#kyle winters
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
ammoknightsofficial · 5 days ago
Text
Translating the Dev's Headcanon Spread for Kyle's Family
Alright, so, I've gotten my hands on the Monster Hunter Stories 2 Art Book! That means it's time to translate This Image, piece by piece! The text on this is quite small, and the halftones can interfere with legibility at times, but I managed, for the most part. I'll be including notes for each section, particularly anything that may seem like an odd or interesting choice, for Maximum Transparency!
Tumblr media
Everything's Under the Cut!! Have fun!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
母:優しく穏やかな女性 // The Mother of The Family. A Loving, Gentle, and Quiet Woman.
I've chosen to write this in full sentences, rather than the original format, since that feels easier to communicate. You may notice that "Gentle" is both Green and Blue, and that's because 優しく and 穏やかな both communicate a kind of Gentleness, with 優しく being more like "Tender" and 穏やかな being more like "Calm".
Tumblr media Tumblr media
カイルがまだ幼い頃に病にかかりこの世を去ってしまう // She Fell Ill when Kyle was Very Young. She never Recovered, and Passed Away when he was still just a Child.
Before I Get Into Translation Notes - I Have Some Thoughts.
I'm going to be fully transparent - this part is one of the main reasons I got the book. I had my suspicions that she was terminally ill and died when he was young, but I didn't want to make any absolute statements until I could properly translate this passage. I had basically no doubts about it, though - this particular scene here is absolutely striking, and communicates what's going on extremely well even if you can't read it. Kyle's too young to understand what's going on. He thinks a flower will make her feel better. Meanwhile, you have the second youngest brother that's just barely old enough to know, and in that horrible point where he understands what's happening, but doesn't know what to do or how to handle it. Then there's the middle child, with enough emotional intelligence to know that comforting the second youngest and not dissuading Kyle's - the youngest of them all - attempts to help is the absolute best course of action here, to keep everyone strong while their mother (tries, and fails to) fight(s) her Terminal Illness. It's really amazing character work, all in one simple image.
This explains a lot about Kyle's actions during the course of the story. It's kind of difficult for a lot of people to understand why he reacts the way he does to his father getting injured, but with the context that he watched his mom die of a Terminal Illness when he was practically just a baby, and was powerless to do anything about it... It really makes sense, doesn't it? On a personal level, I mean. It also puts this post-game line into some new perspective...
Tumblr media
"I'm not putting on a brave face" is such particular wording, and such a particular reassurance to give. He's had to before, and the way he's saying this almost implies - to me, at least - that maybe the player character is intended to, perhaps, know about that bit of history. That's all Speculation, though - I just find it an incredibly interesting string of implications.
As for Translation Notes...
The main thing that may seem out of place is the fact that "She never Recovered" is in both Red and Green. That's actually nothing special, it's just the fact that her illness and her death are being linked together in this passage. She died because of her illness - not because she got, I don't know, eaten by a dragon or something later, in some odd unrelated event. She was Terminally Ill, emphasis on Terminal.
Tumblr media
カイル家族イメージ ― 作中には出てこない設定イマージです // Headcanons about Kyle's Family - These are Characters + Character-Establishing Headcanons that Do Not Appear in the Story.
Apologies for putting the Document Title all the way down here. I wanted to talk about Kyle's mom first, lol. I've already explained my reasoning for translating イメージ as Headcanon. I don't think anything else is all that noteworthy.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
A Chart Depicting the Developers' Ideas for What the (Living Members of the) Family Looks Like. In Birth Order, we have...
長男:真面目・優等生 ― 23年
First-Born: Serious + An Honor Student - 23 Y.O.
次男:自信家・明るい ― 21年
Second-Born: Self-Confident + Cheerful - 21 Y.O.
三男:優しい・賢い ― 18年
Third-Born: Kind + Wise - 18 Y.O.
四男:勝気・負けず嫌い ― 16年
Fourth-Born: Determined + Hates Losing - 16 Y.O.
Me, personally, I think the birth order sounds right, but I'm not a huge fan of how young everyone is. The Fourth-Born looks 19-21 to me, the Third-Born looks in their mid-20s, so on and so forth. But that's partially just the fact that I, myself, am currently in my 20s, and generally really prefer writing + drawing adults. Straight up, I clocked Kyle as being at least 18 when I was doing my playthrough of the game, but this image seems to imply he's about 15. Extremely weird thought to me. I will personally continue writing him as an adult, and his siblings as generally way older than the Devs are estimating. That has no bearing on this piece of Dubious-Canon, however, just something I wanted to mention as a bit of an oddity to me.
