#knows next to ZERO about modern slang and shit

[teconkaals]

Walking With A Ghost Chapter 1

The mission Alone from Modern Warfare 2 (reboot) but from Ghost’s POV.

AO3 Chapter link: Chapter 1 Not So Cold

Fanfic Masterlist: Here

Next Chapter: Chapter 2: One More Heartbeat

Wordcount: 5819

Rating: Mature

Tags of the fanfic (some of them): hurt/comfort, taking care of each other, blood and violence, happy ending, non explicit sex

A/N: I know that there are phrases that aren't the same as in the game. I apologize, I'm not familiar with English slang and it would be weird if I used it in one chapter and not in the rest. I also apologize for a joke that only makes sense in Spanish (a lion that ate soap). In Spanish, foam is said "espuma" which, if you break it apart, means "es puma" (it's puma) and the joke is that the lion turned into foam (which is a pun on "es puma" and "espuma"). I know, explaining a joke is the same as dissecting a frog, but it's the only one that I haven't been able to adapt because there's an analogy that I haven't been able to translate either. I'm sorry. Hope you like it anyways.

I don’t give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform (I’m publishing on my Ao3 account both English and Spanish).

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY - TF 141 NOT SO COLD LAS ALMAS, MEXICO NOVEMBER 9, 2022, 02:15

“I copy.”

Ghost blew out his breath at the sound of his companion's voice. He knew it was him because of that horrible Scottish accent.

“We almost lost you.” When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

The other snorted and he knew he’d composed one of his usual smirks.

“Are you hurt?”, he added, remembering he’d fallen down a ditch.

“I’m solid”, Soap replied quickly.

Ghost frowned a little as he heard a grunt of pain hidden behind his words. He didn’t know if he was doing it to be tough or not to worry him, in either case, he had to keep him alive. All of this had happened under his command and he felt responsible.

“Well, let’s see how good you are”, he said, pretending not to notice. “Don’t lose blood. You’re gonna need every drop you got.”

“Thanks for the tip.” He paused before speaking. “Where’re you?”

Simon looked around. He’d made it to the city in one piece and had taken refuge in an alley, narrowly escaping from Grave’s men. The place was poorly lit, but he didn't mind: on the contrary, he appreciated the gloom. Going unnoticed was the most important thing at the moment, moving like a ghost. And he was really good at it. Still, he needed to meet with Soap. He needed to find a meeting point that was easy for both of them to recognize.

Who’d say…

“I saw a church”, he answered and stood up. “Good place for an RV. I’m going there.”

“Saw it”, nodded Soap and sighed. “Graves and his Shadows are making a mess.”

“They’re looking for Hassan”, answered Ghost, indifferent, and looked at both sides of the alley.

“Hassan and us”, he grunted.

“Don’t get distracted”, Ghost recommended. “You’re going to have to improvise in order to survive. Look for supplies, something to make tools and weapons.” He composed a bitter half smile. “Welcome to the guerrilla.”

At that moment, a memory tried to break through and Ghost pushed it back to its corner, weary. That had been a long time ago, when he was young. What the hell, he was still young. The problem was that his entire life, from childhood to adulthood, had been reduced to violence.

“Holy shit… poor fool…”

Soap’s voice distracted him and he stopped on the spot, looking around for enemies. He located one in front of him and he crouched, approaching slowly and in silence. Ghost prepared a knife and grabbed the Shadow, covering his mouth so he wouldn’t scream. He stabbed him in the throat twice and left him on the ground.

“What’ve you seen?” He asked softly.

“A bloodbath.”

The resignation in John’s voice reminded him of himself, when he joined the army.

“Worry about your ass… you’ve, exactly, zero allies here.

“I thought we’re friends”, Soap commented. There was a teasing edge to his voice, yet Simon didn’t fail to notice a slightly hurt tone in it.

“We’re teammates”, he corrected, choosing the dimly lit street at a fork. “Friendship isn’t in the manual, Johnny.”

“Neither does putting on a mask.”

Ghost accused the blow without saying anything. He didn’t know if there was a double meaning in that sentence, but his subconscious interpreted it that way. Put on a mask and pretend he was a tough guy? No. He was a tough guy. A feelingless killing machine. He’d never been allowed to have feelings, why would it be any different now? Why would he have to open up? Because that bloody Scot was hell-bent on treating him like they’re friends? No. They’re partners, nothing more.

Are you sure, Simon?

He closed his eyes briefly and forced himself to take a deep breath. A couple of Shadows were walking down the street, so he hid in the shadows of a doorway and waited patiently. As the two men passed by his side, he let them take a few steps before leaving quietly. He stabbed one in the chest and the other, who turned towards him quickly, pushed him against the wall and plunged the knife into his throat. He held him there, pressing his hand hard against his mouth, until he stopped moving.

Ghost pulled out the knife and wiped it on the Shadow’s clothing before putting it away.

Perhaps he fooled the rest of his companions, but not himself. Ghost hadn’t cared for anyone in years, except for Price. That guy, obsessed with cigars and hats, had pulled him out of the hole he had gotten into long ago. He’d dusted him off his clothes, patted him on the back, and spat out a handful of kind words when Simon needed them most.

He saved your ass too, remember?

Well, that too.

“I’ve found a flashlight. It’s not… far from its owner.”

Soap’s voice startled him. Again. That fool wouldn’t shut up even under water. He was alone, in the middle of enemy territory, and he wouldn’t stop talking. On the other hand… Well, hearing him meant he was still alive and that was fine.

He took a deep breath.

“Be careful with it”, he warned him. “You’ll see better, but you’ll attract more attention.”

Ghost didn’t like flashlights. They’re like putting a fucking neon sign on top of him with the words I’m here written on it. However, he knew that not everyone could move well in the dark. He steeled himself with patience when Soap snorted.

“What is it now?”, he asked, jumping over a fence and hiding behind some dumpsters.

“The mercenaries are killing everyone.”

Simon stared at the ground for a moment, his eyes blurring. Along the way, he came across the corpses of several families. Men, women, children. All killed in cold blood by the Shadows.

“War crimes”, he answered with a sigh, leaving his hiding place and entering a house.

“It makes me want to make a few.”

