. Not even Price’s best-case scenario had been this good. But Jack seemed to be capable of a trick only Soap had previously perfected—making Ghost laugh.

“Oh, Nik, before I forget—new batch for you,” the lass in question said, grabbing a tin on the counter. “You know the rules, no more than two at a time. Don’t pout,” she chastised him. “Remember what happened last time?” She gave Price and his men a look of exasperated fondness. “He locked himself in the tank for two hours because he thought the KGB was coming for him. Lots of fun, let’s never do it again,” she said to Nikolai, patting him on the chest.

Soap perked up at that. “Fuck me, you got a tank in here?”

“Oh, Johnny, you’ll cream your shorts when you see what I’ve got stockpiled, you little pyro,” Jack said with a toothy grin that did nothing for John’s nerves. Just what Soap needed, another accomplice—like he and Gaz didn’t give John enough headaches (and paperwork) as it was.

“Fucking hell, there’s two of ya,” Ghost drawled, but he had a light in his eye that Price recognized as, well, not displeased.

“Eat your breakfast,” Kate told the men sternly as she pulled Jack from the room—like as much to do their own catching up as it was to give the men privacy. Nik stayed behind, snatching a French toast stick from Gaz’s plate and promising them showers and clean clothes after they ate.

As Price surveyed his men, happily tucking into their breakfasts and barely coming up for air, he found that he was rather pleased with the way their ship had turned ‘round.

As for the fiction of their death, well. Most everyone who would mourn John Price sat right there at the table. None of them had much in the way of family or friends. Wouldn’t do this job if they did.

The truth of the matter was that his boys were tired, he was tired, and this was the exact fucking break they needed. Heat off their back, a spacious—if fucking odd—safe house to shelter in, and a thoroughly enchanting enigma of a host he could already feel himself itching to take apart. A right bit of luck indeed, and John had long since learned to appreciate his blessings.

Thus resolved to enjoy his afterlife, the captain tucked gratefully into his breakfast.

Read chapter 3.

#poly!141 #ghoap #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty fanfic #task force 141 #emma writes #next two chapters are from Jack's POV and I cannot wait for you to meet her #she is very strange and has a Tragic Backstory and is weird about affection #i love her very much #the fallout zone

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