Also, the second Kanji in the Birth Orders actually specifies that they're all sons (男), but I'm using the Gender Neutral forms of the Birth Order terms just because I find that more comfortable and less clunky, personally. No other reason.
And, no, I don't really know what that bit of handwriting next to the Third-Born's head is. I also currently cannot fully decipher what this passage (originally below the Headcanon Spread) means, though that's likely just a Skill Issue.
Tumblr media
If I figure it out, I'll likely Reblog this Post with an Update, but for now, I think I've covered what I can.
Thanks for Reading!! Hopefully you found this interesting, and maybe you found it useful!! The print on this spread was really, really small, and at times quite frustrating to decipher - hell, I just straight up gave up on the above passage - so any comments or compliments in the notes will be appreciated!!
58 notes · View notes
hero-of-doom · 53 minutes ago
Text
Tumblr media
Sorry to remind everybody that Thirty Seconds to Mars exists, but god damn is this a good Winterburn song. Plus, my specialty seems to be edgy looking drawings with red text slapped on top. Works every time.
[Kendrix belongs to @ammoknightsofficial!]
4 notes · View notes
musclemanmontage · 8 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
3 notes · View notes
op1umeyes · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
tw: suicide, mourning, skipping meals, heavy topic
The day after you killed yourself, he couldn’t get up from your bed. He had gone to your apartment the moment he heard and fell asleep- wrapped around your scent- sobbing into your pillow. Your cat, George Washington, had curled himself into a ball about into the little indent in your designated untouched sleeping pillow- not purring. He only purred if you were around.
The day after you killed yourself, he didn’t get up from the bed until noon. His limbs were so heavy he didn’t really mind going to sleep and not waking up again. In fact, it was your precious baby (George Washington) that had finally got him up. Meowing and whipping his tail at the crying man’s face had succeeded in bringing him to his feet. And when he got up, he saw the sun shine on all the photographs tucked in the side of your vanity mirror- pictures of you smiling back at him with your dimple showing and your eyes squinting the way they did when you were smiling genuinely.
The day after you killed yourself, he went on a drive with George Washington because he didn’t know what else to do and going through your stuff felt like confirmation that you really… weren’t coming back. And he just wanted to believe.
He wanted to believe that if he closed his eyes long enough, he’d see the shape of you refracted by his cornea. He wanted to believe that if he played the playlist you had carefully curated for date night, he would hear you singing along with the tracks just like you always do did. He wanted to believe that, just for a minute, that he was your husband (not just your boyfriend) and he was coming home to you.
When he finally parked in the lot near your apartment, George Washington climbed into his lap. Your songs were still playing on the radio but he couldn’t turn them off.
That night he didn’t eat. Instead he got George’s food and water bowl fixed up before melting onto the couch in front of your TV. He didn’t feel hunger, no, despite the fact he hadn’t eaten anything since the day you…
It was another hour before he brought himself to look at his phone: the incessant, unending buzzing of his phone had finally cut through the murky emotion of grief and numbness and pain and anger. When he scrolled through the notifications, he could only work his thumbs to type out ‘Will call you tomorrow. I love you all.’ to your family groupchat before his vision blurred and he let his eyes close so he could dream of a future he would never have with you.
438 notes · View notes
decaf-mother · 2 years ago
Text
"I could fix him"
Ok but- what if he could fix me? What if a single hug from him would make it all feel better?
7K notes · View notes
mycapofmisfortune · 18 days ago
Text
what if in the next Modern Warfare game Ghost dies and they of course cremate his body because Simon Riley will never be buried underground again if John Price has anything to say about it, and so Price and Gaz gather at the same place they scattered Soap's ashes to scatter Ghost's and Price does so and Gaz says "they'd want to be together in this" and Price agrees with a hum and the game ends and the post credit scene is in the same place with a figure sitting at the cliff's edge but we don't see their face, only their feet softly kicking in the air but we can see that they're holding something in their hands and then we hear footsteps coming their way and the camera tilts up and we see Soap who has longer hair but the scar on his temple is clear and star shaped and he smiles down at the figure and says "Been a while, Si" and we finally see the figure who is Ghost without his mask and it's the first and only time we see his face and he's holding the balaclava, and he smiles up at Soap and says "Too long, Johnny." and he throws the balaclava down the cliff because he won't need it where he is now and he gets to his feet and follows Soap and that's where the game ends
like
what if
394 notes · View notes
loveindefinitely · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader
✩ part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven, part twelve, part thirteen, part fourteen
// read on ao3.
!! description.
