#dptfc

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

Tags: slight description of reader (chubby, muscular, strong, denying gender as a concept), possibly slightly sociopathic/autistic reader, profanity, denial of authority, evil scientist on the way to becoming.

I don't speak English. I didn't proofread the text.

enjoy.

Part 1. Part 2.

You're quiet in bed. For real. Without the pretenses and masks of a woman subordinate to someone else's dominance, when you're not alive enough, not human enough. When the beast of animal desire inside makes you dig your nails into your palms. When you want to put out cigarettes on yourself to block out the unbridled power of the urge for sex.

It's always been a problem. People have crumpled their gut. They put on layer upon layer of approval and expectation.

Your essence was causing the thin material of socialization to fray at the seams.

To top it all off, you're easily obsessed.

Your blood boils at the sight of beauty.

He's ugly. Like everyone else.

Ordinary.

Yet you can't name a single time you've looked at Price without wanting to rip his face off.

He says, in that quiet and understanding tone of his, in those chuckles and snickers of his.

You're not even a nurse. You're a researcher in a tiny development lab. You have no education whatsoever (except for art), taken in by acquaintances to help you out, before asking you to finish some psychiatry courses just to make sure. Science dragged you down so that you were up to your ears in philosophy, psychology, old treatises and other crap.

So there you are, cleaning animal cages, helping out with easy experiments, coaching timid grad students on how to interact with small rodents. And then, at one point, you're set up as a lab technician. And you're not dumb, you have ideas, you have a desire to understand the workings of the brain. straighten it out, twist it back up and straighten it out again.

Of all the specialists, you're a little more interested in behaviorism, a little more obsessed with crime.

Brain cutting brain.

You're quiet, calm, frighteningly cold. Your gaze is dark, like a constantly dissecting blade. So what? You're better than those idiots, even without a proper education. You're smarter, more thoughtful, thorough, workaholic. Those above you - senior researchers, PhDs and postdocs - know you're good. Good enough to keep you around.

The institute is a restricted facility. It's not weird that they moved the labs to an outhouse inside the fucking military base, is it? No. After the incident, half the staff went on paid leave. Understaffed, overworked, stressed out. Neuropsych, cognitive-behavioral, experimental, psychiatric, chemical-pharmacology and blah, blah, blah labs downsized in limited space.

Each department used to have animals to do research on. Now your work is all theory and documentation. This problem was soon promised to be solved, but no one really hoped for a super secret lab with experimental subjects for every taste. From mouse to human.

They have unwanted prisoners, don't they?

Anyway.

You were transported to the base after a small-- Terrorist attack at your institute. Again, pathos on an all-cosmic scale, nothing of the sort happened, but "national brains and serious research" must be saved, come on.

No one was hurt.

Not even injured.

And now it's not like you're severely stung for budget and space, despite the relatively small footprint of the allotted space.

The most significant downside here at the base is that even while trying to stay out of the allotted space as much as possible, you see extra people. Military.

They're all killers. They're killers, and you have a taste problem. They want to clean up the developments for the good of the military, and you imagine the horror they're going to be in when, under interrogation, people break their teeth on each other while overdosing.

They walk under your windows, stand against the opposite wall when you go out for a late night smoke, show up in the lab to stick their noses where they'll get their balls bitten off and shoved up their asses.

The military are no more welcome than they should be, after all, the scientists here have only themselves to thank on the heads of the fucked up officials who decided it would be a good idea to sign you all up for this cohabitation.

And doors slam, eyes scrutinizing your white coats and circles under your eyes, hands reaching for developments, noses poking into all your dirty laundry.

But they shouldn't be anywhere near it.

You're in your second month of work, trying to function as you're used to - mechanically. But today your senior's not here, Dr. Moon's away at a useless security conference. Usually she'd be kind enough to bring you a bunch of food from the cafeteria.

You're not a little girl. You can't live on a stash of sweets and coffee without worsening your already obvious gastritis. And you need a normal amount of food to keep your body functioning. You've always been meaty, no match for thin, slim, graceful girls, some of whom had the superpower to survive on a lettuce leaf (not taking into account goddess nymphs with healthy appetites and excellent metabolisms, such creatures were a myth in the flesh).

But, you don't want to go out to this mess of heads and dirty mouths.

You clench your hands into fists, pressing your nails into your skin. You're going to have to do this anyway. You're perfectly capable of not eating for a week, thanks to your unhealthy relationship with food, but you're not going to torture yourself. After all, you've been on the wrong side of self-loathing for a long time now.

Now what went inward is actively being broadcast to those around you.

So you put on your coldest mask, clench your teeth tightly, and pretend not to notice the scrutinizing stares from all sides. You're stared at by your coworkers because you never go out into the light. The soldiers stare at you because you look like a pathetic mound of snow among their dusty greenery.

You think you're perfectly capable of eating alone because your coworkers are permanent idiots in their surprised stares and whispers.

But when you sit down at the table, with seemingly as disinterested in each other as possible eaters, both soldiers and medics begin to stare even more intensely. Like little kids. Are those some marshal generals of all the earth at your table?

How's your diplomacy going over there?

"Can I sit here?" You ask evenly, almost forgetting to give your voice a questioning tone.

"Of course, miss." The voice is deep and soft.

You definitely sat down with the wrong people.

"Thank you, I won't take long."

You don't look at them. No need to. Dr. Moon is coming tomorrow and you won't have to crawl out of the sink anymore.

You eat fast, two minutes for the whole meal. The military must realize that's possible, right? They used to mock you for that ability. Now, you unconsciously take it personally when they laugh at you from afar. That's why you hate the school system. Cafeteria, really? Just give us each a bag of dog food.

You rise from your seat to escape into your reports, hypotheses, and research.

"What's your name?"

No. You didn't hear that question.

It's probably rude, since they're high-ranking.

You'll be out of here faster than they can take offense.

"Miss?"

Will you fucking calm down, you idiot?

"Run me through the database." You almost growl, speaking in lower case.

Stupid. Startled, you look up.

The blue-eyed freak, so appealing, puffing with calm control, seems amused rather than pissed off.

Thank the Goddess, thank any Force that covered your ass and you were taken as entertainment.

Blue eyes make the dry semblance of shame in your chest scrape sandpaper across your ribs.

"I can already tell by you that you're a bitch." It sounds from behind you. Expectedly. You can clearly see from the face of the man in front of you that he's unimpressed by this outburst. The burning blue melts you from the inside out with two heartbeats, and you dare to interrupt the deafening silence of judgment around you.

You drop the apology and carry your body back to your lair. You only exhale as you lock the door from the inside with the key. As if that will save you. People won't forget.

Dr. Moon reprimands you from the doorstep the next day. You fell asleep at your desk again. She shoves you onto the small couch in her office. While she shreds the mail, you sleep peacefully for a couple hours.

"Honey? Come here."

Oh, that tone. Are you in trouble because of last night?

They couldn't be more touchy, which one of those mutts snitched on you--

"Your initiative has been approved."

You find yourself on your feet, your hair tousled, your clothes askew, but all your attention is on the screen.

Confirmation letter… authorization to conduct data analysis… for detection��� with command support… attachment to teams… supervised access to files….

You blink, then reread it again.

"What's that?"

"You didn't think they'd let you play spy, did you?"

There was hope. But no, it's the other thing that's weird.

"I only asked for an archive. Ideally to observe from afar and interview recruits."

"You and I both know, darling, you're just waiting for a chance to sit your ass down and duck your head into papers. You wanted the internship, go get it." Dr. Moon sits back as contented as can be. She was the force that kept pushing you, wanting to create a diamond.

You wished you were more like hydrogen. To be present everywhere so that you couldn't be seen anywhere.

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"One team is available. Someone from the local legends. But they've agreed to work with you."

No! You let out a low scream. Then you squeeze out a loud sob.

"Can I say no?"

"I'll put laxatives in your next meal."

You sigh.

"Acting like a child, Doc." The good-natured, acerbic face in front of you contorted for a second. She hated being called that.

"That's not for you to tell me, sweetheart. Get your work plan in here, we'll review it. You go to work tomorrow."

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

This chapter contains references to blood and meat and torture. Angst. Our main character is getting worse.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

You, no joke, wanted to scream. As you suspected, the TF141 hadn't been at the base for over a month. They left at night, and you stared at the tail of the helicopter for a long time. You didn't even go out to say goodbye to it. Not having the right to do that was depressing, but sobering. You managed to forget reality.

Over the days, you could chase away thoughts of Price. He was there for you. Now you were starting to realise with horror that you were worried.

You sat down with your victim friends, wrapping a net of understanding around them to get to the bottom of it. You gossiped with your secretary, clearly wanting to get you into bed after realising you were single and not quite heterosexual. You were still training, just without John Price. Day in, day out, day in, day out. So after a week, bored with no grams of infused black humour around, no fair grades, no adorable buzzing and warm cow eyes, no four fuckers you swore you couldn't stand, you began to hate the world even more. Everything seemed bland.

"I swear I'll kill someone." You say at the table on a Monday morning. The sacrificial lambs around you, grinning sweetly as you burn holes in the idiots at the other tables. "You can't." "I have the guts." "And the skills?"

You turn your head sharply towards the black-eyed girl across the table. She's always so genuinely right that at first you don't even realise the suggestion in her words.

"Really?"

And she…nods. The other victims at the table nod, too.

So yeah, you're not bored anymore. You're hurt and hurt every day, now you're also angry. They come to the hall in the mornings, someone new every day, in shifts so that only one person is not in place. They torture you in fights, stances, kicks, punches, somersaults, jumps, reflexes and planks. And you keep quiet. Because you know, each to their own degree, that you are motivated by only one desire - to prove their weakness.

They're scared, sometimes. From the outside, you look empty. Like a shell of a person, not yet torn open to release a ripe monster. They let you joke and chatter, and you stay silent, focused on not hurting anyone. Exactly until you're knocked down time after time, your nose, your lip smashed, hurt. Until you're humiliated. That's when you stop thinking and start killing. It's probably the same therapeutic experience for them. They're trying to put themselves in their past place, the victim's place, and control their loss.

Because you're repulsive, fierce. Your body is big and soft, strong unpredictably, fast desperately. You feel no pain while you're held in a grapple. As opposed to your hips choking you, you squeeze your hands on their throats so hard they almost pass out. When they throw you over their shoulder and you instantly spit out your mouthpiece, ripping the t-shirt on your sparring partner with your teeth because you don't have time to get your hands on it. And if you get clipped, you fall over invariably with a roll to your feet to saddle up and bash their head against the floor.