“Tyranny”, Ghost grunted, walking into the living room and stepping over the body of a woman. “It’s unsustainable.”

“Do you think they’ll give us the green light to go after these people?”

Ghost almost let out a bitter laugh out loud. Soap’s innocence and thirst for justice almost touched him.

Almost.

“No more green lights, Johnny. We’re alone.”

“Not at all.”

He stopped when he saw a flashlight. He backed up and searched for his location. Over there. Another pair of Shadows broke down a door to get inside. The tenants screamed and Ghost’s jaw clenched. He walked out the door and approached quietly. He was aware that he didn’t have time for this, that he had to move quickly to get out of there alive and save Soap’s ass; however, and despite everything, he couldn’t sit idly by. He pulled out a knife and threw it at one of the Shadows and left the house. He waited in the street for the other and tackled him before throwing him to the ground. He plunged a knife into his throat quickly and held it there until he stopped moving.

“What are you talking about?”, he asked Soap, remembering his comment.

“I’m sure Captain Price, and Laswell, would get us out of this joint.”

One corner of Ghost’s mouth turned up slightly.

“So you think? This time, Price isn’t here to save us and Laswell… Well, she’s close with Shepherd. Calling her would be a mistake. Alejandro is the only one who can be trusted… if he’s alive.”

Soap was silent for a few seconds and Ghost took the opportunity to keep moving through the city. The church was getting closer and he was certain that he would arrive long before his companion. John was getting too distracted by things that weren’t important, not right now. He had a lot to learn.

Are you going to blame him?

Of course not. In fact, a part of him was glad they weren’t the same. The other part felt a slight pang of envy. As a child, Ghost was always giggly, full of energy. Something that faded away, little by little, as he grew older. His broken family forced him to join the army to flee; however, it was late. The smile that always illuminated his face had been lost in tears, blows and pain.

“If they knew we’re here, they’d help us out.” Soap’s voice broke her train of thought again. “I trust them.”

“Choose well who to trust, Sergeant,” he growled a little bitingly. “The ones closest to you are the ones that can do the most damage.”

“Good advice, LT. I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused and, when he spoke again, it was with a hint of humor. “I think when I grow up I want to be like you.”

That made him sketch a tired half smile.

“I hope you’re better than me, Johnny.”

“Maybe I already am.”

Ghost sensed a smile on Soap’s lips.

“Then this is your chance to prove it.”

“Do you think I’ll live long enough?”

“Probably, not.”

“How ominous”, he replied without losing humor.

“Focus, Johnny”, he reminded him, shaking his head. “We’re not safe here.”

“I’m centere-Holy fucking shit.”

Ghost heard a dog barking over the radio and a pang of worry went through him. He hid in a portal.

“Johnny?”

“A fucking caged dog”, he replied with a snort.

Simon closed his eyes briefly, relieved.

“If it barks, shoot him and leave quickly. Don’t let them discover you.”

“How ruthless you are, Simon.”

Something stirred inside him when he heard Soap say his name. He’d always called him by his nickname, hearing his first name in his voice was… weird. Still, he didn’t dislike the feeling and he drifted with it for a few seconds before focusing again. Although he didn’t like people, John had earned his place near him. Despite all of Ghost’s attempts to keep him out, Soap always greeted him with a soft punch at the chest and a huge smile.

Fuck.

He cocked his head.

“What has two legs and bleeds?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” John asked in turn, confused.

“Half a dog.”

“What the hell…? Was that a joke?” He added, surprised.

“Maybe.” He left the portal and kept going forward towards the church. “Don’t let anything stop you, Johnny.”

The square was full of cars… and Shadows. On the other hand, there were many damaged streetlights, covering too many areas in darkness. This gave him an advantage. Moving in the shadows was a skill he’d honed over the years, something that earned him the nickname Ghost. He ran to the back of the church and jumped over the gate. He took out a handful of more enemies and got a sniper rifle. Ghost nodded to himself, removing all the ammunition from the corpse, and sneaked inside. John was still out there, alone and unarmed; if he could establish himself in one of the towers, and track him down, he could cover his back from there.

He glanced around until he came across some stairs. Simon didn’t meet anyone on the way up, though he wasn’t surprised either. The Shadows were searching the nearby surroundings of Alejandro’s base, Graves wouldn’t believe they had gotten this far in such a short time. And that had been a big mistake. Ghost was fast and, despite everything, Soap was too. The guy had earned his nickname for his remarkable speed, and precision, when it came to eliminating enemies; a handful of Shadows wouldn’t stop him so easily.

Even so…

“Where are you?”

“Out… in a dead end.”

“Get close to the walls and get down,” he ordered, adjusting his rifle. “You may get a brag rag for this.”

“A medal?” Soap asked mockingly.

“Oh, an award,”he replied helplessly.

He heard John click his tongue.

“That’s rubbish.”

“You said you wanted a win, right?” He reminded him. “Congratulations: you’re a winner.”

Soap laughed and mumbled something in Scots.

“English, MacTavish.”

“Sorry, sir,” he replied without losing humor. “Let me translate: Go fuck yourself.”

A smile drew on his lips.

“Much better.” He moved the rifle around the area, looking for a dead end, until he located Soap. “The church is north of the city,” he reminded him. “I’ve posted myself as a sniper in the tower. Fight your way up here and you might survive.”

Soap snorted in response and Ghost took another look around. He watched him make his way through the houses and surveyed the surroundings for enemies. Those near the church didn’t seem to have noticed that Ghost had passed by; the others… Well, he couldn’t see them all from there. Despite having a privileged position, the rain didn’t make things easier.

He located Soap again and fired at two Shadows that were nearby. He also saw several groups of narcos but, for now, they’re not a danger.

“Well… look at this,” John crooned. “Scotch tape.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow. Despite the time they had spent together, he was still surprised that his partner was so talkative.

“The tape can be very useful,” he just said, remembering all the uses he had given it throughout his life. None for good.

“In case I’ve to wrap a present?” Soap asked mockingly.

“It’s a way to look at it.” He couldn’t help but imagine Soap wrapping a present with duct tape and handing it to him. Ghost pushed that thought away quickly. “Keep it. It can be used to hold more than one thing.”

