#yes this is assuming ghost's head is actually just a mask/helmet/shell

[koboldwizardstuff]

A part of me wants to do a short series with Ghost, Hornet and maybe other HK characters in the world of Minecraft. This would be one such sketch in that series.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 11] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

“There’s no talking your way out of it this time,” Soap shouted over the roaring engine of the plane, “we’ve decided on your callsign.”

“I thought you’d’ve learned your lesson from last time.” 

Your brows furrowed, considering Soap’s words. Despite years of service, you’ve never really been considered an applicant for receiving a callsign. With your role as a specialist, you’re onto the next task by the time your current team knows you exist. You never get any voice in what your nickname is either; usually, they just happen, a label on your record as a reference to some embarrassing moment or notable feature. Being compared to an insect doesn’t quite sit right, but you don’t have the authority to argue. 

Cricket? Like… the bug? I think I liked Salsa better. 

“Because you’re always chirping at people, then as soon as someone’s fed up and goes to smack ye’, you’re invisible,” Soap clarified, smiling triumphantly.

“I mean, I’d rather not get a callsign from someone named Soap,” You countered. 

“Actually, it was Ghost that came up with it.”

Your eyes flicker to the culprit. Half-shadowed in darkness by the dim cabin light, he smirked at you- or you assumed he smirked. The mask made it hard to tell when he was being malicious. Perhaps that’s the point. 

“Well, I guess I don’t have a say, do I,” You spoke after a tentative silence. 

“Not a chance,” Price added, letting out a breathy sigh as he looked like he was about to take a shot at catching some shut-eye. His hat tilted to fall over his eyes like a sleeping mask. 

Numb to the discomfort, you unclasped the helmet you had by now forgotten was squeezing your temples as the stiff metal yawned from the change in temperature. The balaclava, too, had the tensing benefit of feeling like a snug blanket around your face, but its time had also come to an end. You combed your fingers through heavy hair, thick with sweat and unwashed dust, feeling like you could take the first real deep breath in hours. The feeling that washed over you after unburdening yourself with now unneeded armour could only be compared to nirvana. Aching eyelids fell over dry eyes, still cold from the frigid Russian air. 

Then there was Ghost. Ghost was such a tough nut to crack. So unreadable, so ambivalent to the world around him. Though evidenced by his rapport with his teammates and Soap’s affinity to joke with him, he clearly must have at least a little humour under that tough outer layer. Something about him made you want to get under his skin. Like an otter smashing an oyster open on the riverside, you needed to see what was under that tough outer shell, or die trying. He ground your gears in a way so few people could. There was something about the arrogance in his sanctimonious skull mask. How does someone so emo make it so far in the military anyway? It’s like he got his mask from Hot Topic. 

You blinked, realizing you had been staring into oblivion for an unknown amount of time. 

“So, Cricket,” Price spoke up, creating a welcome break to the stiff silence, “What’re you expecting back home?”

“Not much. I’ve got some shows and friends to catch up with. Definitely due for some dusting around the house… and a goldfish back home, who must be missing me dearly.”

A grin illuminated Soap’s face, indicating that he was about to say something dastardly. He always had this look in his eyes that read like he was ready to say something cheeky. It’s best when you see it on his face before any words even leave his mouth, letting you get a head start to retorting to whatever stupid comment he has coming. 

“Lua, I hate to break it to you. It’s probably long dead by now,” he quipped.

“No, it’s-” You sighed and smiled, rolling your eyes with feigned agitation, “It’s with my neighbour.” 

“What’s its name,” He added, intrigue as an apology for implicating you as a fish murderer. 

“Chupacabra,” a cheeky smile and a rolling ‘r’ accentuating your exaggerated speech.

“Sounds like a killer,” Price sighed, fiddling with one of the straps on his harness. 

You felt your cheeks tense as a smile widened across your mouth, sifting through your comments to respond with. 

“Oh, he’s a killer,” The answer finally hit you, “but when he makes a kill, he doesn’t have to debrief about it with his buddies for twenty minutes.”

Gaz kicked his head back to laugh while Price let out an exhale out of his nose. There was something uniquely satisfying about making these seasoned executioners chuckle. It feels good to be able to keep up with their wit, although it doesn’t seem to be that much of a challenge. These old fuckers probably have too much brain damage to compete fully. Though, maybe that’s more of a slight on your own humour.

Time slipped by, thinking and reliving details of the last few days, trying to refuse the creeping smile in satisfaction at having solved the Russian mystery. As satisfying as it might have been, Graves did have a point. It was your ‘fucking job,’ and you shouldn’t be digging for praise on a thing that you were uniquely and specifically trained to do. After all, you don’t see Price or Gaz raving about how satisfying and skillful it was to pick off enemies and slink through the shadows. Well, maybe a little. You made do with folding and re-folding the strap of your duffle bag half a million different ways, having now relinquished the remainder of your thermal gear and weaponry to Laswell’s instructions.