When your commander -- Phillip Graves -- turns against the Los Vaqueros and Task Force 141, you find yourself stuck between a rock and a hard place. Between your own morals, and your duty to serve the man you can no longer idolise, a choice must be made.
Do you help the two operatives you know deserve to live? Or do you fight with your unit -- the men you swore to stand beside?
The decision is made when you find yourself stumbling, quite literally, into one Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish; and, effectively, the 141's entire lives.
!! characters.
simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)
!! warnings.
nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence
Tumblr media
1K notes · View notes
malewifemrhouse · 11 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
20 ghouls ! ! i added another 29 to this file. more from fo4 and fnv, and a bunch from fo3 since ive now played it ! i want them all to look special :]!!! Here's the wip i posted previously!
551 notes · View notes
trashyscrounger · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
A cold kiss
87 notes · View notes
ghoulfuckersincorporated · 2 months ago
Note
What ghouls would be into thighs? Maybe they got asked tits, ass, or thighs, or maybe something else 👀
I enjoy these "ranking" type questions; I think they're a good little thought exercise and they're much easier to keep brief. Plus, they're a good excuse to brush up on some of the lesser-discussed characters.
Ranking Ghouls' Favorite Body Part (Partner)
Tits: Ahzrukhal, Doctor Barrows, Gob, Quinn, Roy Phillips (also really likes hair), Grecks, Arlen Glass, Eddie Winter, Ham
Ass: Murphy, Patchwork, Desmond Lockheart, Snowflake (also a huge sucker for a pretty face), Raul Tejada, Harland, Kyle Edwards, Dean Domino (also thighs and legs, big into lips), Edward Deegan, Hancock, Cooper Howard
Thighs: Crowley, Winthrop, Andy Scabb (wants to bite a chunk out of them), Rotface, the Vault-Tec Rep (ties with ass)
Other: Charon (belly or skin overall), Barrett (hair, especially longer hair), Hadrian (feet), Jason Bright (lips), Joshua Graham (belly/hips), Kent Connolly (hands), Wiseman (neck/shoulders), Captain Zao (hips)
76 notes · View notes
ammoknightsofficial · 1 month ago
Text
Tumblr media
Kyle + Kendrix, for the soul.
Tumblr media
Lines only version.
59 notes · View notes
hero-of-doom · 54 minutes ago
Text
Tumblr media
The Monsties still exist in this AU, they're just a lot smaller. Trust me, the real Panopticon would be towering over Kendrix. Here he's just an especially large dog.
[Kendrix belongs to @ammoknightsofficial!]
4 notes · View notes
musclemanmontage · 8 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
1 note · View note
aflamboyanceofflamingos · 9 days ago
Text
In exchange for having the most canon (and non-canon) love interests in the whole Batfam, Tim has to deal with the fact that both of his moms (Janet & Dana) also are desired by half of Gotham in fics
I’m talking the Drakes/Bruce threesome that happened in highschool
His own boyfriend calling his stepmom hot in canon
Them getting together instead of Jack/Dana
Fics that I can’t remember the name of where Janet gets with either Selina, Catherine Todd, Helena Sandsmark, or Talia’s sister
Also the small thing with Alfred and Dana that I try to forget
And a lot more
55 notes · View notes
violentlycookingcartoons · 5 months ago
Text
Snow day!
Tumblr media
109 notes · View notes
loveindefinitely · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media
༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader
01 — TOO YOUNG TO KNOW IT GETS BETTER
featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)
warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence
series masterlist. read on ao3.
<- previous part | next part ->
Tumblr media
You almost worshipped him.
It wasn’t because of his status – although, that certainly played a role in it all – and it wasn’t because of his bank statements.
No. Phillip Graves was one of the best men you’d ever known.
Or so you had thought.
Turns out, no matter how well he looked after his men – his ‘girl’ – and no matter how charismatic he was, that wouldn’t, couldn't change his roots. And, at those very roots, was decay. Evil in its most purest of forms; a tantalisingly devastating mix of every sin.
The most prevalent one?
Greed. 
He was a greedy, greedy man, and he would stop at nothing to have it all. Even if he knew the fall out; even if he knew that he could never go back to the man he once was.
Phillip Graves didn’t care. Not in the slightest.
And it was you that would pay the ultimate price.
*
Rain beats down your back in heavy sheets as you stand, the harsh night littered with flashlights and car sirens.
It’s cool, just this side of too cold, and it has the hairs on the back of your neck rising with the temperature.
The temperature, and…
“Yup-yup,” the two men to your right call into their comms. You remain silent, but it goes unnoticed. Your eyes are trained to the paved street, rippling with the rainwater, littered with streaks of red.
