Chapter Text
The world is clouded in a mist of dusk, ambience and uncertainty as former Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley looked on into the endless horizon. His status as a Lieutenant had meant nothing after the fall of Task Force 141 and just about the rest of the eastern world. Everything had fallen into a state of anarchy after a worldwide dispute that erupted into mass bloodshed and violence. The Task Force had been unable to prevent it all, resulting in the destruction of order that wasn’t anything close to order in Ghost’s eyes. After the explosions had quieted that night Ghost had awoken to a changed world, masked to the point where he barely recognized it. Everywhere he went cities were ghost towns (to which he unironically humored himself by traversing through them willingly, it was the only way to maintain his sanity), he learned the hard way that everyone he came across was twisted into the most basic concept of Social Darwinism-not that it was any different from what he was used to-and came across many close calls.
He’d been camped out in a near collapsed building, which appeared to be an abandoned housing complex judged by the various rooms that hadn’t caved in being filled with personal items that had been left behind. Mostly junk, but the image that people had used to live here with peaceful lives ached within him. He wasn’t completely alone, which he was secretly thankful for. But it still hurt nonetheless at the thought of being unable to rebuild a broken world. Glancing behind him, Gary “Roach” Sanderson slept, curled up in a ball on top of a partially dirtied mattress. Scraps of his uniform still clung to the clothing he wore, evidently sewn on seemingly as old sentiment to the good ol’ days.
Ghost couldn’t really blame him for doing so. He was beginning to miss what he had been offered before everything was lost.
The events were hazy in his mind, but he vaguely remembered setting out into an old factory with his old squadmates before being forced to flee without the support of others. That was the first indicator everything was going to hell. He soon became separated from his team, before losing his footing and coincidentally landing into what looked to be a bomb shelter, but he had blacked out before he could verify. When he had come to, all forms of communication were gone, lost in the blowing wind. He’d sustained minor scrapes; lucky for the situation he found himself in. He was completely alone, and forced to traverse the seemingly never ending chasm that was the bomb shelter now that he was trapped within. He remembered that he had lost track of time, maybe he had been trapped there for two days without food or water before coming across abandoned provisions that he quickly ravaged upon. He felt himself losing hope, wanting to give up and sleep like the rest of the world had done. But it wasn’t long before he had a heartfelt reunion with Roach, nearly walking alongside death as dehydration had attacked his body. After narrowly saving his life, the younger operator had filled in the missing pieces, confirming the fresh post-apocalyptic state the world had entered just days earlier.
But that was a year ago. Now Ghost had become accustomed to the changed way of life, learning to look out for no one but himself and Roach. It wasn’t like it was much different from the life he’d lived before… But it rightfully had felt so to him.
He was keeping watch, in case scavengers had the thought to snoop around their building that they themselves carefully combed through, suppressed handguns clutched between their fingers tightly. He entertained the thought that his superior, John “Soap” MacTavish would sarcastically comment on his rigidness, straight as a dog’s hind leg; the thickly accented voice ripping through his ears with amusement. But there were no friendly quips or jabs to be shared. He hadn’t seen the Scotsman since just before the fall. Deep down he was sure that he was still out there, possibly fighting for his life alongside their other squadmate and close friend, John Price.
He glanced back at the blackened sky, now covered in a sheet of stars, the sun having set just about an hour ago. It used to be a rare sight to see the twinkling terrain, blocked by lights of a bustling city, but nowadays gloomy clouds were the only competition. Ghost sighed, holding onto his sniper rifle tightly between his hands. The wind had died down two hours ago, leaving the ghost town of whatever European city they were in in near silence. The occasional rustling of displaced wildlife and collapse of age old debris echoed through the emptied streets and alleyways, creating an ominous yet blank white noise that Ghost’s mind blocked out.
Behind him, Roach groaned, shifting his body until he was lying flat on his back as he stretched his unused muscles. The satisfying pop in his bones clicked in Ghost’s ears as he set his gaze on an empty storage yard meters away. He hadn’t paid heed to it at all, but now it secretly piqued his interest.