Cresting sunlight peaking over the horizon revealed a vast landmass creeping over the skyline. You made it to friendly territory without being shot from the sky, so that’s the first step. Satisfaction washed over you, making the remaining ninety minutes due on this flight seem in higher spirits than ever. Gnawing muscles from strain and lack thereof crackled to life as you stretched your back to wake up your body. It seems that Ghost’s mind was also elsewhere. You watched as his eyes flickered between two invisible points in his vision. He has brown eyes, something you never had the opportunity to note before. However, your experience with looking at his face was usually him shouting at you or his eyes boring into you in judgment. 

Feeling the clunks and clicks of lowering landing gear, you prepared yourself for yet another landing. Increasing pressure against your chest from the harness attaching you to the plane made it official, though you frowned seeing Soap winge against the unwelcome pressure on a fresh injury. The rest of the gang stretched and crackled, especially Price, who clearly had the fortune of being able to fall asleep with a jet engine screaming in his ear. A low rumble and bouncing tires winding the plane to a halt. Muscles protested the movement of raising to your feet and even more so to having to absorb the shock of jumping off the plane’s elevated floor. Fresh air, though still agonizingly cold, couldn’t penetrate the depths of your bones quite like that Russian night air. 

“I have to say, that was my first time uncovering Chinese nuclear warheads in rural Russia,” You breathed, sliding your palm over the strap of your duffle bag.

“I bet…” Price took his time to saunter over to you, a surprisingly warm smile on his face, “we’ll be seeing you again, Cricket.”

“Oh! And I think we owe you a cake too, eh?” Soap interjected your sweet moment. 

“Not a chance in hell, Johnny.” You chirped in response, playfully slapping the back of your hand on his chest. 

In an instant, he doubled over in pain, whinging and groaning. You recognized your transgression, and your face dropped, clasping your palms over your mouth in horror. The damage he sustained from the bulletproof armour was just sparked alive by your thoughtless banter, his blood-curdling winging proof of his agony. Frantic's apologies sputtered from your mouth, looking up to meet Ghost’s judging gaze looking down at you, arms crossed, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He's probably furious that you just damaged his comrade.  

“Ahh, I’m just fucking with you.” Soap sprung up from his stupor, cackling with laughter at your shocked expression. 

“See ya’ Cricket,” Gaz called out with a nod. 

You nodded in response, giving Gaz a dry wave and a tight-lipped smile, still reeling from Soap’s little stunt. 

A new wave of emotion washed over you, mouth agape as you were a split second away from bursting into tears. Laughter crackled through the air. So full of real comradery that made your reluctant smile widen. However, it was due to end. After all, it’s not like you’re the first specialist this task force has interacted with, and you’re sure they’ve met thousands of other people with your skillset. At this point, it made you consider what must have happened to their last linguist to need a new one desperately. It really makes you wonder. 

Four supersoldiers, each horrifying bunks of muscle and lethality, turned to walk toward a pre-arranged plane to take them wherever home was to them. They walked like the ground rose to greet them with every footstep, wearing their combat gear like they were born to it, effortless and confident- which still somewhat irritated you. Sure, they were good at that one thing, but they weren’t that special. You could do without some of them, but at least most of them weren’t miserable company, for the most part. 

At least you won’t be leaving empty-handed. Now you have a new callsign that is most likely not an acronym for a slight. How do you uphold a callsign anyway? Is it just a trust system? What’s stopping you from saying that some unnamed comrade has given you the callsign Emperor  or DragonWizard ? Either way, satisfaction bloomed in your chest, and you were eager to start your new life anew as Corporal Lua “ Cricket ” Grant. 

It took a few hours for a flight from Alaska to California to arrive, and the sensation of raging homesickness took over you for the first time in weeks. Although restlessness is hardly uncommon at an airport, a particular aching desperation to get home gnawed at your bones. The idle chatter of strangers and familiar sterile lighting did nothing to ease your comfort, though well-regulated heating and cushioned seating made it bearable. Memorizing each pixel of the digital clock under your gate number, probably looking like a lunatic to passing passengers. 

There’s a certain safety in an airplane; everyone is locked into one location, no one is going anywhere, and there is a certainty that there are no guns about to be pulled on you unexpectedly. Everyone is lazily lounging in their slightly reclining seats, enjoying a movie they hadn’t had the time to watch under normal circumstances, and enjoying the distinctive view of the planet from up high.

Staring at the TV screen on the seatback, you settled in for the final flight that would be bringing you ever closer to your final destination. Meeting the deep brown eyes of a child seated next to you, likely no older than ten, his eyes were shining with awe. You couldn’t help but smile. A genuine lightness lifted your chest. Something about the innocence and wonder in his face, the mechanical figurine in his hand implied that he must look to people like you like you’re superheroes, reminding you that you’re still wearing an army uniform. A kind smile did nothing to drop his gaze from you, still enraptured by your presence. Recognition struck, and you realized that you likely looked like a disaster of messy hair, a dishevelled uniform, and sunken cheekbones from days without eating. The intentions of the child would quickly become unknown as the show on his seatback monitor started a particularly engaging action scene between two monsters, commanding both yours and his undivided attention.

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