Blood stains this town, and you haven't done anything to stop it.
“Let’s go.”
Raising your head, you meet the eyes of the operative who, ranks-wise, is below you. Really, you should be reprimanding him for his quip, but you understand the annoyance. You’re being quiet – something quite unusual for your normally direct and authoritative nature.
Tightening your grip around the shiny, water-slicked gun in your hand, you give him a sharp nod in response.
Seemingly satisfied, he turns, and you follow him along the sidewalk of the narrow, stone streets. Shops line either side of the area, their front-windows smashed and the products inside thrown about.
It’s like your heart has launched itself into your throat, the constant thrum of it setting your nerves alight.
“Three-zero, I want you and your two to find those Brits. We’ve got the cops. Copy?” 
That once reassuring, adoring voice is now cold, void of any emotion he used to have. It makes tears burn at the back of your vision – if you were a weaker woman, they’d have fallen. Instead, you press down the button for your comms.
“Copy, Sir. Three-zero out.”
The fact that you manage to get those words out is a feat in and of its own.
It feels as though you’re lost at sea, with nothing to hold onto. Buoyant, but barely – every wave threatening to pull you under for good. To smother your silent cries for help, for guidance, for something to keep you grounded.
But there is no sea, and there is no support.
“You two go up ahead, I’ll search the house here,” you say, voice thick with demand. You didn’t have to decide anything right now. You just had to be the leader you were, and do what you’ve always done.
“Copy,” your two subordinates say, moving up further.
With their absence, you find that you can breathe – as if a weight has been lifted off of your chest, and you can finally fill your lungs.
You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.
The mantra helps, surprisingly, and you hold onto those two words like they’re your only lifeline.
Through the thick of night and rain, you can see the door to the house on your left. It’s been left open, which means that either it’s already been searched – which you doubt – or… Someone else has been in there.
Gun secured in your grip, you move to the door with soft footing, quiet enough to not be heard over the shouts of other shadows just a few ways away. The constant pattering of the overhead storm clouds slow, just the slightest, allowing for a bit more sight.
Using your shoulder to further open the door with a creak, you take note of your surroundings immediately.
There’s a flickering light to the room on your far right, a living area, most likely. To your left is a short hallway, but none of the doors alert you of any occupancy. The place has been torn apart, pictures scattered along the wooden floor, shards of glass decorating the space along with it.
It sends a pang of guilt through your chest.
These were families being torn apart by your commander, your company. And for what? What was Graves’ angle here? 
You’d been left on base to keep things running smoothly while Graves and unit one worked with the 141 and Las Vaqueros. You knew very little about any of this, and when you’d been called out to Las Almas, to aid with this?
This wasn’t what you fought for. This wasn’t what you would ever support, not in a million years.
But going against direct orders was going against your commander, and your livelihood. Shadow Company was all you’d known since your childhood. Having been hired when Graves was merely a young-upstart with big dreams, you were quickly swept up in the community of it all. They were your family, and Graves was the only semblance of a ‘loved one’ you had.
And now?
Now, he was sending you on a bounty hunt, for two men who, from your limited knowledge, didn’t deserve death. They were the good guys, and although most of your existing bias towards the two was due to rumours back on base, your intuition said that they were good men. And your intuition had never steered you wrong, not once.
Your mind feels like a never ending turbine as you move through the house, eyeing the barren walls and smashed vases. 
Exhaling a low, deep breath, you tighten your hold on your weapon. It’s more of a comfort, at this point. Which is odd, considering that its sole purpose is to kill and destroy.
Through the dim light, you manage to find a set of stairs. They’re dingy, and the patterned carpet is mildew-riddled as you make your way to the next floor with slow, careful steps.
You’ve decided to keep your flashlight off, just in case it brings any extra attention to you.
As soon as you make it to the last step, a sense of… wrongness settles in your system. Something’s off, and it’s almost as if there’s an alarm ringing in your ears at the realisation. 
Someone’s here.
Grounding yourself, both mentally and physically, you prepare to push through the hallway.
Setting aside your mental dilemma, you remind yourself that the physical battle is far more vital to your life right now. If you lose that, you lose your life.
If you lose your morals?
You just suppose you lose yourself.
The sound of a radio switching on has your senses alerted like a switchboard completely alight. 
Stepping into the hallway, your chest constricting, you snap your gaze to both of your sides. With the little-to-no light, you can barely make out your limbs, let alone your surroundings. Your spatial awareness was solid, but with conditions like this? Near impossible.
The entire corridor is shrouded in shadow, the incessant rain outside and the screams of the cartel’s policemen ringing in your ears. 