“Don’t forget I’m a smart boy, Lt.,” he replied, and Ghost heard the noise of the tape around something. Soap paused before continuing talking. “I’m about to play rough with the Shadows.”

Simon felt two emotions settle in this stomach. The first, fear for his partner. The second, the thrill of taking down those guys. He swallowed before speaking.

“I like the sound of this.”

His mate chuckled softly, like a child after a mischief.

“I’ve made a booby trap.”

Ghost raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“A man after my own heart…”

“Thought you would like it.”

Another smile that he couldn’t contain. That night he’d smiled more times than in recent years and it felt very strange.

“You thought well.”

“By the way…”

“Yeah?”

“Have you lost a knife?”

He moved the rifle and fired at a couple of narcos who were getting too close to the last spot where he saw Soap.

“Several.”

“Think I found one,” John crooned.

“Some of the dead Shadows are my handiwork,” he admitted.

“So you came through here.”

“Obvious. On my way to the church.”

“And you left me?”

Ghost raised an eyebrow at the tone of his partner’s voice. Soap sounded mocking, yet he had a hurt tinge to the bottom. Like when you drink a cup of fruity tea: at first it’s sweet but, in the end, it leaves a bitter aftertaste. He felt guilty for half a second. Nothing else.

“I’m used to working alone.”

“Thought no one was left behind.”

A reproach. The truth was that he’s right to throw it in his face. Despite being made up of people who had no relationship with each other, Task Force 141 behaved like one big family. That was one of its strengths… and weaknesses too. Maybe that’s why Soap seemed hurt by his comment.

Simon shook his head, suddenly irritated.

“Get to the church at once,” he snarled.

He looked around the area, trying to locate him. He couldn’t. Ghost supposed that Soap would continue moving through the interior of the houses.

“I’m trying to keep you alive, Johnny,” he added in a softer tone. “And that you get here in one piece. One of us has to live to tell the tale.”

His mate let out a soft laugh.

“So you like me now?”

“Not in the least. You still have a long way to go… don’t get distracted.”

Lightning lit up the city for barely a second and thunder followed, reverberating inside the tower. Ghost looked around and hoped the church had a good lightning rod. The sound of the rain hitting the roof grew more insistent and Simon forced himself to take a deep breath. The night was getting better.

John said something he didn’t understand and Ghost knew he was back to speaking Scots.

“Speak English.”

“It’s raining fucking hard!”

“Then say so,” he growled.

“I did! I’m going to give you a crash course in Scotch, Lt,” he added mockingly.

“Why learn a language when we both speak the same?”

Soap laughed.

“I’m a very good teacher.”

Ghost frowned a little. Had he noticed a seductive tone in his voice? No, it couldn’t be. Why would he flirt with him? He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Fooling around, as a concept, was something he didn’t do. Not even in his teenage years. Of course he had his moments, he wasn’t a novice at it, however, that kind of things was very low on his list of priorities.

On the other hand…

The idea of letting himself be loved by another person reared its head in his mind, testing the ground. Ghost let it through, curious to see where it took him as he struck down another enemy in the distance. His mother, and Amelia, had been the last to show him this kind of affection; the rest of the people he’d been with were just looking for something physical. He would never admit it, but sometimes he missed contact with another person. Nothing sexual, of course, just physical contact between two friends.

You don’t have friends, Simon, his mind reminded him.

He clicked his tongue and quickly pushed the thought away. It was also true. The only ones he had were Price and Amelia. And, well, maybe the Scottish fool. Ghost could have been gone for more than half an hour, yet there he was, perched on a church tower, like a demon watching over something that belonged to him.

“I’m more interested in you being a good student,” he finally answered. “Rain’s good. Will cover your tracks.”

“And theirs too…”

“We better worry about you, Johnny.”

“So…” again that mocking tone in his voice. “Do you like me now?”

“When you’re alive, yes.”

His partner chuckled and Ghost realized, too late, his comment. When you’re alive, yes. What the fuck was that? What the hell was he doing telling Soap he liked him? One thing was Simon knowing it and another thing was to release it to the four winds and for the rest to find out. Well, not everyone. As far as he was concerned, they’re alone on that channel for now. And through it all, Soap was discreet. Not that he cared about his reputation (something he didn’t exactly care about), but he considered it private.

And he didn’t share anything personal with anyone.

A small explosion, followed by the sound of gunshots, put him alert. He searched for the smoke in the rain and aimed the rifle there. His anxiety, and worry, climbed from his stomach to his throat at not locating Soap.

“Still upright, Johnny?”

Silence.

“Jonnhy?”

“I’m fine,” he replied with a huff. “Clear area.”

“Good.” Ghost sighed imperceptibly. “Stay alert and meet me at church.”

“Copy.”

He felt his heart calm down and unfocused his gaze for a moment. It had been a long time since he’d had a high like that. Adrenaline coursing through his veins after nearly dying from an enemy attack? Many times. Too many. A high for believing that he’s going to lose someone? Practically none. He could count the times with the fingers of one hand. And he would have plenty of fingers. He’d already told John and stood by it: he worked alone because loneliness was so much better than being forced to worry about those around him. Because that could cost him his life.

“I’m in a coffee shop,” Soap informed him.

A chill ran through him at the thought of a piping hot cup of tea.

“Bring me some tea,” he asked. “Though, right now, I’d kill for a whiskey.”

“Scottish, I hope.”

A smirk covered Simon’s lips.

“I drink bourbon.” It was a lie, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hurt his pride.

“Ah, you have no idea, Lt.” Soap snorted. “There’s only tequila here, anyway.”

“Don’t like it?”

“Tastes like dog piss.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Soap was silent for a few seconds.

“Do you also have a tactical use for it?”

Surprisingly, yes.

“Hunting wolves. The smell attracts them.”

“And, do you hunt with the mask on?” Again that mocking tone. Ghost was sure he had a smirk on his lips again.

“Of course. The camo version.”

“I’ll bet you sleep with that thing,” John gave a soft laugh.

“Soundly.”

“You’re out of your mind, Lt.”

“That’s for sure.”