Because you are violence. Ordinary, domestic, smelling of cheap beer and domestic tyranny. They could be the same if they saw entirely the norm they are prescribed in the morning as a cure for dissent. After all, the victim has two choices. Either kill or die.

"You've got to stop doing that. It's just a workout, no one's going to hurt you more than they need to." "I know. Sometimes, just, you know… No, just forgive." "Tough childhood, huh?"

You don't stop the play. Knowing you're just taking your anger, frustration and stress out on them, you cover yourself by pretending you're out of control. Like you remember how to let it go. But they feel pity. They don't see the rotten fangs beneath the lambskin you barely pulled on. And the days go by again, and you find entertainment again, and you start to trust more and more again. And the confessions pile up on you, and the tape recorder in your pocket won't stop writing, and the secretary helps you get to the right documents. She thinks she's doing a great job with you. You're just hoping for a chance to dig deeper.

You want to find something new, not just to gather statistics, but to run an arse-blowing campaign. Let everything burn with fire while you air your dirty laundry in public. You won't admit, even to yourself, that you just need a surprised expression on Price's face. And after, of course, approval. As if yes, that's what you could have found, just you. To help them throw the rats off the ship.

And to have Ghost. Satisfied only that his hopes were fulfilled.

One pat on the shoulder. One dry nod. You're not asking much. You'd like more.

…

It's fucking hot in here. In the stifling heat, they sat in the basement of the manor. Kings of our world. Their guards piled up near the secret passage in the catacombs.

There are five groups in all. The first will start firing, a diversionary tactic. The second wait inside the walls of the house. The smallest group of all, necessary for the right direction of movement. The third are in the woods surrounding the estate, clearing the field of local patrols. Fourths. "The Attic. Gas on the upper floors, with them, to prevent anyone escaping by helicopter.

And their group. In the basement, with the fuming air, waiting for the team. Each of them wouldn't mind finishing things themselves. But no, it has to be done quietly. Somehow John knows, senses something's going to happen.

Something's already happening.

The signal for action, the steady breathing, the orders. One single wound, and it's a tangential one. It's all coming out really quietly and quickly. Through the same hot catacombs, they lead the cartel goons to armoured trucks with not very friendly guards inside.

Everything goes quietly. The only thing that could ruin the operation is that the Attic group fails to shoot down the almost-mafia-head's helicopter in time. The smoking structure falls not into the woods, but exactly into the right wing of the estate, only to crash and tear up the ground beneath it. But even that doesn't stop the operatives from pushing the fugitives to the basement. All four teams, leading the disarmed and bound defendants, successfully convoy the men to the underground prison. Anxiety not subsiding, John puts a hand to his chest, in the place where a slim book from her collection would be hiding beneath his body armour if… if he asked directly. He would do so before the next mission, and carry a piece of literary reproach close to his heart. Yes, that's right, as soon as he gets there. And will sign an authorisation to access information about himself in case he dies. For scientific purposes. Then it won't make any difference. And no arsehole's gonna take that psychopath's rights away from her. Ghost will see to it that his will is carried out.

The initial interrogation entrusted to their care goes unnecessarily smoothly, too. John blushes away the smiles he sees on the faces of the cartel gangsters so as not to lose his temper.

Three hours later they're recalled to base, and that seems odd to him too. His gut doesn't fail, half an hour later the order changes, they're being redirected. Just their group.

"What's wrong?"

Laswell looks at him from across the table. New mission, heightened urgency, out in five minutes, helicopter will be arriving shortly. John glumly rereads the short brief.

"Something's wrong."

…

Something's wrong. You haven't seen Him in a month. Idiot soldiers, higher ups, yes even your lambs have been quietly alarmed. Dead. That's fine. You hadn't dismissed the possibility, and you were already grieving for Him endlessly. You had no right to show any emotion. You just knew that there were no more people in the dining room who seemed to be predators. You just saw that you had no place in that silence. So work. Work again. Bad habit. If he's dead, you have no-one to be ashamed of where you stuck your nose in.

Medical records label rape as "sharp pain in the lower abdomen." If the victim couldn't remember anything because of the opium, it was labelled "poisoning", if she recognised her attacker it was "cramps due to stress", if she saw but didn't know her attacker it was "suspected ulcer".

The latter cases had additional captions. "Sent for gastroscopy/ultrasound." eaquals to "investigation cited". Positive and negative results respectively implied a found and not found rapist.

Need I mention that ulcers were almost never detected? The patients turned out to be completely healthy. What distinguished rape cases from real cases of GI problems was the number of days off officially prescribed to the patient. More than three days was a bell; more than a week was a bell. There were two cases that imprinted themselves on your memory. The body, accustomed to cruelty and injustice, analysed the data on two month-long leaves and jerked. The first name is classified. The second was a woman who retired a year ago.

Thousands and thousands of military personnel. Only fifteen cases you could pull evidence from.

Fifty suspicious coincidences you couldn't explain.

Hundreds of rapes that never reached you.

And that's considering that any sexual encounter here was severely punished. Rape didn't just mean getting fired. A man would just disappear. He'd go on a mission and never show up. And this, of course, after months of boycott. No one would touch him, no one would communicate with him, no one would treat him as a human being. Rumour. The same rumours. Ghost stood hawkishly guardian of this policy. Of course, the command took liberties. The mass of nurses interviewed laughed coquettishly and outright bawled as they recalled advances from half-dead military men (it's worth mentioning that most of them were still alive). But no one confessed to the relationship, only discussed the varieties of genitalia that had passed through the strong hands of the medics. You didn't bother to use your knowledge of medical records. Anxiously smoking a smoking cigarette butt outside the medical block, you stared at the wall.

He was smiling so sweetly. Like a bear.

"What, Capitainess, are you sad?"

The sweet German woman - your secretary's best friend - was somehow luscious and unpleasantly warm. She smelt of blood all the time, and worked four-handedly at donation and "in confidence and as needed" in pathology.

You remain silent, examining her sly expression. It's not that you don't get along, quite the opposite. Which is why you allow her to mock you a little. To try and bite you. "Do you think yours will be here soon?" "Anticipating the autopsy already?" You mutter. "Oh, yeah, I love marbled beef. Did you see those shoulders? That dad bod." "He doesn't have any…" You begin, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "Gotcha" she exclaims victoriously and your smile becomes much more noticeable than it was a second ago. "So you're looking at him!" Instead of answering, you toss your cigarette into the nearest rubbish bin and wait for the continuation.

The continuation doesn't come for several minutes as you stare into the surprisingly clear sky. Your hands are in your pockets, your lip between your teeth bitten to a bloody pulp.

"Is he alive?" You whisper. "Most likely. I've been here five years. Rumour has it he once commanded an operation right after he was rescued from captivity. And, I know you're not kidding yourself about that, but he really is a threat. A lethal one. He'll get out on his own." "Or he'll be dragged out." "More like dragged away." It sounds from behind you. You turn around to see an aggressive soldier handing you a cigarette. You smoke in silence. He claps you on the shoulder. "They're supposed to decide tomorrow whether they're sending my unit on its first operation. Nothing much, since the strongest positions are occupied by… whatever they're occupied with." "Back-up?" It's probably the simplicity of your interest in his answer. For a second, in those clear colours of the sun, you seem a little smaller, weaker. The desire to help rears its head. "Not only." He replies. You press your lips together.

The situation only gets more tense. The groups are coming back. Everyone is coming back. Gaz returns in such nervous overload that he can't unclench the hand he's been pressing against Soap's wound. He is silent and doesn't laugh. You look at him quite close, hiding behind the doctors and nurses. That white coat of yours, that skill of yours, that fucking charm of yours. The sight of Gaza is stupefying. The sight of Soap, pale, hooked up to a life support machine, terrifies you. The same iceberg, knocking you cold every time you see the last shots before the cameraman dies. The second before the explosion, those not yet shot run in silent panic. The second before the beast attacks. The recording cuts off only when the battery dies, already after the owner's screams have ended. The second before the shrill sobs of a girl being raped in a circle. That moment of helplessness behind the screen when you see and can't stop watching. When you are a participant and a perpetrator.

Gaz has been silent for a week. Soap is still in a coma. You move the laptop into the medics' lounge. On the floor by the socket, all black and dirty. You've lost seven kilos from the stress. On the floor next to you is one of the nurses' old thermos. You drew a small abstraction of stars and lines on her ankle with a black marker. The drawing is almost washed away, but you see its outline when her feet in crocs stop next to your knee. She shares a meal with you every day. You don't thank her, but you slip her a candy bar or ten quid or a sticker drawing. Your paper now has more than just a skeleton, it has substance. It's almost a good research paper. When you're allowed, you visit Gaza. Sometimes it's ten minutes, sometimes it's half an hour. On the first day, you simply reach out for him to put his palm into the embrace of your cracked fingers. His skin is just as rough and cold, but you can feel the pulse, and that rhythm lets you live, too. Now you come in with a book. You read Oscar Wilde's De Prófundis. Gaz is still silent, but his eyes warm and sparkle as he laughs from your sincerely-sarcastic-outraged intonations. Towards the end of the week, the book is finished, your paper has been sent to Dr Moon for another review, and your anxiety makes you stay on your feet steadier and fiercer. You dread going to sleep and finding out one of them is dead. Their faces looked like a mess when they arrived. Maybe they'd explain it to you, but you've already formed your own opinion. Your hands shake from the slight rise in blood pressure when you do more than just manipulate digitised information, but a real invasion. But. What were you supposed to do? The stolen medical records give insight into the anamnesis. Gaz doesn't speak for a reason. His tongue was cut off, not cauterised at the root, just wrapped in thin wire. The repair was emergency and only affected the major vessels. You think that's a good thing. If he heals well, he should be able to speak again. He'll probably have trouble recognising taste, but he'll be able to function almost fully. Two, three, five months and he'll be good as new. Soap's situation is much worse. Couple of shots to the torso.

Shattered lung, broken ribs, almost hit the heart. Second bullet punctured the liver. The third one tangentially grazed Soap's head. No brain damage, but damage to the skull. The injuries are severe, though not irreversible, but it will be difficult for him to regain his fighting ability. He'll be given an honourable rest. If he does come out of his coma. If he survives.