It reeks of death and despair, and your skin is coated in a thin sheen of chilled sweat.
The third door to your left is creaked open, just the slightest sliver, but it catches your attention like a moth to a flame. Keeping your frame encased in the darkest of the shadows, you move with patient, skillful steps towards the door.
A moment passes, tense and nerve-wracking in a way no other mission has ever been.
A breath in.
A breath out.
You push open the door, gun raised, ready for anything –
Nothing.
Quickly checking over the room to your right, you see nothing but bashed up mattresses and blood-stained carpet.
Just as you’re about to turn to check behind the door, two things happen at once.
One, you get slammed to the ground, your head knocking against the hard flooring and sending a burst of pain through your temple, your gun skidding across the floor to your left.
Two –
“Fuckin’ Christ!”
A man – scottish, that much is prevalent – whisper-shouts. You squint, the pain of the sudden fall throwing you off.
Not a second later, however, you manage to roll, shoving him off of you with a grunt. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, but you manage to make out the impossibly muscled frame of the man who’d just fallen on top of you.
He’s tall, not as giant as some of the men you served alongside with, but tall nonetheless. That’s all of the visual information you manage to gain before he sends an elbow to your gut, evoking a hiss through your gritted teeth.
You wriggle away, kicking out with your right foot and hitting what you think is his chin, considering his pained grunt.
“You bloody bastard,” he snaps, hand wrapping around your ankle and pulling you.
Your responding squeak is likely the most undignified sound you have ever made in your life, but it gives the man pause. Enough of one so as to allow you to wrench your leg back and careen it back into his face.
“Shut the fuck up!” You hiss back, all too aware of the likelihood that your men will show up and shoot first, ask later. 
“Are you feckin’ stupid, lass?” He retorts, although his tone is dutifully lower as he scrambles to grab your legs once more, his fist finding your belt and pulling you towards him.
Your attempts to dig your heels into the ground to prevent yourself from being pinned by him are fruitless, his strength undoubtedly superior to yours. That was a fact all too common when it came to your hand-to-hand fights, but luckily, it was just one factor of many.
“Are you?” Your shock is palpable as he gets his other hand around the other side of your belt, using the grip to pull himself over you.
His torso is pressed against your own as he goes to pin your hands, but with one quick manoeuvre, you wrap your legs around his waist and turn.
Utilising your lower body strength, you’re able to reverse the position, your hips pinning his to the ground. In one sweep of your hands, you collect both of his wrists and force them into the carpet. The room fills with your harsh, panted breaths, the outside commotion only a distant soundtrack.
“Yer supposed to kill me now, Shadow,” he says, a torment, a threat. 
You swallow, once, an unsure thing. 
He’s right, of course. He should be dead by now, bleeding out onto the floor. You should be comming to your fucking Commander, and telling him that one of the men he’s after has just been reported KIA. That’s what should be happening.
So how come it’s not?
“I know,” you say, the words falling through your lips despite the internal conflict in your head. “You should be dead.”
He mirrors your confusion with raised brows, and it’s then that you can feel the blood trickling onto your hand. He’s bleeding down his arm, you realise with a start. He’s wounded.
Flitting your gaze to the floor up ahead, you catch sight of your gun, only a few steps away. One shot is all you’d need. One second, and that mouth of his would never open again.
The sole window in the room flashes with a burst of lightning, and that short second of light lets you catch sight of his features. Blood coats his jaw – from your kicks, maybe – and he’s got dirt caked onto his cheek. His stubble has clearly missed a few shaves, and his mohawk isn’t gelled.
“Still waiting, Shadow,” he says. And although he’s quiet, the words feel like a yell in the tense room. Like a shout directly into your soul, screaming for you to sort your shit out.
You go to respond – with what, you’re not sure – when the man underneath you manages to rip his hands from your grip and swing them around the back of your neck. He pulls you forward, your neck fitting into the crook of his elbow as he squeezes.
When you try to inhale, you end up choking on a cough. He’s strangling you, you realise, with his fucking biceps.
There’s mere moments for you to make a decision before you pass out, or he breaks your neck. Moments for you to decide what the fuck you can do.
Balling your right hand into a tight fist, you punch into his nose, a sickening crack making your teeth slide together. He swears, rapid-fire, a few Gaelic-sounding words slipping out along with them. It’s enough of a distraction to let you wrench out of his hold with a cough, wincing when you claw at his arm and draw blood. Thank fuck for fingerless gloves.
Crawling forward as he brings a hand up to his now-bleeding nose, you’re just a breath away from reaching your gun when his hand grabs into your hair and pulls, eliciting a cry from you.