It wasn’t true that he slept with the mask on. At least, not in his own room. In missions, and on the battlefield… there yes. He didn’t hide his face for privacy, he had no family left to lose if he was found out. No. The mask was for something else. Throughout his life he had discovered that, even the bravest soldier, was afraid of what he couldn’t understand. And more if there was little light. That someone like him (tall, robust and with a deep voice) approached with a skull for a mask, will scare anyone.

“You’re going to owe me one for this.”

Again, Soap’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to locate him. He couldn’t, so Simon deduced that Soap was still walking indoors.

“Why?”

“Because we’re fixing each other’s problems.”

“So you think?” He asked with some indifference. “And, what’s my problem?

“The mask…” Soap whispered. “Take it off.”

The way he said it made his hairs stand on end, raising goosebumps.

“Show my face?” He managed to ask.

“Yes, sir.”

“Negative.”

Soap chuckled.

“That’s because you’re ugly.”

“Quite the opposite.”

“I highly doubt it,” Soap continued using a mocking tone. “I’ll have to check it out. I think I deserve it.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Ghost asked. “Wanting to see my face?”

His partner was silent and Ghost felt that he had hit the nail on the head. However, when the silence went on too long, he grew concerned.

“Johnny?”

“Still here.” He paused before continuing with a more serious tone of voice. “It’s not all about seeing your face, Lt. There are other things.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve got a shotgun. It was tied to a trap, so I disarmed it and took it with me.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow at the obvious change of subject. He decided not to insist.

“Be careful with weapons. They produce noise and it’s convenient for you to go unnoticed.”

“Don’t worry, there are many ways to use a shotgun.”

The corner of his lips turned up a little, just for a few seconds. Then he took a deep breath and let it out gently. Soap hadn’t answered his question and now he was curious.

Damn.

That idiot was finishing turning his world upside down. And it was his fault for letting him do it. Yes, Soap was a charismatic guy, one of those who made others want to be around him, however, he hadn’t insisted so much with anyone else. Maybe he saw him as a challenge. Getting along with the grumpy and taciturn guy would be quite an achievement for someone like him. Was that how John saw him? No, he didn’t think so. The Scotsman was easy to read, like a bloody open book; that’s why (and because of his personality) people liked him, because he couldn’t fake something he didn’t feel. So, when John was looking at him that way, when he smiled at him and tapped his arm as he spoke, Ghost knew it was from his heart.

Simon closed his eyes when he was aware that the door he was trying to close was opening a little more. And he wasn’t sure if he liked it.

I need to think of something else.

“Hey, Johnny…”

“Yes, Ghost?”

“Graves is burning everything down to find us… why?”

Soap was silent for a moment.

“He’s just as involved as Shepherd,” he snorted. “Whatever it is, this is a complete bunch of bullshit and we need to get to the bottom of it.”

“These things are solved with precise and lethal fire, something we don’t have,” Simon sighed. “Besides, we’re not safe here right now.”

“We’re nowhere safe right now,” Soap growled bitterly.

He was right. Even if they made it out of Las Almas alive, the Shadows would be looking for them. They had to prepare a good plan, rescue Alejandro and his people and go after Graves. That bastard would pay for what he had done.

He looked around the city, looking for Soap. Simon located him a few streets further east, near a tunnel that led to the church. He better observed the streets and surroundings.

“The city’s full of tunnels, Johnny, and you’ve one very close that leads to here,” he informed him. “Although I warn you it’s flooded. If I were you, I’d prepare myself for a good cold bath.”

“Are you going to come down and swim with me, Lt.?” He asked in a mocking tone.

Tempting.

“I prefer to stay at the top of the tower. It’s much drier.”

“And more intimate. Are you seeking God's forgiveness?”

“God doesn’t exist,” he growled. “And if he does, he’s a fucking psycho.” Simon spied a group of people walking towards Soap. From the looks of them, they weren’t part of Grave’s men, so they’d to be narcos. “Have you entered the tunnel yet?”

“Nope.”

“Hurry up. If they catch you, they’ll kill you slowly.”

“Mercs or narcos?”

Ghost snorted.

“Narcos. They’ll take videos.”

“Oh, really? So, I should give them your email, so they know where to send them.”

“I don’t plan to see them. Not more than once.”

“You’re sick, Lt.”

Soap’s horrified tone of voice failed to distract him from the image that had just crossed Ghost’s mind. The idea that the narcos would torture his partner to death blocked him for a few seconds. He slammed the thought away and set his jaw, clenching hard on the rifle. If they put their hands on him, if they touched a single hair of his stupid hairdo, he would come down like a wrathful demon and rip their hearts out one by one.

He forced himself to take a deep breath.

Ghost had seen the videos that narcos recorded when they tortured and killed people. Not for fun, it wasn’t some kind of strange filia. It was, plain and simple, a way to feed him hatred; a way to remind him that his work was necessary. To remind him that people were the worst that had existed in a long time.

Well, not everyone is the worst, he reminded himself.

Of course he was generalizing, because doing so was so much easier. On the other hand, it made it more difficult for him to bond with people. It wasn’t something he wanted either, however…

This shit again, no.

He needed to be distracted again.  And maybe Soap too. He took a deep breath and cocked his head.

“Two goldfish are in a tank…” He began tentatively.

An amused snort came to him over the radio.

“Is this another one of your jokes, Lt.?”

“Maybe. I’ve seen you a little tense.”

“Sure,” he chuckled softly. “Two goldfish are in a tank. What else?”

“One turns to the other and says, ‘You know how to drive this thing?’” There was silence on the other end of the radio and he shrugged. “Little army humor.”

“Very little…”

Despite his words, Ghost heard a smile in his tone.

“Another one?” He asked, encouraged. One of the few things in life that he liked were bad jokes.

“Why not.”

“Why don’t blind guys skydive?”

“No idea, tell me.”

“Because dogs get shit scared.”

Very bad jokes.

“It’s been terrible, Lt.”

“Could you do it better?” He challenged him.

“Sure. Why don’t shrimp share?”

He frowned, trying to find a suitable answer.

“Why?”

“Because they’re a little shellfish.”

Ghost stared at infinity for a second while a stupid smile formed on his lips.

“And you say my jokes are bad.”

“I’ve another one.”

“Tell me.”