But he wasn't tortured. Most likely the macho man got out and sat in ambush, devising a plan to free himself. If Gaz was rescued by his forces, you weren't even going to give Soap an extra beating for kamikaze behaviour.

Moreover, you're on the verge of not doing the same.

But you're in luck. After a week in which you've never once been able to check on either Gaz or Soap, a wave passes through the entire base. It starts with the cobble-faced faces of the convoyers and the bags over the heads of the prisoners, and ends near you when one of your victim friends, bows.

"They'll be interrogating the ones who captured Cap and Lt."

A black veil rises before your eyes.

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

Tags: slight description of reader (chubby, muscular, strong, denying gender as a concept), possibly slightly sociopathic/autistic reader, profanity, denial of authority, evil scientist on the way to becoming. tags and warns are the same as in the last post, srry, I don't have time to make it more civilized and readable. Enjoy

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Feck, the next Si thing is gonna be called "coming undone" cos I like korn and I'm funny. just saying

It was decided to start tomorrow.

After breakfast. Which you and Price would attend together. You sleep off the night, decide to skip the rewashing of your bones from a bunch of failed abortion victims smoking at the wall opposite. The thought of talking to them makes your stomach turn. It's disgusting.

At seven in the morning, you're standing at the gym door waiting for Price. You have a huge tracksuit. It's black, it's old, but it's intact. You brought it for the occasion. The lucky one when you'd have to participate in experiments and you didn't want to sacrifice normal clothes for stinky rodents. You end up using it for the same thing.

You hear footsteps at the end of the corridor. "I agreed to this so I could go through the archives. Not to get military training." "And yet. You're here. That's gratifying."

Half an hour. Half an hour of warm-up, treadmill leading to exercise, baffled breathing, and endless sweat. He asks if you need to rest twice. But, God, you just smile and refuse to take any extra indulgences. He's already treating you almost gently. It's infuriating. You're not that weak.

So you grit your teeth and do what you have to do. For the sake of it, you push yourself with workouts at night, and days when some crappy scientific "War and Peace" can only be read while doing push-ups.

"Ever lifted anything?" "Only people." "Weight?" "Last one was three months ago. I was carrying some bloke in my arms. Five kilos bigger than me." You know you're digging yourself a deeper hole than you need to. But really, it doesn't seem like a test, just a regular workout together. Price is calm, attentive and strong. In his wrinkles you see traces of history. There's an skies in his eyes. You wait for your judgement. Your tongue tastes like blood, your throat is sore. You can barely keep your breathing steady without seeming even weaker. Pryce's gaze stops at your neck, the accelerated pulsation of a vein under your skin. "Rest." "I…"

A heavy hand covers your shoulder. A slight push, and you're sitting on a bench with a bottle of water. Wanted to test, now patronising? You blink, blatantly expressing your outrage.

"Don't be stubborn, you can't stand up straight." "Make a nasty joke yourself, I'm tired." You say finally, opening the bottle.

He hums, stepping away to finish his workout without exhausted you. In the couple of days you've known him, it's become strangely easy to imagine the curve of his mouth beneath his silly beard. No. His t-shirt is scuffed up. His body is hairy, too. Ugh. Even that fucking snail trail is straight and… Better than yours. That's not jealousy.

"Ghost." You drop it after a couple of sips. "Always knew how to surprise me."

Changing weights on the barbell. Heavier, heavier, and heavier. You find yourself not wanting to pull more answers out of him, content with fatigue and the sight of someone else's strength. Imagining yourself as an emperor is much easier, watching a gladiator. Enough. Scratching your lower lip with your teeth, you sigh and leave for the shower.

"Wait by the stairs when you get out."

You raise your thumb in the air without turning around.

Seven minutes and twenty-five seconds later, you're standing, washed, dried, and changed. You share a locker with a nice girl who has agreed to give you her number (phone number too) for the nice bonus of three cigarettes. That way you don't have to go through the annoying process of having your name confidentiality violated. Retreating to the stairwell, you open the door to observe but not be observed. Hidden in the shadows of the lower stairwell, next to the mops and a couple of buckets. You wait in silence for him for the fifteen minutes that remain before you leave for the enemy camp. This would all be a lot easier if he were at least a medic. That's what you've been thinking about for hours now. And it's awful. It's disgusting. You know you're falling in love before you're ready to admit it.

For what? That intelligent look in his eyes? How soft he seems compared to everyone else here? Like a boulder amongst the shards of glass and metal. For a little patience and understanding. No, medic's too soft. You'd have less trouble with your feelings if he was a serial killer. A maniac. But he's not crazy. You feel the humming walls of empty space echoing inside his soul. Price seems like a good man, even as Captain. And the fact that he's good at separating himself from himself doesn't let you relax for a second.

Overdeveloped emotional intelligence scares the hell out of you. Because it means he sees you, too. Like that's not a turn-on. Anyway.

He'll be leaving to play hide-and-seek with death in about a month. Official word is that your downsized staff will be moved to new quarters in about three months. Remodelled. Who do they think you are? You signed so many agreements during the transition, there's no doubt something's brewing. On your first day at the base, you joked that they wanted to organise you into a science underground. Dr Moon didn't laugh. So one month, and you'll never meet again. Until then, your only purpose is research.

Ghost didn't eat. Not in front of you. Two days passed. The first interviewees were Soap and Gaz. They were on the list of those whom Price himself was prepared to provide as interviewees. The night before the third day, you did go out for a smoke. It was unbearable.

Five interviews. Three on the first day. Unfocussed answers, half-friendly, half-professional atmosphere. You filled in the blanks not only with the obligatory material, but also with voluntary additions. You had their medical records on hand in printed form. Folders of examinations from the past years. You asked, and only one of them confessed to having lied in the last year. His arm was still sore from the wound. The others were silent. Their incredulity was forgivable. It was only fair, considering you'd still be going through their files as meticulously as possible. Or maybe you wouldn't. Ordinary blokes, nothing criminal. They've all got morals twisted in the same inhumane way that any military man has. Something about duty, about calling, about wanting to help people. Their good intentions were just an assumption. The stupid cruel jokes they allowed themselves while you watched them that evening said more than necessary. Ordinary blokes, ordinary brutes, ordinary dogs. On the second day, Gaz and Soap happened. You don't see Kyle as "Gaz." He's more of a beagle with the intelligence of a parrot (in a good way). Perhaps because of your prior acquaintance, he finds himself a little more relaxed in your company. And allows himself to deny you a look at his medical records. What the fuck. Fuck. You don't smile, just nod, knowing you'll be going back to his files anyway. But, you're willing to do the favour and consider the other candidates first in your work. You pray to your luck that Soap doesn't turn out to be that smart. Unfortunately, luck responds by making him just incredibly annoying. He's joking. No. He tells shit jokes. And not the fatherly type, oh, all the ones that crawl out of Johnny's mouth and fall in a gooey mass at your feet - vulgar, filth.

"That's why you're not married." "How do you figure?" "All your jokes are from porn."

So you're annoyed. Soap has poured such a flood of information on you about every wounding he's done that you're left in no doubt - he's just messing with you. And you have to sit through mountains of reports and thoughts, trying to piece together in intervals the scraps of callus masses that have stuck to your efforts at systematisation. At three o'clock in the morning you pull your petrified arse off the chair and go for a smoke.

So, the wall opposite the wall of smokers. This time, they don't stare at you when they notice you. You're just waved at. Don't get mad. Let them get you emotional once, and you've already lost. You spend a second forming your mask, before walking up to the group with a wry grin. "There she is, the captain's mutt." "Envy is bad, poopsie." You're tired enough from hours on the job not to make any sudden fist movements towards his unbroken nose. Especially since the soldier behind him is already slapping his backside and hissing about how he's going to kick his arse for treating a woman like that. "I meant the wag!" "Fine, so you think before you say shit, hm?" "That's what everyone's talking 'bout!" "About the fact that I'm his…" You take the cigarette out of your mouth, and exhale the smoke downwards without taking your eyes off the joker. The light in your hand is aimed precisely at him. He's silent. "Come on." He's silent. "Come on, keep going." He sighs and scratches the back of his head. You take another puff as the soldier picks up the excuses.

"You mean that rumour I'm his girlfriend?"

A spit in the sky. Exactly at the star. The soldier coughs it up crumpled.

"Well, or fucking him, you can phrase it however you like." "Stop it!" "What's so confusing to you? Quite possible conclusions. It's 'k. You need to amuse yourself. So, keep talking." You take another puff, this time exhaling the smoke exactly into his face. He tolerates it. "You don't think I'm in any kind of relationship with him, do you?" "Sat down with him the first day you were seen together, driving around, fraternising with his crew."

"Standing out, then. Coming out of nowhere, doing whatever I want, talking to people you'd be scared to look at, let alone breathe next to." You cluck and shake your head in feigned sympathy. "And the only option to achieve all that appeal is sex. Am I understanding this logic correctly? And since I'm someone's… mutt, I can't be touched or Daddy will come and fuck you after he rips those uniform trousers, hmm?"

He snaps, says something, but you cut it off with such a disappointed sigh that the soldier immediately thinks of his mother. "I'm leaving. I'm late to pee in the corners and ask for a bone." You say and you bark unemotionally. You didn't think it would start so soon. Well, if it does, it'll be quicker for those idiots to finish all the rumours. Or they'll finally decide you two are together. You weren't going to deny it, you weren't going to change their minds. That would only convince them you were right.

In training, you feel as drained as possible, still completing all the exercises. You don't leave early, as you've done the last two days, but stay, watching Price for a while. He clearly senses that a question is about to follow. You decide not to leave him waiting for long. "Are you married?" "No." Looking still equally thoughtful, you nod. Your lips tighten, your fingers drumming on the bottle cap. "Would you say that your attitude towards me is different from the others on the base?" You say as he finishes the set. "Yes." Short questions, as if you're interrogating him. "Should I be wary of your groupies?" "Are there precedents already?" "Oh, more. There's already a nickname."

About an hour earlier, just before you leave, you're caught by Dr Moon, who doesn't bother to hide her smirk calling you 'Captainess'. Adorable.

"Mutt, Captainess." "They're bored." "Same opinion."

He walks over to the bench you're sitting on, wiping his face with a towel. You hand him a bottle of water. "On the other hand, if they think you're a little more important, will make contact sooner." You raise an eyebrow. "When you come to interview them, I mean."