It’s a dirty move, but this is a dirty fight.
“Fucking – let go!” You grit out, the pain of the tightening on your scalp unique and not at all tolerable.
He just pulls tighter in response, and as you try and reach the gun, your fingers fall just millimetres short. It’s maddening, your emotions out of whack and your mental compass skewed beyond belief.
He should be fucking dead. He should be fucking dead.
So why wasn’t he?
You realise that he’s using his grip on you for leverage, to move himself closer to the weapon. Reaching towards his bare arm, you manage to catch your hand around it, nails digging into his wet skin.
He lets out a pained groan, and it becomes quickly apparent to you that he’s been shot in that arm. Moving your fingers, your index finger pushes into the open wound.
His grip on your hair goes lax, and he stops moving towards the gun long enough to allow you to move on top of him once more, pinning him underneath your weight. You’re both evidently weaker than the last time you were in this position, and you’re about to do something, something, something –
“Johnny? How copy?” An urgent, oddly panicked voice echoes around the room. It’s crackled, in only the way a radio’s can, and the two of you stun yourselves into freezing. His communications have been dislocated, and now they’re loud and clear for both of you to hear. “Johnny, what the fuck is happening?”
“Shit,” Johnny curses, head falling back against the ground in exasperation. 
You’re not sure when you’d laxed your grip from his wound, your hand loose around his arm. You’re not sure when you’d subconsciously started avoiding fatal moves.
At this point, you’re not sure about anything at all.
Although it’s hard to see, you’re sure that the two of you make eye contact.
Neither of you make a move.
“Soap!”
Slowly, Johnny moves his hand to the communicator in his vest, pressing the button to allow for his voice to carry over to the man on the other end. 
“A little occupied, Sir,” he murmurs, tightly.
If you move your hand to his throat, or use this as a distraction, you could have him dead before the other man could even register his words.
“I can’t get a visual on you,” the other man quips back, voice laced with thinly-veiled worry. “Johnny, if you die, I’m fuckin’ killing your ass.”
You bite back a slightly crazed chuckle at that statement, and by the shift in Johnny’s chest, he does too.
Johnny doesn’t turn off his communicator. The other man – Ghost, if you’re correct – will be able to hear everything you say.
Ghost and Soap.
Jesus H. Christ. Soap – Johnny MacTavish – the 141 operator you heard whispers about throughout your unit – he was underneath you. He was on the run from your commander. He was the man you were assigned to fucking kill.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
You’re alive.
“Shadow Three-Zero, what’s your status?”
Oh, fuck. Fucking hell.
Both you and Johnny’s eyes dart to your own communicator – the earpiece scattered along the floor just as his had been.
Graves’ voice. It sends a shiver down your spine for all the wrong reasons, and the lump in your throat doubles in size. If it’s at all possible, the rain outside grows louder, and more gunshots echo in your ears.
“Shadow Three-Zero. Have you got ‘em? Don’t go two-timing me now, babe.”
How he’s – how he’s being so light, so carefree while storming these streets and murdering fathers, brothers, sons in cold blood – it cements a thought in your head. Out of the storm of them, the endless noise of them all, one becomes concrete. Factual. A single truth in your world of lies.
You press down your communicator button.
“Haven’t found them yet, sir. Wouldn’t dream of going against you.”
“Atta girl,” he responds, a light chuckle carrying over the radio. “After this is all done, we can have a celebration of our own, hey?”
Your mouth is barren of moisture, your tongue a heavy weight that feels all too useless as you reply once more. It doesn’t go unnoticed how neither Soap, or Ghost over the comms, say a word.
“It’ll be my pleasure, sir.”
You rip off your communicator, throwing it across the room. It sets the course of the rest of your life, you’re sure. You still do it.
All the while, you hold Soap’s gaze.
He hasn’t killed you. He could’ve, you realise, he really could’ve. He had the opportunity. Still does.
But.
You’re alive.
And so is he.
“What’re you doin’, Shadow?” Johnny finally asks, equally suspicious and curious. His tone is tight, almost as much as his body is against your own. 
You’d almost forgotten that he’s underneath you. Weaponless, and bleeding out. Wounded.
On the run.
Your eyes are wide, manic, maybe, as you say with shaky breaths;
“This isn’t right. I – I don’t fight for this. You guys, you,” squeezing your eyes shut, if only for a brief moment, you continue, slower, “This isn’t the Graves I know. I’m not going to be on the wrong side of history. I’d rather betray him than stand by his side with blood on my hands.”
Soap must sense your conviction, your wobbly words holding such truth and capability in them, because he nods, sharply.