“It’s not your turn for watch ya know,” Ghost stated aloud, cocking his head as he looked through his scope. He adjusted the dial, scanning the shattered windows of the main building of what appeared to be a vacant factory. The industrial building loomed breathlessly, towering above the split steel containers and crumbled oil tankers, pieced together in an array of dull black.
Roach rubbed at his eyes, yawning quietly.
“Still got another two hours of watch left, if you’re still tired from the trip, I can take your shift. Not much to see anyway. This place is a natural ghost town.”
The younger operator sat up, crawling towards his pack and fumbling with its locks. He pulled out a thermos, no doubt the same one filled with fresh, cold water from their last supply run. Shuffling towards Ghost, he sat himself down next to him, laying his own sniper across his lap. Sipping conservatively from the container, he mutely offered it to the older operator.
“Nah mate. What’s yours is yours. Ya earned it fair and square. But thanks.” Roach shrugged, twisting the cap back on and glancing up at the stars. The wistful and longing look in his eyes made Ghost crack a smile.
“Somethin’ as beautiful as this happened before eh?” The brunet shifted his gaze.
“You remember?”
“Just now. Ya never have that look on your face unless you’re seein’ some good stuff up there in the sky. I could never forget how much ya love lookin’ at the stars.”
Roach stared at his lap, picking at the dried bits of dirt and grass caking his trousers, “it’s what we have left.”
“Yeah. But it makes it all the more beautiful doesn’t it? Get all refreshed lookin’ at something that made ya happy back then and still does now. Like seein’ an old sight for sore eyes. It’s nice to have somethin’ to keep your sanity in check,” Ghost smiled, grasping at the younger operator’s hand for several seconds. Roach returned the expression.
“Simon,” Roach called, breaking the silence after half an hour had passed, “do you… Do you miss the others?”
“You mean Soap, Price, Nik and the rest?”
An affirming nod came his way.
“Ya, been thinkin’ about them lately. How they’re probably fightin’ their own battles, strugglin’ to survive and get by with what they have. Makes me wonder if we’ll ever see em’ someday. But if either of them could survive the shit from back then, they’ll get by.”
Roach smiled, running his fingertips along a dried piece of dangling ivy. The light of the moon wasn’t glaring down on them, the shadows provided them a great deal of cover. Ghost normally wouldn’t allow this kind of tender moment, especially being so out in the open with a huge glaring weakness. But something told Ghost that he could let loose for now. Wordlessly, he slipped his fingers under his balaclava-the only thing he basically had of sentimental value since pre-fall-and began pulling the fabric off of his head. The skull-pattern was mostly faded and stitched together in several places after multiple firefights, but despite its less than favorable condition, Ghost wouldn’t dare toss the thing out. After all, Roach had so generously mended the thing in free time that was meant for him. That, and he had become so attached to the garb of cloth. The skull grinned at him, reminding him of when things were just slightly better, to which he quickly mused the fact that if committing several acts of violence was considered ‘better’, he’d have to pick up a new hobby.
“Is it torn again?” Roach leaned closer, peering at the intact balaclava. It was slightly discolored in several places, but still keeping the fear and menacing factor into play.
“Nah love, it’s been in great condition since ya fixed it up,” he replied, “just thought I’d breathe in some fresh air since we got a moment to spare.” He picked up his sniper between his hands, once again setting his sights on the old factory.
“I think we should investigate that old factory,” Ghost murmured, noting at the locked front entrance, “think there might be somethin’ good in there, could also make for a stash or somethin’ if we plan to stay here for a bit longer.”
Roach squinted, staring into the dark void, “in a few hours or tomorrow night?”
The older operator thought for a moment, “haven’t seen anyone creepin’ around for the last four days. Think if we head on out now we’ll get a head start on the snoopin’. If ya aren’t too exhausted I’ve found a sniper’s nest where ya can be on overwatch, unless ya want to be the one pokin’ around.”
“They always called you the Ghost for a reason,” Roach joked, earning a hushed chuckle.
“They always called you the Roach for a reason. I’ll see ya on overwatch, then, Bug Face.”