Of course he's got it all figured out from the start. You have a sneaking suspicion that your reputation might be playing backwards. Or it's just another test. Sometimes you thought your paranoia was taking too important a position in the decision-making battles. But, if you go straight and ask now, would it be… even more suspicious and straightforward than it is now? It's silly, but you say nothing, nodding, going off to separate showers with Price and not thinking about the scrambling anxiety.

Ghost is, again, not eating. He's not with his team twenty-four hours a day, yet he's almost always with them, as if he doesn't think he can fight them off. Not as a guard dog, but as a piece of the puzzle. Except he feels the urge to complete their picture, or does he just not want to feel lost?

You cross out the questions on the sheet again, knowing it's futile. Idiotic. Why the fuck did he say yes? Fuck.

You're not nervous, but Ghost can't help but inspire caustic respect for his strength and stealth. "Totally unlike me," you lie to yourself. It's easy to recognise a mortal possessive when you're the same. When the place of emptiness is taken by something, that something only comes back out gutted. After the last time, you try to stay away from anyone. And all that understanding, respect, keeps you from asking the same annoying questions. You've managed to interview everyone left behind. A reduced list of questions, a learned tactic. Habit. That part of you, laying fallow, covered in the dust of reclusive work, takes root in the top layers of the mask. Sociality, that's it. Ghost is late. You sense it even before he doesn't show up in the appointed frame of time. The sun hasn't yet had time to roll down the axis definitively. You don't switch on the overhead lights, letting the natural light do its job. So far, there's plenty of it. A depressing sight really. But soon, pretty soon, the night will be stretched out for most of the day. Mid-autumn, after all.

When Ghost comes in, you're standing against the wall, making yourself some tea. Not bagged, but real, leafy tea. That's the third reason the rank and file co-operate with you. A handful of insults, a couple of cigarettes, a pinch of good tea. You notice that all the tension around you goes down. You, too, become a piece of the mosaic in this picture. So, in the warmth of the passing day, you mutter a simple tune, adding thyme to a large mug.

Ghost watches, appreciating the immediacy, the humanity of that soft and inner, beyond the shell. It is as if there is no threat, no limits to the room. There is only warmth, steam from the hot tea, and even the sunlit dust stops, afraid to leave the moment of peace. And you stand, making your delicious tea. Settled, at home for a second, completely unafraid. Like a snail getting a new shell. Like you've always been here.

Something, inside, in a cut for the soul, where he doesn't dismiss the possibility of foolish and civil happiness (if not for himself, then for his loved ones), quietly clicks.

Not a maniac, just a lost girl.

The dust specks still drift in the air the same way, the light framing the artistic shagginess of your hair. Nothing changes for a second, three, ten, and then Ghost sees your ears rise, your back tense, your humming quieten. You don't look away from the window where you've been staring at the ant milling about for the last minute. But you let him know you know, as if he hadn't noticed it himself.

"Do?" You lift your mug of tea. "Do." The door closes behind him.

When he leaves, you're devastated. Because, he really did answer questions. But you can't take any of this into work. It's too much revelation and secrecy. It's too much revelation and secrecy. Ghost almost put his cards in your hands, willingly. Another test? No. Is this how your relationship with Price affects your reputation? There's two empty mugs in the corner, next to the sink. You don't wash them, so you can keep the confirmation of his ghostly presence and the story you'll take to your grave.

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

This chapter contains references to blood and meat and torture. Angst. Our main character is getting worse. the protagonist is a little out of her mind with grief and fear. Trigger Warning text containes the threat of rape from a woman to a man.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7.

The attention to you from the higher-ups grew in proportion to the aloofness of the rank and file. You're being watched like there was a precedent. You didn't sneak onto the prisoners yet, right? You crawled out of your medical ward shell to see how quickly your ends and exits were cut off. The secretary refused to provide you with files. Not just interrogations, but ordinary docs for past years. The archives were closed to you. She wasn't told to cut off all access, but she was obviously afraid of the consequences. How's that, huh? It turns out the high-ups knew. Of course they fucking knew. Whatever.

You pretend you're just stopping by for a chat. You move into your abandoned office. It's still yours. Your lunch seat is still yours, too. The faces of your group of victims are tired, bitter. They're getting beaten up in training worse than ever. They've been beaten regularly and without respite. Every day for a week. Tougher and tougher. You go to Gus's every night. He's sleeping all the time now, like Soap. Tongue surgery. No-one lets you know which one. You don't ask for fear of attracting attention.

How funny it would be to find out that Kyle's tongue was transplanted from one of the terrorists. Soap's condition is improving. And with it, the possibility of being around him is cancelled. There's a local green gentleman outside his room at all times. You don't know their rank, name or face. The only thing is, they really care. Three blokes, every shift sitting hunched over as soon as no one sees them - their shoulders surprisingly droop in the same tragic way. Farah walks in once, but quickly moves away, supported under the arm of some blonde-haired sergeant or something. You didn't remember. But it gives you hope. If they're waiting for Soap to wake up, it's a possibility. Hope fades when you think of the faces of your lambs. They're exhausted because their trainers probably remember the first time Price was captured. And there is no information from the hostages.

One day the leadership is again becoming scarce. You can tell by the emptiness in the common room. It's like they've been swept away, flock after flock of lambs following their shepherds. You look at the departing aeroplanes and you don't know what could be going on there, when active warfare was stopped years and years ago. It can't all go into a showdown with a conventional faction, can it? You shift your gaze to the lab. You haven't been in this claustrophobic room in a while, but it feels the opposite. This day, like the previous three, you're asleep in your office, face tucked into your desk.

You're stunned, your back is bleeding as is the back of your head, you roll on the floor and crawl under the desk. Your head is ringing, a siren blaring, you get out of your office and lie down on the floor. It hurts to get up. You run downstairs. They're releasing the hostages. Traitors, huh? One of the rats. The mind throws up a soundtrack. As you roll down the stairs, gritting your teeth, as you stare at the open gates in the dark distance, as you watch bullets slice through the air and suicide motorbikes get blown away with their drivers, as you hide around the corner from the flashes, a light rumba plays in your head.

"Captain fuck!"

An aggressive soldier pulls you out before a second explosion occurs in the lab building. Stone shards come down a metre from your corner. Dust rises into the air, you cover your face with the edge of your t-shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing here." "Medbay!" "What-- Where the fuck are you going?"

Adrenaline makes you grin, it's hard to call it a smile. He holds you tight, pressing you into the wall.

"Everyone's been evacuated. There are basements down there, do you hear?" "They're going to be crushed!" "Where's your brain! The basements are connected to the base! Everyone in this fucking building." "What are you doing here?" "I ran out at the noise." "Didn't they take you to the mission?" "What do you think?"

You growl and punch him in the shoulder.

"Were you followed?" "No! No, it was one of rats." "One of yours or one of mine?"

He blinks dumbly a couple of times.

"I don't know."

Wow.

The whole lab is just guests. It would make sense that your entire organisation would be kicked out from under the warm wing of the military as soon as this is all over.

"Where are the prisoners?" "In the bunker." "Where the fuck?" He gives you a battered dog look, and you sigh. What percentage chance that this was the idea of soldiers left without command. But it's a chance, right? The luckiest chance possible.

"Will you take me there?"

The basement looks depressing. A bunch of soldiers without masters all over the walls. Someone senior recognises you, someone from the medical block picks you up under your arms and takes you to the part of the basement allocated to medical staff. Everyone is so tense that you can finally breathe easy. Is it so hard to be on guard at all times so you don't suffer the consequences afterwards? Rumba doesn't stop playing. You beat the rhythm with your fingertips while your head is rewound. The wounds on your arms are just a little bit of scabbed skin. Wounds on your forehead, wounds under the bandages on the back of your head, wounds on your shoulders and bruises in several places.

God, that's pathetic. You're playing the abject expectation, the awkward fright. Your eyes are tired and watery from lack of sleep, which helps you play the crybaby. Quiet and nervous in your corner. Your T-shirt is torn and bloodstained. The orderlies share the last remnants of a change of clothes with you. Wrapped in bandages you look rather menacing.

"Don't go anywhere, you could get worse." Yeah, it's possible you could have a concussion. When has that ever been more important than the goal? A nod, a husky chuckle. "I have nowhere to go."

You slip away gradually, first to the lambs, then trying to win back a flurry of activity in search of Dr Moon, and then the occasion carries you screaming on its own. There's a fight at the "bunker." In the isolation ward, behind a thick door and a micron window with bars, sits the provocateur. Opposite is a one-to-one crowd.

"If you wait, everyone will die!" "How did you even get in here, degenerate." The aggressive one calmly holds his split lip.

If they kill them! One went on the attack, others will. How many more Aggressive would be found to protect a terrorist from being lynched?

"Will you be gathering information before or after the interrogation, guys?" A pair of eyes dart towards you. You don't look recognisable. The aggressive one is clearly not happy. Neither are the rest of the soldiers. You have a feeling you know them. They seem to be the ones you sat with at lunches before the lambs. They seem to be the ones you smoked with most nights.

"Captainess."

You walk up to the door of the isolation ward. A green scowling crowd surrounds you on all sides. Aliens at a wake. A face lost in pity turns into an empty, scalding mask.

"How fast do you think I'll be transferred out of here? A day? A week?"

They are silent.

"And how long can a man live without water? The guy must be completely dehydrated to have fainted and require an immediate specialist nearby?"

Your hand rests on the cold thickness of the iron of the door. The rough hand of an aggressive soldier descends on your shoulder in a similar fashion. "No." He says flatly. How quickly this mutt has grown a womb to pitch himself so smoothly. A leader, no doubt. "You know that if this works-" You're interrupted, fingers on your shoulder clenching more confidently. "Who do you think you are-" They hiss in your ear. You place your hand on top of his.

"I'm just going to talk, you idiot, nothing more. Give me half an hour." And there's something in your eyes. Not decisive, but pleading. Captainess. Yes, so be it. Let him believe the story they've made for themselves. The tender bond that never was. Aggressive takes a step back, nodding to the guys to get you started. "Half an hour."

The door opens.