“Johnny,” the radio chimes in again, the man’s tone a warning. “Don’t.”
Soap works his mouth, a crease forming between his blood-stained brows. If you were at all a poet, you’d akin his blue eyes to a storm-brewed sea. But you’re a soldier, so they’re merely obvious in the window’s scarce light, a stark contrast to the reds and darkness all around you both.
You’re not sure what’s wrong with you. You’d clearly hit your head too hard when Soap had crashed into you, or you’d been drugged earlier.
“I have intel,” you blurt out, like a crazed lunatic. That description is, unfortunately, a little too fitting to your current state. “I’m – I’m a fucking good fighter. You help me, I help you.”
“We don’t need your help,” Soap quickly, almost automatically, retorts. But his words seem weak, his certainty nowhere on your own.
“You’re shot and on the run with no weapons,” you reply, slowly. Words. You were good at words, at debates. You could survive this. Maybe. “I know Graves. I know my men. And I know that I’d rather be a traitor than a war criminal.”
That’s maybe the most true thing you’d thought, or said, since you’d first been asked to head to Las Almas with an order to kill.
There’s silence. 
A few beats pass before you open your mouth once more, tone just this side of pleading, “I’ll help you guys survive this. If you help me take down Graves, and support me – if you give me the assets I need. That’s all I’m asking.”
“We don’t trust you,” Soap says, and you nod.
“I don’t exactly have faith in you either. But it’s this or we all end up dead.”
Ghost inputs something, this time. “If you two make it to the church, we’ll consider it.”
That’s the most you can ask for. The best possible outcome from you being the biggest fucking idiot to walk this earth. You were lucky that Soap was… merciful. Which was, all things considered, the weirdest component of this entire, messed up equation.
It seems like agreement passes through you all, like a sort of handshake. An invisible one, but a symbol of truce nonetheless.
“Get yer ass offa me,” Soap groans, breaking the tension of the room. 
Scrambling off of him, but keeping your wits about you, you realise that you’d virtually been laying on the man your entire conversation. Your ears burn in embarrassment.
“...Right. I’m taking my gun,” you murmur.
Which is, obviously, the worst thing to say.
“Are you feckin’ serious? Dinnae wanna work with an idiot, Jesus,” Soap immediately hisses out, getting up with a hand on his knee, bringing his other to press against his bullet wound with a wince. You think that Ghost says something similar, but it’s drowned out by Soap.
“I’m best with close-range, and I’m not the one wounded,” you immediately bite back, hand wrapping around said weapon and holding it to your chest, checking over the room for any more supplies. Luckily, unlike the man in front of you, you still have all of your supplies and gear. His top is thin, you think, and soaked through with both rain and blood. Your standard Shadow Company uniform still fits you like a second skin, and although wet, doesn’t soak into your bottom layers. Your tactical knife, still strapped to your thigh, is secure and perfectly in place.
How you’d not used it in that fight was a testament to your mindscape more than anything.
“How do I know ye won’t just shoot me when my back’s turned?” Soap shoots back, his tone a weapon in its own right. 
You raise a brow, and you hope that he can see it. “I would’ve done that already if that was my plan. And you’re calling me an idiot.”
“You’re a right ass,” he retorts, not unlike a petulant child.
“And you’re a right dickhead.” And, alright, you realise that you’re not much better, but it’s deserved.
“And you both need to hurry the fuck up.”
You and Soap both have the decency to wince at the man’s words, and you both shut up as you finish checking over yourselves. You, focusing on checking your straps and belt, and Soap, hissing about his wound.
…If this camaraderie lasted the night, you’d think about apologising for that move.
Checking over your gun, you move to slowly open the door as Soap fixes up his radio, putting his earpiece back in its place. You are, admittedly, a bit annoyed that you won’t be able to hear Ghost’s callouts, but again, you had a gun.
“Let’s go,” you softly say, tilting your head towards the door. Soap nods, clearly ready to meet back up with his Lieutenant and get out of here.
As you slowly open the door, guns raised and eyes alert, you let the reality of your situation settle over you like the world’s coldest blanket. You’re going against everything you’ve ever known, all because of your morals that had always been slightly off-centre. Came with the job, you supposed.
But this was uncharted territory. Directly betraying your unit, your men, your Commander, and helping the men you’re assigned to kill? Asking them for their help in return?
“Clear,” you softly report to Soap, who acknowledges your order with a low noise. Following you with silent steps down the stairs, you keep your gun raised as you check over the bottom floor, before signalling for him to exit through the front door with you.
As the two of you enter the laneway once more, your breath catches in your throat as you assess the damage.