“What happened to the lion that ate a piece of soap?”

Simon was silent. Was that an analogy? He was the lion and John the soap? He wasn’t trying to eat his mate… was he? Ghost envisioned a scene he hadn’t expected and instantly closed his eyes, shaking his head.

Fuckin’ Scottish bastard.

“Your brain is fried and I still haven’t finished telling you the joke.”

Soap’s mocking voice brought him back to reality.

“Sorry, I thought I heard a noise around here. False alarm,” he added quickly. “Tell me, what happened to the lion?”

“Now he’s a puma.”

He closed his eyes again and stifled a small laugh. It had been a very bad joke.

“Not bad,” he admitted.

“But you laughed.”

“At all.”

“Come on, Lt., the radio captures things better than you think. Fuck!”

“What the hell…? Freeze!” The voice of a Shadow yelled. “Attention, Shadows! There’s one near the church!”

Heart pounding, Ghost searched for Soap. When he located him, he fired without hesitation. The Shadow that was aiming at John fell to the ground, dead. Simon allowed himself the luxury of seeing if his partner was okay before moving the weapon to take down two more Shadows.

“Holy shit…” John whispered into the radio and Simon felt a weight lift from his shoulders. “Was it you, Ghost?”

He snorted.

“Who else?” He replied. “Come on, let’s move. You’re almost there.”

A noise behind him startled him. Ghost put the rifle to his back and drew the pistol. He checked that it’s loaded and waited. Simon heard gunshots down in the plaza and feared for Soap, yet he couldn’t be distracted now. His life depended on being sharp. A few minutes later, a group of Shadows appeared in the room and Ghost shot two of them. He pushed a third out of a window and he stabbed a fourth in the throat. Ghost left the tower and started down the stairs quickly. He fired at three more Shadows and reloaded the gun.

“Ghost, do you copy?”

Soap’s calm voice reassured him enough to know he was okay.

“I’ve got company at church, Johnny,” he replied, firing twice more, “and I doubt they’ll come to confession. Go to the stairs, I’ll see you there.”

“Roger, Lt.”

He sensed that Soap wanted to say something else, however, he must have thought better of it and kept silent. Maybe he was too busy trying to get out of the shooting alive, just like him.

The stairs were over there.

He ran down the ground floor of the church, turning only to fire, and out the front door. He saw Soap on the other side of the gate. Ghost breathed a sigh of relief and took a running run to jump over the grating. His partner opened fire, knocking out three Shadows. Simon took advantage of some boxes to push himself up and go over the fence, reuniting with Soap. Ghost glanced at him to make sure he was fine, except for a wound on his right arm, and he headed downstairs.

Of course he lied when he said he wasn’t hurt.

“Keep your eyes open, Johnny,” he commanded. “They know that we’re here… and that it’s us. They’ll send more men, so you’ve to be prepared.”

“Okay, let’s find a vehicle and get out of here.”

They positioned themselves behind a car and Ghost looked at Soap. He was smiling. Of course John was smiling, when did he not have one on his lips? He had a smile for almost any situation and, in those moments, Soap was giving him encouragement; telling him that everything would be fine. He was saying it to him.

Fucking Scottish bastard, he growled, nodding at him and stepping out of cover.

Someone fired from the left and they returned fire almost blindly, taking cover behind a van. Ghost looked around quickly until he saw a truck just up the road. The lights were on, which was a good sign. That could mean that, apart from having a battery, there was a high probability that it also had the keys in it.

“Soap, truck right ahead.”

“I see it!”

“I drive.”

They ran toward it and Ghost opened the driver’s door. He pulled the corpse out of the seat and checked to see if the keys were in it. He sighed in relief and closed the door, waiting for his partner to get into the car with him. He started the engine as Soap got in next to him.

“Alright, Johnny,” he congratulated him. “You made it”.

Soap turned to look at him and composed his sly smile, that one he had begun to appreciate.

“We made it, Lt.” He pointed out.

Ghost outlined a half smile under his mask. He didn’t last long as a burst of shots ricocheted off the chassis of the vehicle. Soap spun around, gun pointed, and Simon stepped into the clutch. He put it in reverse and turned around to get a better look.

“Hold on!”

He ran over the two Shadows that were shooting and braked. Soap laughed.

“That’s a good way to do it!” He said, looking at him. John looked away from him and drew the gun again. “Get back!”

Ghost struck to the seat and Soap fired, taking down another enemy. He looked at his partner, who still had the gun in the air, and noticed how the corner of his own lips turned into a small smile. At the same time, he felt a slight warmth in his chest, something familiar but distant at the same time. Something he hadn't felt in many years. Something that, perhaps, was not so bad.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

John turned to Ghost and smiled at him for a second. Soap patted his shoulder and turned in the seat, facing the rear of the vehicle.

“Drive, I shoot!”

Ghost nodded and floored the accelerator, taking down a couple of market stalls and an awkwardly parked car. Soap fired a couple of times before sitting up better in the seat. Simon glanced at him. He was smiling as he looked out the window. The bastard was smiling again and, worst of all, he was too. It wasn’t a smile like his, it wasn’t even a full smile. Perhaps, from the outside, it was perceived as a grimace. But for someone like Ghost, who hadn’t smiled in over ten years, it was enough.

[mrfandomwars]

Commander Bacara does not hate Ki-Adi Mundi, send tweet.

[bugmomwrites]

Class 1B and how they embarrassed themselves in front of their crushes (guys):

Ladies version will be made if this one doesn’t flop. Thank @thatgirlgames for helping me brainstorm and giving me something to cackle about at 4am(?) on a Wednesday

Awase Yousetsu learned to dance from Mina and was excited to show you. Called out to you and some of the others in the common room from the second floor hallway to “check out some fucking amazing moves”, then tripped over his own feet and went tumbling down the stairs. Landed face first and refused to lift up his head to look you in the eyes, even after you ran over to ask if he was okay.

Kaibara Sen and you were gardening together. He was helping you dig so he used his quirk to show off be more efficient. He drilled his arm into the dirt and oops he’s stuck. Laughs a little at first but he actually can’t get it out. The more he activates it the deeper it goes until the soil is well past his elbow. Has to sit there like an idiot until you return with a trowel- the very same one he said you “wouldn’t need” because his quirk was supposedly better.