He looks bad. Black eyes in a face that has lost its natural colour. A smirk. A bloody mouth. His chair against the far wall. The desk to your right. Iron, empty. You have a guess as to its usual purpose. There's a body lying under the table. A rumba plays in its head, the body has no tongue in its mouth.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

He's silent, spitting blood at his feet. You step closer, holding out your hand, he jerks towards you but you nonchalantly pull back the edge of his T-shirt. You rip it in two. Pulling the T-shirt off his body you feel your throat rattle in an adrenaline rush. Consciousness is clearer than it's ever been. He squeals indignantly at something and you shove a piece of rag into his mouth so deep that only whimpers can be heard. His legs are cuffed together, his hands behind his back. Your scalpel on his trouser leg. All the way down to his bare feet.

"Amado Mio, you know that song?" You hear him, you really do. And he's so cute.

His body shakes with anger, threat, and exhaustion as you hum, stroking his feet. Half an hour isn't much to play with.

"Don't be so shy my love, spread your legs wide, Mummy's going to make you feel good, come on." You slap him in the plexus and he flexes. You jerk him back against the wall along with the chair. He falls, stiff and helpless, next to the corpse of his partner. You squat down next to him, the scalpel dancing centimetres from his filthy face as your other hand strokes the abomination's head. You almost rumble as you lean into his face.

"You took one husband away from me, so you're going to step into his shoes, aren't you sweetheart? I'm even glad, I've never seen a terrorist's arse so small, I'm betting your hole is even tighter than I realise, eh? Come on, don't whine, sweetheart, don't whine, I just want to show you how much I love you, calm down. It's all right, sweetheart, it's all right, no-one will know. I'll keep you, I'll protect you. No-one will take away your tongue like that bad boy, will they? You're a good boy, aren't you?"

He yells, with the same enthusiasm as a chicken running around without its head. You squeeze his buttock in a tentative grip and run your finger down into the hollow.

"If you scream like that, I won't understand what you're trying to say, my boy." Hysterical breath fills your nostrils. God, it stinks.

"Breathe, that's it, good boy. Look, we can stop this right now if you don't be daft. You tell my mates everything you know and I don't get back at you for all the weeks of sexual starvation you and your mates have condemned me to. You got it? Shut up and nod if you understand."

Nod. You rub his hair, pinch his cheeks, pat his chin.

"My boy! How clever you are! You know Mummy will come if she finds out you lied, don't you? You know Mummy has big appetites, don't you? You know it would be nicer to die than to spend an hour with me, don't you?"

He nods so curtly that he bangs his head against the back of the chair.

"Then I'll call them, won't I?" He cries. The light trails of tears on his face give just a touch of satisfaction.

Outside the door, they look at you like the plague. Silly, because it only fuels your excitement. You're not such a doormat in their eyes now, are you? You're now to be feared, not by the word of the Captain, but by the obviousness of your 'madness.

"He agrees to tell all."

Aggressive looks as if he can't decide whether to vomit or burst with schadenfreude. He reaches out, gently taking the scalpel from your fingers.

"Don't come near here again."

You pull away under the weight of swelling shame. A mixture of power, revenge, and Machiavellianism clench into a tight point in the bottom of your stomach. You have the nerve to get excited about it. A chance to savour emotions so vivid and real, a chance to feel the weight of conscience - a confirmation of your humanity.

Dr Moon finds you looking like an inconsolable mother. Her prayers have been answered, and she doesn't try to scream or blame you for the fact that you could be dead. Instead, you sit quietly surrounded by a full complement of lab rats. The entire institute, the ones that have survived months of working on the base, look deeply regretful in their decision to stay. That's what war is, that's what ignorance, unpreparedness is. You see, you idiots? I want to smile. They're all so scared, wrapped up in their fragile bodies. What if they break through? What if there are more bombs? What if there are more traitors and we're shot like meat? What if we all die?

You feel almost omnipotent with your back against the wall, watching them. A petri dish.

In the morning, they let everyone out. There are two scientists watching your group of scientists. They escort you to your assigned dormitory block. You can't see anything behind the crowd, and you try to keep a low profile. Too conspicuous as it is, with your bandages and blue clothes. They'll spot you, catch you, hand you over to the medics for care. No.

This is the first time you've changed in your own place in a long time. Not in the hospital shower, not in Moon's office. It's hard to get the dirt off your face. You've taken the bandages and plasters off your fingers. Your hands can barely move. The wounds get wet in the water and start to bleed again. You wrap your palms in an extra t-shirt. The girl sharing the room with you looks depressed and sick. Instead of taking the bath after you, she sits and stares at her feet. A smoke would be nice.

"Get some sleep. I'll be in the kitchen. I'll wake you up if you need me." You wheeze. There should have been coffee left under the sink. The girl looks up, looking almost genuinely worried. She protests weakly, out of politeness, but quickly gives up.

You sit still for half an hour. Literally half an hour, until your neighbour falls asleep. Slowly opening the door to the corridor, you listen, pressing your eye to the crack. Everything is blurred, the lights haven't come on yet, only the water supply is intact. Behind the door are angry voices and unfriendly faces. Returning with a sigh to your desk, you collapse into a chair, resting your elbows on the table. You wonder if your laptop is still alive. It was left in the study when you ran out that night. I just wish the hard drive was alive. What a load of crap.

You're barely getting changed, moving as carefully as possible. Which means slowly and nervously because you're annoyed.

You don't have enough for trousers, so after barely lacing up your boots, you slip out the door. You need to know. And probably a second medical intervention.

You wake up on the couch, head tucked into the armrest, with a pillow over your face. You grunt, rising to a straight position. Your head hurts and shoots up. You don't remember how you got here. At the table to your left sits an aggressive soldier. Eating.

"What am I…" "Passing out. How long have you not considered yourself a human being? Don't answer that all your life." You laugh, the back of your head constricting unpleasantly, an imperceptible needle of pain shooting into your back. "Have I been helpful?" He looks at you without averting his gaze. The slight hint of a smile is wiped from his face, his cheeks pale. "Quite." It's not clear if he's confirming your hopes, or if he just doesn't want to be rude to an injured civilian. But you accept it, leaning back into the pillow. "Did you find me?" "More like the opposite." "God." You groan into the rough fabric of the couch. "The captain's gonna kill you." Why would you say that? Come on, he already thinks that- What if he doesn't and- "Funny you're not the first person to say that." "Oh, come on." You laugh. It gets lighter. "Yeah. Mine are promising to turn me in. For everything from self-proclaimed superiority, to the amount of interactions I've had with you." "Harmful, yuck." "Yeah.

He finishes his meal. Then he drinks coffee, offers it to you. You're so nauseous you have to refuse the free gift. When he puts his cap on his head and heads for the exit, you think you'll be able to get a good night's sleep. It's much cosier in here, somehow.

He turns round at the door. "He'll be here by the end of the week. Thanks to you."

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

Tags: slight description of reader (chubby, muscular, strong, denying gender as a concept), possibly slightly sociopathic/autistic reader, profanity, denial of authority, evil scientist on the way to becoming. Johns pov included tags and warns are the same as in the last post, srry, I don't have time to make it more civilized and readable. THEY FINALLY TOUCHED LADIES!!! Enjoy

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.

The whole day has been going wrong. Right from the start.

You met at five in the morning, as arranged for the days you dig through the database. He was waiting for you in his office, fresh looking, only a little more closed off. You thought to write it off on the early hour. But it certainly wasn't a physical consequence of sleep deprivation.

Emotions, damn it.

John was furious. You didn't say anything to him about it. The normally scowling expression never left your face, the emotionless, chaotically appearing teasing only twice caused him to smirk. But you wanted to shake him, ask him what you'd done wrong. Why he's like this. All the time before working out you could feel that tension. A dark, thick lump of promised fear.

Swallowing your breakfast in almost two bites, you didn't consider your surroundings much. There was something strange in the air. The way the huge room was quiet, full of those normally chatty people. Even Soap only chuckled quietly. Before you left to print out the allowed information, you casually switched to reality, aware of the proximity of the nearby warmth. Your and Price's thighs had been touching all along.

What on the computer had only been a couple dozen pages, images, copies, notes, was turning into an endless mountain of real paper that you were typing in two goes. To keep your head on your shoulders, rather than being ripped off by a secretary who (temporarily, you swear) had a busy printer, you brought a whole stack of paper. You talked, you played spy, getting more and more information out of the little gossip girl. You ate lunch at her place, never letting yourself take more food from her than you could fit in half your palm. She called you a bird and you laughed in agreement, drinking her instant coffee to notfeed your hunger. Not the first time.

As you made your way to your office in the main building that evening, you didn't look round. Moving carefully, only forwards, trying not to drop a pile of printed documents. One of the soldiers held the door for you. Then another one, then again, then another one, but offered help, which you declined. You clenched your jaws. Too many interactions. Fuck away!

Your back was in a terrible state from overexertion you wouldn't let anyone know about, your mood at its very point from lack of sleep and the constant uncomfortable existence with stupid people in the same space. But you still stared sullenly at the dumbest soldier while you held a pile of papers with one hand and opened the office with a magnetic key with the other.

Finally sinking down behind your chair, preparing for another round of proofreading, searching for correlations and missing elements, you let yourself exhale. And think. It was Price, wasn't it? Yesterday, when you told him about the soldiers' behaviour and he reacted so calmly, you gaslight yourself, doing someone else's job. They not even called you a slut in your face and they're animals and you're not special and nothing terrible happened only name calling... And it was expected, wasn't it?

But no, Price clearly went to deal with it. As much as you disliked the whole hierarchy thing, it was hard not to want punishment for those who branded everyone names for one possession of a vagina. You prayed to all the gods that your expectations weren't just a rethinking of the situation into a more palatable direction.

Finally everything was falling into a cycle. You worked with the files already printed out, pulling everything together in an encompassing way for the mind, concentrating on behavioural changes. You stopped by your secretary's office before lunch, giving your energies to small-talk and charming smiles. Your sleep patterns corrected, you smoked less because you didn't have the time anymore. Completely absorbed in your work, focused on your real goal, you didn't notice anything anymore. And a couple of times in a fortnight… Ghost helped with hints.

Ask that soldier, help that soldier, turn round there, yeah, just stand there.

Always managed to pick up a piece of information, form an understanding. The victim was always visible, no matter how well disguised. You made friends with a couple of girls and boys from different departments and backgrounds. Different temperaments, different humour and looks, but you felt that note of vulnerable distrust every time you pushed a little harder on your leadership.

. . .

She had a gaze. Fucked up one.