You spot several bodies littering the streets as rain hits you once more, the presence of it oddly comforting throughout it all. A truck up ahead has its lights on, the red of the brakes shining against the wet pavement like the pools of blood not three metres away from it.
“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap murmurs from behind you, and you can’t help but agree with his sentiment.
This was pure bloodshed, at the hands of the one man you thought you could trust.
Betrayal tastes oddly sour in your mouth. Betrayal like this, on all sides, it’s like being suffocated by two cloths at once. Two very bloody, very assaulting cloths, at that.
Soap seems to be communicating with Ghost as the two of you make your way down the street, considering the back-and-forth whispers from Soap. He seems almost. Flirty. Which is a stark realisation, and truly, the least of your worries right now.
“If you can find bandages, or something close to it, I’ll get that arm of yours fixed up.”
You keep your tone low, careful of your surroundings as you see Soap nod, albeit almost in shock, in your periphery. Keeping your gaze forward, you move along the sidewalk.
The beauty of these shops, and this community, has been tarnished by the massacre of your Shadows. Your heart aches, seeing it all – the smashed windows, the blood, the distant sound of screaming and crying.
You and Soap make it about a block in silence, before flashlights ahead have you grabbing onto Soap’s shirt and pulling him into the open door of the shop to your left, heart beating rapidly in your chest.
“Shadow Three-Zero’s gone silent,” you hear a familiar voice say. Your subordinate – one of the two you’d sent to check the houses up ahead. “Reckon she’s dead?”
Soap, for his part, is silent where he’s been pushed up against the wall, your head meeting his collarbone. 
“Nah. She mighta slept her way to the top, but she’s good. Probably gone dark so she can suck Graves off on the side or something.”
Your breath comes out in a sharp exhale, your fists tightening unknowingly onto the fabric of Soap’s shirt. He doesn’t even breathe in response.
The other chuckles. “Fuckin’ slut. Can’t believe she gets to order us around when we all know why she’s here.”
And, oh, does that make your stomach turn. You were many things, but you were not one to abuse a position like that. They knew nothing of your struggles, or your relationships, or –
“Fuckin’ cocksuckers,” Soap grumbles, and that shocks you. For a man in the military to recognise misogyny like that was, really, unheard of.
You ignore that thought.
“Shut up.”
He does.
The two Shadows continue walking down the street, and you quickly peer out of the front window to watch them head down another sidealley, taking their thoughts with them.
“Come on,” is all you say, and Johnny follows tightly behind you as you continue down the way you were heading. 
You find an alleyway to your left, and you decide to follow it. You can see a flashlight scanning over the street further down. Shadows were everywhere, but they were pushing forward like a tsunami over a coastal town, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.
Soap follows you without question, which is odd, but you’re not about to complain.
“Ghost says that there’s underground tunnels – we can get to the church through ‘em,” Soap murmurs as he taps your shoulder. You nod, not looking back as you search for any telling of where the best route would be.
After a few minutes, the two of you find yourselves nearing the tunnels Ghost had spoken about.
It’s when you’re about to head into the deep end – quite literally, considering the flooding – that an all too familiar and bone-chilling voice yells out from the right of you both, down another street.
“She’s gone dark – you will find her alive, and if she’s dead, you will be too!” Graves roars, and your heart skips a beat. “She could be hurt, or captured – she is your top priority now, Shadows!”
There’s a chorus of agreement, and if you look down, you’re almost certain that you’ll find your stomach laying at your feet.
A greedy, greedy man. That was what Phillip Graves was – now, more than ever.
If you were a weaker woman, a civilian, maybe, instead of a seasoned soldier, you’d have vomited by now.
Instead, you shoot Soap a look.
“Ghost still at the church?” Is all you ask.
Soap nods. “Yeah. Lt’s talkin’ my ear off,” he says with an eye roll, but his lips quirk into a half-tilted grin more resemblant of a satisfied pup.
“Didn’t think the 141 was so close,” you reply, and you could slap yourself for how nosy you sound. You’re not, not in the slightest – all you cared about was surviving both Graves and them.
Soap’s eyes hold an indecipherable gleam to them when he responds, a touch domestically, “You have no idea.”
You itch to delve deeper, to unpack that statement that seems to hold so many layers, but you keep your mouth respectfully shut.
And you prepare to meet Ghost at the end of the tunnel.
Tumblr media
a/n. cutely drops this and hides!! jk but umm idk man this fic idea has been nibbling at my brain and GAWDDD smth about it just. got the juices flowing. this is my personality now thanks gn. if you guys enjoyed please comment or reblog or follow!! ty so very muchly ily all &lt;3
1K notes · View notes