Kamakiri Togaru was helping you cook and also used his quirk to try to impress you. It was your turn for dinner duty and he jumped at the chance to spend time with you. You two were cooking chicken with lemon butter sauce for the whole dorm. Turns out when you retract the blade back into your skin from just cutting a lemon it burns like a bitch. Let out the most unholy scream and scared the daylights out of you.

Kurorio Shihai and Tokoyami are poetic brothers. That and he likes taboos. He shows up outside your dorm room at midnight sharp because he thought it was more romantic that way. He’s holding a piece of lined paper, trying to read you a poem he wrote. But you have no clue what he’s talking about, using all these big fancy words you don’t understand. ☠️ Scary Night Man is visibly shaking in front of you, the hallway completely silent aside from his stuttering and the occasional crinkle of paper.

Shishida Jurota actually tried to meme with the class in the group chat. Unfortunately, he didn’t know what the words meant so he sounded like a whole ass boomer. Like when your dad misuses modern slang to sound cool in front of your friends. The guys still haven’t let him live it down. They have screenshots and everything.

Shoda Nirengeki tried to show you how much you meant to him by cooking your favorite things in the dorm kitchen. Thought you’d love to wake up to the smell of your favorite food wafting up to where you sleep. Instead you woke up to a fire alarm, and Shoda standing in the middle of all the carnage. Tried to offer you a bowl of cereal as a peace offering later.

Tsuburaba Kosei would do just about anything for you, so it’s more what didn’t he do to try and impress you. There’s just so many instances of him doing stupid shit. But one of the most iconic moments would probably have to be when the class went on a hike, and he found some cat tail reeds growing by a swamp. Picked one up and told you he “found some wild glizzies” before chomping into it like a corn dog. Pollen went everywhere, and he accidentally spit some in your face.

Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu has tried to prove how strong his quirk was by letting the guys fucking throw him like a damn bowling ball. Shishida did the best job in his opinion, followed closely by Bondo, but now there’s a giant hole in the drywall of the common room, and Vlad wasn’t too thrilled about it, making him clean it all up.

Fukidashi Manga tried impressing you by reading up and binge-watching your favorite shows and comics. All in one night. The next morning, running on zero sleep, he tried to impress you from what he’s read/watched and got most of the stuff wrong because his brain was pretty much toast from the all nighter and numerous energy drinks. Passed out in the middle of the day, and The Bois TM had to drag him to the nearest couch.

Honenuki Juzo offered to give you a massage after a long day of training. Grateful to have some sort of relief, you told him where the main knots were and sat down in front of him. This was the closest he’s ever been to you, so he was (understandably) nervous. As a result, he accidentally rubbed too hard in the wrong places and made it worse. Eventually you’ve had enough and say you’ll just take a hot shower and he feels so guilty🥺 You reassure him that it’s not so bad but every time you move he can see you fighting back painful noises. Definitely haunts him at night as he stares up at the ceiling asking himself “why are you like this”.

Bondo Kojiro was trying to impress you by lifting things up easily since you admired how strong he was. It started off normal enough, from bags you couldn’t carry to even giving you a piggyback ride to your room after you fell asleep on the couch downstairs during class movie night. But holy shit now he’s showing off by holding half the class in his arms, and ends up dropping them all because it was just Too Much. Everyone was covered in bruises and grumbling about the fall and he felt guilty for weeks after. The fact that you weren’t one of them does offer some peace of mind for him though, and Kendo is quick to remind him of this :’)

Monoma Neito copied your quirk for shits and giggles thinking he’d “show you how it’s done”. You warned him about the side effects, but his pride wouldn’t let him see reason and he made sure he had all eyes on him before activating your quirk. It went alright for about a minute or so, and then it started to act up. He couldn’t get a handle on it at all, destroying everything around the room while the guys laughed at him and you panicked. He got his ass handed to him just as you predicted, and mocking him quickly became an inside joke among some of your classmates.

Rin Hiryu is naturally cold blooded as a result of his quirk. He always has to be bundled up in the colder months or his immune system will turn against him. And yet, when it started raining on your way back from a grocery run for the week’s dinner, like a gentleman he shrugged his jacket off and insisted that you wear it. Of course you turned him down, you knew he’d get sick, but he refused to put it back on, throwing it over you and zipping it up. Sure enough, he ended up with a cold the next day, but the only lesson he learned was that getting sick means you dote on him until he’s better. 🤦

[jackblankhsh]

Why I Quit:  Hotel Concierge

When I took the job at the hotel I expected something more glamorous.  The day I arrived for work, finding in the parking lot a naked man in Santa beard and cap beating a pimp with a sock full of batteries – I suspected the description related over the phone might not have been accurate.

 The pool did not resemble a glittering sapphire.  Rather, it seemed to be a kidney shaped mound of dirt dotted by several tombstones for pets.  The complex of hotel suites, a hive of rooms in a horseshoe, suggested a building could get addicted to meth, suffering all the adverse physical side effects associated with such; graffiti tattooed brick; an odd implicative assortment of vehicles in the lot, from high end luxury SUVs to rust bucket sedans; occasional whiffs of fresh mint stabbing through a miasma of weed, piss, and compost… part of me wondered if somewhere in Chicago a more regal establishment existed, its own nefarious history passed on to this place like some architectural Portrait of Dorian Grey.  

 A simpler, less mystical explanation would be the Breeze Inn used to be a fine place once upon a time, but that era existed decades ago.  Before superhighways, every city owned specific streets operating as the main thoroughfares into downtown.  Other businesses gravitated to these veins, feeding off the steady flow of tourists and traveling professionals; eventually falling into the slow decay that followed the arrival of quicker, more direct routes stabbing the heart of the city.  

 Plus, gone are the days of a traveling salesperson, retiring from the road to rest in a quiet motel.  Now they arrive, and dart straight from the airport to appointments.  Whether successful or not, the modern professionals then depart – here and gone the same day – red eye on to the next opportunity. There’s no need to slip back to ersatz comforts, raiding the mini-bar on the company dime, celebrating victory, or taking the edge off failure, either way numbing to the fact they’re miles from home.  Cloisters of lonely itinerant professionals – maybe such places were always meant to die. However, it’s a slow death that the manager seemed eager to pay someone to witness.  So I settled in for the moribund days of the Breeze Inn.  