His first almost-wife had looked at him like that, during their first fight. And the last, to be precise. Pupils small, long angry lashes, always frowning. Ooh, stern.

When she brushed off his question about her name, he wasn't offended in the least. Something familiar about her… there was, no doubt. A piece of a familiar pattern. Potential for a good soldier, human, that was it. There was no criticism or problem in this closed cocoon from which she'd burst into the thick of it. Dry research, ready-made theory. That was why she was so confident in her audacity. John might have wanted to break her, just out of spite. He didn't usually do that, but here the kitten was attacking adult predators, and seriously hoping to win. Thinking she couldn't be seen, sneaking around in the grass with her little paws.

But in a couple of hours of interaction, John saw. Noticed scars here and there, patches of faded fur, and the sharp grin of a smile. She looked like something he'd caught. In training, she'd held up well. A mission, a fulfilment. A soldier with no command.

He could help. Help himself find a therapist.

Sighing once again for the evening, he adjusted his reading glasses. Whiskey in one hand, a small collection of short stories in the other. John read the one book he'd managed to "accidentally" grab from her desk.

Ray bradbury. Lots of circled passages, comments and jokes.

...You're the crowd that's always in the way, using up good air that a dying man's lungs are in need of, using up space he should be using to lie in, alone. Tramping on people to make sure they die, that's you...

In pencil frame and a little note, "should I call a lawyer?"

Other. With some pencil dots and lines on the pages, as if she wanted to but didn't dare leave any words out.

The scythe that gives power....

A family stuck between life and death because the father of the family didn't go to chop the ripe in the field....

A character who sleeplessly accepts his burden.....

...He didn't say good-by to his family. He turned with a slow-feeding anger, found the scythe and walked rapidly, then he began to trot, then he ran with long jolting strides into the field, raving, feeling the hunger in his arms...

The farmer in the field is too busy, even after all these years; too busy slashing and chopping the green wheat instead of the ripe...moves on with his scythe, with the light of blind suns and a look of white fire in his never-sleeping eyes, on and on and on...

He flipped back the page. Where there was only one word, exactly halfway down the circled lines.

...You worked the field all your life because you had to, and one day you came across your own life growin' there. You knew it was yours. You cut it. And you went home, put on your grave clothes, and your heart gave out and you died...

You?

John memorised the page number and put the book back in his desk drawer.

Fuck.

Why couldn't she read something nicer. A children's Bible? No, that was worse. More sins, more circled words. More similarities. And yet, he wanted to finish, wanted to reread everything that had ever graced her attention.

But only those living books that had been marked by her pencil and pen and word. To piece together this puzzle, frank and unmarred by a thick layer of wariness. To let it pass through him, to run his fingers over the traces scattered on the pages. To look in the mirror and see himself years ago. As if everything she'd accused herself of would find the same facet in him.

FUCK.

Angrily setting the empty whiskey glass aside, John walked out and down the stairs.

They'd grown closer over the past fortnight. As close as you could get with a set of human functions. She hadn't relaxed. Not for a second in his presence, not even in the presence of Ghost, who, surprisingly, had become a calming factor for her.

Something was happening. Some weightless bridge of communication. Invisible and solid.

Like when Ghost looked at her, shifted his gaze to someone else for a second and five minutes later she was there.

Like when she didn't turn up for training, showing drafts of already existing research to her Institute's committee. The discussions dragged on, she didn't show up for breakfast, and Ghost looked more sombre than usual.

Just like when she had appeared at lunch that afternoon, angry and barbed. "Those decrepit nerdy fucks have had me since six in the morning." She growls, and Ghost mutters something back about how quickly she's managed to outbite everyone. And the meat is clearly tastier than usual today. And Ghost knows now that scientists are much nicer than recruits. And she grins, just slightly, still wicked.

"You just haven't tasted the babies yet."

And Soap chokes on his tea, Gaz laughs, Ghost looks at her before letting out a deep chuckle. One ha. Not even a ha-ha, but it's something.

And John watches, observes. Marks the lines of communication and the nodes that form new offshoots

John wasn't jealous, there was nothing to be jealous of. Her attention was so entirely on him that she didn't have time to notice the water column diverging in front of her step by step.

It had been two weeks since John had the guys from the newbie group on the playground.

A day's training.

Just what the new recruits dreaded. Not a second of stopping, no food, limited water, total silence. The "24 hours" ended when the fighters started to fall. Sometimes the whole thing lasted for days.

In John's memory, the longest twenty-four hours was a week and a half when someone in his unit made a joke about raping the children of those Nazis who were fighting against them. He was a soldier then, green and unwanted by the leadership.

And the commanders were active and angry.

Steam was blown off on them until the rat came out himself, publicly shamed.

He was dismissed the same day, so that the soldiers did not have time to strangle him for a fortnight of suffering.

It was really horrible. But effective. None of them ever spoke again, even if they didn't want to.

Ghost had already organised something similar on the recruits last year, but they hadn't been smart enough.

John was happy to teach the soldiers to keep quiet. Reputation meant a lot to an organisation. Discipline wasn't just the ability to obey. And, no matter how much she said otherwise, John knew she would have wanted that kind of retribution.

She would find it fair.

The trainers change every three hours, the soldiers are the same. The spaciousness of the gym, the silence and the thick smell of sweat. Eighteen hours of slaughter meat.

The end of the "day."

But. Someone turned out to be more talkative than the others. As the columns of soldiers left the hall, the two idiots whispered something about an old man chasing a dirty cunt and were forced to stay for another two hours. One on one with John.

"You're going to fall and get out of here in a second." "You'll stop and we would start again."

He had no rest that night. After the individual lecture on what respect was, after the picture of tear-wet youthful faces begging forgiveness not from pain but from the realisation of their own failure, he couldn't shake off the rage completely. She had certainly sensed it from the morning, had been over-cautious in her rudeness. But she said nothing, and he began to breathe easier.

John lit a cigarette, there was no energy for cigars. The soldiers on night shift were still avoiding him, afraid of saying the wrong thing. Good for them. Opposite him, smoking dramatically in the shadows of the night, was the wall of the annex occupied by the scientists. The light in her window is on again. The way it had been for two months since her arrival, but had stopped after their meeting. And he thought he'd helped her sleep regime. As if to echo his thoughts, the light goes out, and five minutes later she appears. Sleepy, dark against her white dressing gown, glowing in the light of the night lanterns.

In the silence he can distinctly hear the desperate clicks of the lighter failing to give fire and a quiet "fucking hell" from her harsh mouth. He stands so that the light of the cigarette doesn't show from the shadows. Observes. Her stomping in one place is depressing. Such an open area, only a wall with one door behind, a long run to the corners, direct light. No cover. No hiding.

They were so close, John didn't need to calculate the trajectory he could take to blast her head off with his sniper. But he's unable to realise in time that he's spotted. The dusk makes it impossible to make out all the features of her face, but the swift way she was walking towards him spoke volumes. When John pulls out his lighter, flicking the wheel, emitting only a spark, not a flame, she snorts and slaps his arm. Why?

Her face is close, cigarettes touching at the tips as she holds their cigarettes in her hands to gently light her own. Her careful fingers close to his lips and he inhales the smell of ink and coffee with the smoke.

When her shoulder lightly touches his, her head rests on the hardness of the wall, and the smoke fills her lungs, John notices a certain insufficiency. Unmasked, even more open than usual. But quiet. So not trusting, just tired. That's what makes her stand so close. Obviously nothing more.

"I'm going to rest my head on your shoulder, and then you can pretend I didn't do it." "You're not afraid of groupies anymore?" Why say that? Why? Why? WHY?! Idiot.

She hums and takes a puff, releasing a thin stream of smoke into the night air. "Since you scared them all away?"

So they stand and smoke, sharing little warmth at the thin edges of contact. Her hand presses against his, John noting every muscle movement as she brings the cigarette to her lips and back again.

In the morning, as promised, he pretends nothing happened.

And the soldiers pretend they are numb, blind, and not watching their pair that night.

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

Tags: slight description of reader (chubby, muscular, strong, denying gender as a concept), possibly slightly sociopathic/autistic reader, profanity, denial of authority, evil scientist on the way to becoming.

tags and warns are the same as in the last post, srry, I don't have time to make it more civilized and readable

Enjoy

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

The draft work plan, as well as the topic, was approved a week ago. Dr. Moon didn't see fit to announce it for fear of your reaction. It was a smart move on her part. You'd just push the paperwork, which was wrong, too. After all, what could tell you more about the changing mental and physical state of the fighters than the fighters themselves?

Dr. Moon looked at you menacingly again in the morning. This night you lay down at 4 a.m., knowing you'd be up in two hours so you could intercept your test subjects early.

No interceptions. Dr. Moon smugly tells you that she's already hammered out an agreement for you to meet in person with their chief.

You actively pretend it doesn't bother you. Neither his agreement, nor her interference. Nor the fact that the situation is completely out of control.

Kudos on your paranoia and your irrepressible desire for adventure. You're prepared.

You had nowhere to start your investigation and no time at all. So at night, you tried to accomplish another feat. For the sake of experimentation with the local idiots could be socialized.

Going out for a smoke at three in the morning, you pretended that you couldn't light your lighter. You hoped that at the opposite wall your acting was taken for granted. The recruits on duty, watching you especially hard that night, pulled cigarettes out of their ugly mouths as you got closer.

I wonder if they've killed before or if they're just getting used to blood?

"Got a light?"

The soldier silently held out his hand with a lighter to your cigarette. You responded with a precisely calculated amount of gratitude in a smile so he wouldn't think you were flirting.

You took a couple puffs under their harsh stares. Your neck was starting to itch from the extra attention. You need to finish before you start blushing.

"Can you tell me who I was rude to today?"

"No."

You nod. Okay.

You stand in silence until halfway through your cigarette.

"Captain Price." Another voice. Slightly higher and calmer than the first. "You can automatically add to it a list of those who sat at the table with him."

"And the rest of his wives."

"What?"

Idiotic. Don't get me started, they wouldn't understand anyway.

You sigh, letting the smoke burn your throat before letting it out.

"In my defense, I apologized immediately."

"And still just as rude. You've been sheltered here. We have our rules on our turf."

You look him clearly in the eye for the first time all evening.

"We didn't ask. We were put on the spot, just like your management. That's one. Second, the territory here is not yours, it's theirs. Save your moralizing and lecturing, okay?"