 #

 I helped Butterscotch shovel ice from the bin into a large trash bag.  She held the bag open, while I scooped in bucket loads.  

 “I tell you man, I tell you I hate this fucking guy, but he pays good,” Butterscotch said.

 Making small talk, “I wouldn’t be too comfortable with him either.”

 “I mean like it’s easy and all.  Alls I gotta do is fill the bathtub with ice, soak there a few, and lie on the bed. Don’t gotta move, or do nothing, while he does his thing.  It’s easy.”

 “And it pays good,” I said.

 “Yes, it does.” A look flashed across her eyes like a deer missing its chance to escape headlights.  Butterscotch shrugged, “Beats what I used to do.”

 “What was that?” Seeing the bag mostly full I closed the ice bin.

 “Hotel clerk,” she laughed, “I’m just playin’.”

 Chuckling too, “I know.  Have you a good time Butter.”

 She hoisted the bag over her shoulder, “You too Connie.”

 I’d long since stopped trying to correct the permanent residents.  About a week in, attempting to jazz up my job, I began referring to myself as the hotel concierge.  This resulted in customers referring to me as Connie.  

 Back in the front office I found a group of bleary eyed teens.  College kids on their first road trip, they stopped at the Breeze Inn because they couldn’t afford anywhere else.  

 The boy who fancied himself in charge, upon seeing me, angrily rang the desk bell.  I walked around, and removed the bell from the counter.

 Smiling, “How may I help you?”

 “Last night… we got no sleep.  Someone tried to break into our room.  I braced the door with a chair, and spent the whole night holding a Bible to bash whoever burst in.”

 Shocked that a room still possessed a whole Bible – guests tended to use the pages as rolling papers – I remarked, “Well, if they really wanted to break in they’d’ve probably smashed the window.  That’s happened before.”

 Looking confused the boy said, “What?  Seriously, dude, we want our money back.”

 “Dude, did you spend the night in the room?”

 He glared, “Yeah. So what?”

 I replied, “So read the sign.”

 I pointed. The group collectively turned to find a bare wall.  By the time they turned back, I held a bat wrapped with barbed wire, “You spent the night. You don’t get shit.”

 Slowly the pack of children receded to their car.  On the way out a young lady dressed like a burnt out trucker shouted, “I’m giving this place the worst review.  Zero stars!”

 Mathematically speaking that might actually improve our standing.  However, I felt no need to tell her that.  Those kids didn’t yet understand that for the low, low price of fifty dollars they experienced a story they could tell the rest of their lives. Some pay more for less.  

 Yet, I didn’t have much time to reflect on such things.  Taking the bat in hand I hurried to room 207.  At three on the dot, every afternoon, a thin envelope peeked out from under the door.  It contained enough cash for one more night, paid daily since 1987.  The manager suspected vampires resided inside.  I saw no reason to doubt that.  All I knew, if I didn’t get to the money first some resident would snatch the cash.  Sure enough, stepping onto the landing I saw Willy the Goat idling towards 207.

 Pointing with the bat, “Get away from there Willy.”

 “Fuck you, Connie, I ain’t doin’ nothing.”  Tucking his hands into his pockets, their greasiness darkening the fabric from the inside out, Willy stomped away.

 Collecting the envelope I glanced inside, a blood stained twenty, and several crinkled, gutter plucked ones.  Slipping it in a back pocket, I decided to tour the rooms quickly.  At open doors I paused to knock politely, peer in, and inquire if anyone needed anything.  

 Room 213 needed her dick sucked.  Room 108 wanted a bowl of fingernails.  Room 201 required nothing, emphasizing the fact by pointing a gun; I backed away from the nine year old girl slowly.  For the most part guests needed fresh towels, needles, and bandages, the usual assortment of necessities at the Breeze Inn; what I could handle myself, I did, delegating other responsibilities to Isabella, the head maid.  

 Isabella maintained the Breeze Inn with a stoicism rivaled by stone.  She slips into a room, tap-tap-tapping her key softly, “Housekeeping,” upon seeing a junkie on the bed, she checks the pulse.  Finding none, she flags a few strays, runaway dusthead punk rock kids failing proudly.  For the promise of a free night’s rent they drag the body to a nearby dumpster, and pitch it – out of sight, out of mind.  Tap-tap-tapping, she finds a shit coiled like soft serve ice cream in the middle of the floor.  She cleans the mess without so much as a sigh; however, should the guest return she walks casually by.  Using a knitting needle she exacts a piquerist vengeance, stabbing deep into a butt cheek.  The other two maids, a pair of ladies I’m sure should be in high school – though the education here is better than a degree – take orders in brusque Spanish. At the end of the day I pay her cash, wondering why she always smells like coconut – obviously a cream, or perfume, but why that scent exactly – I never ask because she seems the kind of person who’ll tell you what you need to know when she feels you need the info.  Then the three maids depart together in a wood panel station wagon, leaving me alone for the evening.

 #

 Every hotel possesses at least one ghost.  And frankly, given the amount of suicides, deaths, and murders which occurred here, the Breeze Inn surprising only possessed one.  Interestingly enough, though, it’s one of the more famous Chicago specters.

 On weekends, several ghost tours rolled by the hotel.  Passengers pressed their faces to windows, ogling the location, though never daring to set foot off the bus.  Seated on a chair outside the lobby, smoking and sipping whiskey, I could hear the static cracked recitation of tour guides.  The blather all sounded the same:  “This (hiss) The Breeze Inn (crack-hiss) once a premiere Lincoln Avenue stop (hiss-hiss) ’s what you see now.  In December 1980, this is where…”

 The story is myth. For those few who don’t recall, whatever reasons why, the bare facts start in December 1980, a legendary musician stopped for the weekend.  His band used to stay at the Breeze Inn as part of superstition, having stayed there during the early days touring on pennies in a van more likely to breakdown than arrive on time.  So, whenever in Chicago, he insisted on staying there.  Coming back from a radio interview the musician saw a fan waiting by the room.  The musician reached for a pen.  The fan reached for a gun.  The musician went to sign an autograph, and the fan shot.  The musician died.  The fan claimed to be an angel sent to make the musician immortal.  Like I said the rest is myth, the “real” why debated always since the plain truth is too unpalatable – lunatics don’t need reason to do crazy shit.  