You clamp the smoldering cigarette in your teeth, leaving your hands free. You're not yelling, judging by your tone you're just making conversation.

"I didn't do anything wrong, I even came to make up with you, even though you had nothing to do with the situation at all. So don't get worked up, lady."

The calmest of them all squeezes the shoulder of the guy breathing aggressively in your direction. Nice.

You throw the cigarette butt in the trash can and smile at the soldiers the way you smile at successful death jokes. As you walk away, you don't turn around, feeling your legs grow lighter with each passing second.

The unquenched thirst for the fight they've stirred up in you scrapes beneath your skin.

You do push-ups, squats, standing planks, wanking, brushing your teeth while you wash, and finally expel the unstoppable energy inside you. Closing your eyes you know that tomorrow you'll hate your decision to sleep in rather than spend two hours looking for information.

So at seven in the morning, Dr. Moon looks at your drained face with disapproval, and you stare at your laptop screen with annoyance.

There's no information on this Price guy.

Not even a Facebook page, not even a snippet in some archived newspaper.

You don't have access to local records yet, and--

You have to drink your coffee and take the first flight to the gym.

You think back to your high school days, standing here, behind the Captain's back while he lifts weights.

You're sure he must have sensed your presence, as long-serving military men often do.

But, since he decided to call you here (which by the way, caused you a lot of questions), you'll stare.

"Be polite. First impressions, dear. I beg of you, don't scare them off. The fact that you've been given a chance is already a huge breakthrough." Dr. Moon spoke. All day yesterday, before going out today.

But they already thought you were a stranger, didn't they? They've already seen the obvious fact that you don't fit into the narrow confines of the norm. So why try?

The muscles in his back were encased in a long-sleeved sweatshirt, his legs in loose athletic shorts pulling the fabric taut as he squatted with the barbell on his broad shoulders.

God, is that monster pumping his ass?

You snicker as he finishes his approaches. He catches your shameless stare in the mirror-you have nothing to hide. Let him not think you're better than you are.

His smirk lifts the neat bush on his face called a beard. He looks like a walrus.

You picture him in the shoes of that poor guy from 'Tusk' as the Captain wipes the sweat from his face with a towel.

"You're not in the database. I mean in yours, the institute's. You know about that?"

You don't answer, continuing to watch him walk. He reaches for the water bottle, apparently leaving you room to respond. You reluctantly take his offering.

"I cut myself out of it."

"Hacker, huh?" He grins skeptically.

His demeanor only triples your opinion of his treatment of you as entertainment. You bite your lip from the inside out, chewing on a piece of skin a little harder to taste the tang of blood.

"Can't find you either."

"Have you gotten to ours yet?"

"Negative, Captain." Blue eyes sparkle approvingly.

"Talked to someone, though. Good. I wouldn't have hoped so, given your performance the day before yesterday."

You remain calm. Expectedly, you need to settle things definitively now.

"I don't like the attention. I get nervous, I get creative. I find it easier to talk to work, not people." A little acting, a little honesty, a little understatement. He probably won't dig any deeper.

You step away from the wall, handing him a thin folder. There are literally two sheets in it, one of which is the cover page.

"A more detailed work plan, if you agree. I understand you'll be here for a couple more weeks." He pulls away from the text and looks into your eyes with a mute question. Even though he likes your idea, he's still deeply unconvinced of you himself. You flip to the first page and point your finger to the bottom corner. Right under Dr. Moon's signature.

"Yours?"

"Name, yes."

That's the payoff. A little information about you in exchange for your cooperation. Never mind that he could have gotten your name just by asking the guys who let you into the base a couple months ago. Or even easier, by approaching Dr. Moon directly, she wasn't exactly hiding, all loud and stern and friendly.

But, now that you've told him the name like that, like you're apologizing... He's gonna go along with this project, right?

"How's it gonna go down?"

Oh, yeah, like a sweetheart.

It's not going exactly as expected. You had hoped that, after yesterday's brainstorming session with Dr. Moon, where she criticized you to the hilt, your work wouldn't be questionable for at least some of the required research points. But, you argue while you walk to the shower, argue while he washes, argue through the locker room door.

You're easily obsessed. Work in particular.

And when someone tries to cut your already flawed work list down to two items, you can't stop. All calm goes to hell.

Although, it's worth noting that the Captain's not as hard-headed as you'd expect. It's like he's genuinely interested in getting results.

Why, then, is he trying to take the tool away from you?

You've been sitting in his office for an hour. You've finally gotten the real reason out of him for refusing certain interviews, certain data from the archive, and the amount of time to talk to you.

If you give in to him, you'll be left with two days of interviews, unable to observe his fighters or communicate with them outside of the interview on the officially approved form. Moreover, he's not willing to give you access to official paperwork other than medical records for the last seven years.

And you're not willing to do that. You're not a fortune teller. You can't take information off the top of your head. You're already conceding on your own, unable to verify everyone's word on a polygraph, and unlikely to be able to get videotapes of their interactions over the years within the walls of the base. For all that, you're delineated by geographic boundaries. Both facilities and countries.

And so, you can be lied to, miscommunicated, kept out, overlooked, disregarded, uncooperative, not tolerated for more than two days, and even with all of that....

"What do you mean they won't let you talk?"

"He won't, your max is his medical records. And that, he's cleaning up his information too."

Okay. Minus one. Whoever this Ghost-guy is. It's all the same.

"I need three days for an interview. I'm willing to chase you and your boys all over the place, But I need more time." You watch him scratch his chin. "Tell me who I don't need to approach and..."

"You won't believe this, missy, they're not exactly sociable either. It's easier to name the ones who won't be stressed by your meddling. Two days will be more than enough."

It was starting to smell like shit.

"How many."

"Five."

No yelling. No emotion. He's just probing you. Putting a price on you.

"Okay. Five people then, but a day each."

He whistles. His eyes sparkle like he's watching a lumbering animal. In that shitty uniform of his and his gleeful confidence. Santa fucker on steroids.

"Or, you give me three days and a group of fifteen men."

"What makes you think that..."

"Oh, I roughly understand how this works. You have a core squad and those who are on the backup. You can keep my head, but leave the tails. I need more data." Toward the end of your sentence, you speed up, biting your tongue to keep from saying too much.

"Ten."

"We're not in the bazaar."

The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes smooth out a little.

"And I'm not haggling. Ten fighters. Two days."

Fucker.

"Okay, what about the archives?"

"Nothing. You're not getting them."

"Put a watcher on me! Have someone control what I look at and what I report."

"There's no such person, missy. They're all busy."

"One day. I don't have to eat, I don't have to get out of my seat. Just the paperwork."

"Do you think a watcher can do that too?"

"I thought the military are supermen, sir, aren't they?" You say it so seriously that he's almost ready to start answering the question. Instead, he relaxes again, letting out a chesty chuckle.

"You'll need more days. At least one to organize all that pile of information."

"I'm a child of the internet. It'll all fall into place in my head."

"Still."

Price is looking at it, pricing it. You can hear the hands of the clock on his desk ticking. Your gut feeling is that it's about 9:00 in the morning. Give or take an hour, over your argument you weren't really keeping track of time.

"I'll give you three days. But from five to seven in the morning and maybe in the evening. With a condition."

"All ears."

What does he want? For you to do a backflip?

"You'll be eating in the common room this week."

"That's..."

"It's a prerequisite. If you're working with me, it's not appropriate for you to chase your mentor to carry your own food."

"It's not a matter of business. Don't think I'm going to consider it extra time for data collection. I'm not going to talk to them while they're eating. Suddenly they'll choke and I'll be charged with state treason."

"That's not the point. You want this to work out, don't you? Then don't separate yourself from them. They'll tell you more, and they'll give me less to think about. You come with me after morning at the archives, sit at the same table with us, explain to the guys what this is all about. If they agree to cooperate on their own, I won't interfere."

It sounded reasonable, actually. But you couldn't escape the feeling that he was just bossing you around.

"Coming with you so the other soldiers can smother me with a pillow out of jealousy?"

"I go to training from seven to eight. Suppose I took the little scientist under my mighty wing, eh? Besides, that's the way it is so far."

"Thinking of killing my sleep, then my body, and then my soul while I try to talk to your sharks?"

"I'm considered a worse shark than they are, and you're doing a great job so far."

You clench your fists under the table, bite your cheek, lean back, rub your face, and sigh. The blue of his stupid eyes hover on the back of your eyelids.

"You look like a walrus." You quietly bleat into your palms on your face. He laughs.

[liminsendhelp]

Don't pet the flea cat

Price×f!reader

Tags: slight description of reader (chubby, muscular, strong, denying gender as a concept), possibly slightly sociopathic/autistic reader, profanity, denial of authority, evil scientist on the way to becoming.

tags and warns are the same as in the last post, srry, I don't have time to make it more civilized and readable.

Enjoy

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Since you're an adult with an immense ego lying in the depths of the ocean, you accept the challenge.

You can be quite social. Even with animals.

Before lunch (you noticed this back in the first week) there was always smoke coming from one of the cubbyholes.

The recruits smoked there quietly, after training, as if they really believed no one knew about it.

You left your dressing gown in the office, appearing to Dr Moon in all your immediate black-as-fuck guise.

So you were less conspicuous for sneaking up on smokers after all.

"Got a cigarette, soldiers?"

The one on duty last night flinches. He snorts when he sees your nonchalant face. His aggressive friend scowls.

"Smoke your own."

"No lighter either?"

"Are you stupid?"

"No, you're confusing me with someone else."

Your face is the dark smooth water of the Bermuda Triangle. He's lost and uncomprehending looking at you.

There's a rustle of some kind off to the side. You take out a packet of cigarettes and shove one of them into his hand.

You light the other one defiantly with your 'not working' lighter.

"Stop pouting. Maybe I liked you and you're chasing me away."

"Oh, don't give me that fucking shit."

"Why? Maybe I have a fetish for stuffed cabbage."

"A what?" Raises an eyebrow at the aggressive soldier. Your cigarette has already travelled to his pocket.

"It's mincemeat in a lettuce leaf." Smirks the third soldier.

Conversation. It's a thing people have been bugging you about for years.

You're an expert at talking if you don't like someone.

So half an hour later, you're sitting with the recruits at the same table while they laugh off your insults in their direction.

They feel unhumbled just because every name-calling from you is incredibly stupid. If someone tries to take offence or starts responding to you, it looks so stupid that the aggression immediately ends with a new wave of laughter.