 Soon as the bus pulled away, cameras flashing, the ghost peers out of the office, “They gone?”

 “Yep,” I say, cracking two beers, “Whiskey slug?”

 (Whiskey slug: personal slang for whiskey double.)

 Taking a seat next to me he says, “No thanks Connie.  I don’t feel like getting too strange this evening.”

 #

 “Hello.”

 “How do you do ma’am?”

 “I have cancer.”

 I nodded, “Not well then.”

 She smiled like a kindergarten teacher comforting a kid with a skinned knee, “I’d like a room.”

 “Okay. Sorry to be blunt, but I find it’s easier, um; there’s a thirty dollar additional fee applied to any guest we suspect is planning to, well…”

 “Suicide?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

 #

 Marissa Oak explained things clearly, leaving no doubt as to her state of mind, intentions, or willingness to be dissuaded.  She intended to rent a room for two months.  Her doctor prophesized she would not last longer than one, but on the off chance she lived more, and for any inconvenience, she felt obliged to pay two in advance.  During that time she planned to stay in her room, allowing anyone who wished to visit her to spend however long they wished.  

 I asked, “Is it a kind of performance art?”

 She shrugged, “In a way.  More than anything else I just want some company.”

 Filling out her forms – writing somewhat escaped her since the cancer got to her brain – I asked, “What about family and friends?”

 “They’ll be here. But I kind of want new strangers too. It’s like Wilde said, something like the beauty of new friends is they don’t know the old stories.”

 “Do you have dinner plans?”

 She patted my hand, “Don’t be a cliché.”

 “Well, on that note, do you have any drugs?”

 She looked at me sidewise, “Morphine.”

 “We got junkies here.  Be careful. They’ll steal it.” I furrowed my brow, “Shit.”

 “What?” Marissa asked.

 “If you attract a crowd that means worse than junkies, fucking tourists.”

 She chuckled. I didn’t.

 #

 I swung the barbed wire bat, “Back!  Back you savages!”  

 Everyday droves of tourists arrived.  None seemed familiar with the concept of a line.  Whenever they scattered into something nebulous, the horde pushing in to watch Marissa die, I herded them back into formation with the bat.  The manager and I worked in tandem, taking turns herding and performing typical Breeze Inn duties.  When she could, Isabella lent a hand, her glare pushing the crowd from chaos to order.  

 It took three days for things to truly get out of hand.  By then news crews began arriving, spreading the word, reports drawing more and more spectators.  Members of her family did the same, dispersing word online.  Marissa wanted the company of strangers, well, she got it.

 Folks came from as far as Orlando to sit with her.  Some chatted, conversations ranging from the mundane to grasping at the profound. Others arrived to tout holistic cures Marissa politely declined.  Some stood silently, and left as quietly.  She welcomed all with a smile.  Those who held out a hand to shake she hugged.  Some kept a respectful distance, I suspected to hide their discomfort touching a wax wrapped skeleton.  Still others came to defeat accusations of pretention by leeching off Marissa’s death to seem deeper; I remember a twig like woman lying on the bed with Marissa, cuddling while the twig’s friend recorded them.  I wanted to smash the camera, but somehow sensing the intention, Marissa suggested by a subtle expression I leave them alone.  So I did.  She didn’t see what I saw -- #Idiedwithher.  She saw something positive I can’t relate because I couldn’t perceive it well enough to describe.  

 When she slept many left.  Others set up a tent city in the parking lot.  The manager, seizing on the opportunity, charged ten bucks per tent occupant.  They paid. It felt obscene, yet I still collected the cash every evening.  Though, that said, I skimmed a few off the top to bribe the worst junkies.  

 Hand a ten, “Leave her drugs alone.”

 “Whatev’s Connie. Jeez.  Acting like I’m some fucking scumbag.  I don’t rob the dead.”

 But you would. Who wouldn’t?  It’s not like they can stop you.

 By the third week Marissa couldn’t get out of bed.  She could barely speak, often just able to force a kind of gargle-cluck.  Her eyes appeared to go in and out of focus.

 The tourists stopped flooding in.  Many who stayed aimed all manner of camera at her, streaming her decline in real time.

 “We’re with her now…”

 No, you’re not, I thought, but remembering her glances I respected what would’ve been Marissa’s wishes.  I let them be.  

 Off duty hookers brought her water.  I remember Butterscotch laying a cold cloth on Marissa’s forehead.  She said, “This is how my mama died.  She went in a better place than this shit hole.  You know what I mean, right Connie?”

 “Yeah, Butter, I hear ya.”

 Towards the end the news crews departed, though reporters called regularly to see if Marissa died.  They shot enough stock footage they just needed to know when to say the end occurred. The tourists mostly left.  Even the hashtag allstars fled as reality crept in. What few remained occupied the parking lot wondering what to do next.  

 Meanwhile, in room 105 Marissa lay dying.  Her family and friends surrounded the bed.  Her breathing came irregularly, inspiring the guilty desire she die now, for her own good as well as theirs.  I stood in the doorway watching.  

 The manager approached, “Hey, Connie, since shit’s calmed down a bit, the usual stuff needs to get done.”

 Crossing my arms, “And what?”

 “And you need to do it.”

 “You’re saying I need to do my job, not be here.”

 He nodded, “Yeah.”

 “Then I quit.”

 A few hours later Marissa breathed her last.  When I walked away I saw the hookers on the second floor holding junkie candles in a vigil. The tent town broke up quickly, washed away on a flood of tears.  I saw Marissa’s younger brother disappear into 216, a heroin black hole he’d been orbiting.    

 In the office I collected my last few day’s pay.  The phone rang.  I answered.

 “Hello?”

 “This is channel {redacted for legal reasons}.  Is she dead yet?”

 Looking out the front I saw Marissa taking a seat next to the Musician.  He handed her a beer.  She smiled at me, and waved.

 I said, “Nope. She’s gonna live forever.”