"What the fuck do you need science for? You're a clown."

"I decided not to take your job. I could never resist natural talent."

He's immediately repelled by the next one.

"You know what they say about people who talk too much? That they're good targets with legs."

"I'm really glad you're in such demand."

"You'll get one of us to beat you to death."

"Taking after your stepfather, Chad?"

"If I were you, I'd-"

"If I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut all day long. You have such a pretty mouth when you don't talk, baby."

Someone whistles under your ear. Quietly, so as not to attract any more attention than they already do. The last of the defeated soldiers blushes, seems about to respond, but is already driven back. The next ones lunge forward, waiting for their portion of shit on their heads.

It's so strange how they're all annoyed and fascinated by you at the same time. Little rats in a cramped cage around a shabby cat.

"What do you think of my mouth?"

"Capacious. Next."

"And with those lips you suck your father's dick?"

"I don't think that would be possible."

"He's dead? That's a shame."

"Didn't give me anything but heartburn, either." You tapped yourself on your stomach, grinning. "But I did feel better after I came home and snacked on your mum. Say hi, son."

After five minutes, everything subsides. One of the soldiers with a name you were too lazy to remember gently claps you on the shoulder, ducking down.

"The lions are in the enclosure."

You crane your neck in the direction everyone has abruptly turned away from.

"Why the reaction?"

"Do you realise who this is?"

"A very successful and respected unit. But you're fighting puppies here too, aren't you?"

You're pinched and turned towards the plates.

"They might not do anything to you, but we had an entire squad run from breakfast to dinner for one fucker staring at Ghost. Not that we weren't used to that, but the ones who collapsed from overexertion were fired."

Yeah. The taciturn cretin has a sense of humour. Plus point for him, minus five for the soldier who clearly isn't telling the whole story.

"Couldn't agree more with his methods. Especially since it worked. But 'not staring' and acting the way you do are different things."

He rocks and eats in silence. You turn around again and catch Price's gaze.

You raise an eyebrow. He nods.

You get up from your seat. Five seconds later, you slam the bars of the cage shut. A dray cat in an enclosure with lions.

"You eat the delinquents?"

Ghost watches you the same way he did the entire time you walked to their table - blank and black eyes. The question was asked into the air to probe the atmosphere at the table. You suspected that each of them was not far removed from their subordinates in their sense of humour. To insult them directly you could not, unfortunately.

Instead of the expected ignoring, at most a chuckle from Price, you get a greasy Manchester accent in your ears. The cloth mask moves in time with the movement of his mouth.

Skull. Really? You hadn't noticed.

Is he goth or emo?

"No. Just killing."

"What do you do with the teeth?"

"We pull them out and store them until we run out of bullets."

"Can I have a couple of dozen? Preferably rotten ones with holes in them. They make good necklaces."

Wow, they're all so much the same in this eagerness to fight even as a joke.

You don't notice yourself leaning closer to him in response.

"Are you a dentist?"

"I'm a scientist. But I've dissected a couple of corpses. Would you like to be a test subject?"

"Do I get a lab coat?"

"Yes, you can even sign it. You know how to do that, don't you?"

"How trivial. And this is a man of science?"

You have identical grins on your faces. You pull back the same way, in unison.

"John Soap McTavish." He holds out his hand.

"Your boss's boss in five years." You extend your hand in return.

He snorts, but accepts that wording. You shake hands, trying to break each other's palms. At some point, you stop moving your hands, just squeezing your fingers on each other's hands. Your chapped skin turns white from the force you exerted, your face remaining calm. You stare into Soap's eyes with the certainty of your failure, making you angrier and darker than you were a moment before.

His palms are larger, and he tries to take advantage of this by pressing on the pain point with his thumb. But you're already there, pressing your thumb into his muscle. Soap doesn't react. His grip on your limb has cut off the blood supply, you feel a slight numbness, but you're stubborn. You can't back down.

"Will you stop?" Price's low, husky voice almost makes you listen. Fucking shame.

"She's first."

You snicker. Nope, fuck no.

Abruptly pulling his palm towards you, you lean in with your tongue out. Before you can touch his skin, Soap releases you with a nervous chuckle. Thankful that he has a modicum of squeamishness in him. You're sure the same Ghost would let you lick his hand all you want.

Would have let me lick Price?

What.

As Soap wipes non-existent saliva from his palm on his trouser leg, a fourth man begins to speak.

"You're rabid, aren't you?" His hair is dark and curly, his eyes like a cow's, understanding. He examines you, rough, dishevelled. You probably do smell wild. But he nods anyway and holds out his hand to you. "Gas."

Your eyebrow flicks upwards. Before you ask which Autobot his father slept with, he gives you the full version of the name.

"Kyle, Garrick."

You nod and release his hand after a brief handshake. Soap looks indignant. I wonder how much more indignant he'd be if you hadn't restrained your urge to tell Gaz how handsome he is by the dog's standards.

"Ghost." Burps Manchester across from you.

"I know."

That's it. There's no more greeting to be had.

You look around at them all, forcing yourself to let go of all your clamps and shyness. You're equal. Not in the front, not in the back. On the side. They're just the biggest piece of meat you've ever tried to bite off.

"Analysing mental and physical changes in groups of individuals involved in combat. Draft title of my future article. Depending on the amount of information, the study period may include data from 2 to 15 years. If you are consenting, you will only be required to be interviewed on agreed questions about your well-being." Access to medical records is not their concern. They have no voting rights here, and you hope they realise that.

"Agreed to by whom?"

"First with my superiors, then with yours. Then…" You look meaningfully in Price's direction. "Supervisory concurrence. Your status protects you from my scientific hunger. Naturally, everything is anonymous. If this work ever sees the light of day, which I hope it does, it will be in as abridged and polished a state as possible."

"Then why?"

"Developing more effective rehabilitation programmes. Strengthening the psychological care staff for active military personnel. That's just as an example."

"No. Why would you do that?"

You stare into the black hole of his eyes. Lie or half-tell? All at once.

"I don't like losing opportunities that lie in front of my nose. You have interesting brains, and I want to understand them. Violence is in human nature, but you touch the most perverse part of it almost daily."

"The truth."

You tilt your head to the side. Interrupted, rebuked for lying. Truthful, but, it doesn't take away from your irritation. It's like your face is sharpening. A truly insulted cat.

"Okay. I got knocked over with the first sentence. With no explanation."

"Subject?"

"Rape."

There's no reaction at the table. At that moment, the silence around you, the obvious observation of dozens of pairs of eyes, becomes even more obvious and louder. You're genuinely surprised. No negativity, no derision.

"I realised the odds of consent were slim. But I couldn't help but check. Such 'projects' - if they have the good fortune to be realised in any way - are always investigations, private. Uncovered on the spot, destroyed on the spot. And I wanted, still want, to gather information, opinions, confessions. In an anonymous form. Bottom line, I'd put it in front of them," You look up meaningfully for a second, "like the charred cross of Christ, for edification." You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to drop your shoulders and exhale. Your tone doesn't rise for a second, but the mask of biting friendliness has come off completely. Two pairs of equally empty eyes. You spoke even quieter. "And I can't be penalised for taking the initiative, I'm in a safer position. As someone outside the system."

Ghost hummed.

"You want to do one study under the guise of another?"

"One would be enough with my head. But, yes, if I can."

You feel questioning waves of looks from Pryce, sitting to your left. You can't call his surprise ostentatious, but there are signs in the way his breathing becomes a little quieter, more focused, the way his head tilts.

A captain should know his soldiers. And he did, so he didn't expect any interest from Ghost. You can't disagree.

And you can't help but push.

"So?"

Ghost nods slowly. Brilliant.

In addition to you winning it, bonus goes to the other two. If you get the hierarchy right, the smaller tanks will follow those three in a string of smaller tanks.

pls write a review, tell me how bad this is and why I should stop writing. love kisses. punch heart like you've wanted to punch your dad for a long time

[liminsendhelp]

What is readers description in don’t pet the petal cat supposed to be? Is reader all or are we supposed to pick can you name a specific body please sorry to ask btw

Hi. I envision her as a rugged, scowling woman of 21-25. About 170 centimeters, dense, soft on her sides, but firm in her hands and grip. Former sport - box. Smells like oldspice, cigarettes and coffee. Probably got gastritis.

Maybe brown, dark eyes, very expressive face. There are almost always circles under the eyes. Lips are bitten, nails cut short so she doesn't bite them.

If she's not frowning or blank in her gaze, there's an ironic crease between her eyebrows and a mocking smile on her lips.

I drew her in different ethnicities a couple months ago. I'll post it later.

As for her mentality you can tell by the way she treats people. I think she's been suppressing her emotions for too long, because to allow attachment is to open Pandora's box, and she knows she's overly cruel and callous on the inside. This, however, does not prevent a kind of call for justice. Acts for her own ends, and the ends of those she loves. Polyamorous. Denies gender as a social construct. Capable of falling in love with anything that speaks or thinks.

You can imagine anyone anyway, I think I was trying to avoid specifically mentioning signs of appearance for that purpose.

But considering she's certainly not underweight. Someth between endomorph and mesomorph.

[liminsendhelp]

Some reader sketches

What is readers description in don’t pet the petal cat supposed to be? Is reader all or are we supposed to pick can you name a specific body please sorry to ask btw

Hi. I envision her as a rugged, scowling woman of 21-25. About 170 centimeters, dense, soft on her sides, but firm in her hands and grip. Former sport - box. Smells like oldspice, cigarettes and coffee. Probably got gastritis.

Maybe brown, dark eyes, very expressive face. There are almost always circles under the eyes. Lips are bitten, nails cut short so she doesn't bite them.

If she's not frowning or blank in her gaze, there's an ironic crease between her eyebrows and a mocking smile on her lips.

I drew her in different ethnicities a couple months ago. I'll post it later.

As for her mentality you can tell by the way she treats people. I think she's been suppressing her emotions for too long, because to allow attachment is to open Pandora's box, and she knows she's overly cruel and callous on the inside. This, however, does not prevent a kind of call for justice. Acts for her own ends, and the ends of those she loves. Polyamorous. Denies gender as a social construct. Capable of falling in love with anything that speaks or thinks.

You can imagine anyone anyway, I think I was trying to avoid specifically mentioning signs of appearance for that purpose.

But considering she's certainly not underweight. Someth between endomorph and mesomorph.