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Many, many years before, when he was just a small child, Ghost had been afraid of the dark. He had been afraid because it was never just the darkness he had to be scared of, it was all the things that could hide inside.
As a child, his mind would go into overdrive whenever the lights went out. Images of monsters and demons plagued his mind, taunting and tormenting him as they seemed to lurk in the corner, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He spent his nights gripping his blankets for dear life, his body curled into himself as he fought to keep his eyes open.
That was another thing about Ghost, even though he was deathly terrified of darkness, he always refused to close his eyes. In his mind, it was better to suffer through the darkness and see who could attack him, than to close his eyes and be vulnerable to the whims of his fears.
For a while, he could defend himself against the darkness with a flashlight and book, spending his nights holed up under the covers as a mosaic of words took him to another universe. But it wasn’t long until his fears began to get worse. The monsters and demons came to life, taking traitorous form in his father and brother, and then even the brightest days were no longer safe.
His fears followed him outside of the dark, chasing behind him and nipping at his heels. His brother with that damned skull mask; his father with his cruel humor. Ghost couldn’t escape them, he spent every waking moment terrified of their presence, and at night it only got worse. Every time he dreamt, his mind betrayed him, conjuring up blood-curdling nightmares where the torture only worsened and he was helpless to defend himself.
But unfortunately, his dreams were not much worse than reality. Resentment against his mother began to build up in his chest as the horrors continued. It pained him to feel that way, especially towards the person he had once loved and adored, but he couldn’t help but hate how powerless she was against his father. Ghost wanted her to be able to protect him, to berate his brother and stand up to his father, but she couldn’t, and he despised her for it. In his eyes, she was the one person who was meant to keep him safe, to defend him, to shield him from harm, and she failed. She was the one who turned off the lights, the one who turned a blind eye to his brother’s vicious torments, the one who couldn’t stop her husband from terrorizing the son she was supposed to love.
Of course, as he grew up the terror began to subside. His brother’s attacks no longer scared him; his father’s cruel jokes no longer affected him. With age, he had grown tall and strong and capable of defending himself, but more importantly, he grew numb. After years and years of an endless onslaught of horror, his mind had finally adapted. He grew used to the fear, befriended it even, and it became a part of him.
He was no longer a child, no longer terrified of the dark, no longer intimidated by his brother and father, by the nightmares that used to plague his sleep. The fear was still with him, but where it had once consumed him, it now preserved him. It kept him on edge, ready to strike when the moment called. As a child, he had been scared of the monsters that hid in the dark, but now, he had become the monster.
A lifetime of fear and military service had hardened him, transformed him from a terrified kid into a terrifying soldier. He was over two hundred pounds of muscle; he could kill a man with his bare hands and kill an army with a gun. He was a six foot four behemoth that could sneak up on someone without making a whisper; an absolute unit that could make grown men wet themselves.
He was a lieutenant, a leader. He made the hard choices and he did it to protect his team. He didn’t make mistakes; he didn’t get sloppy. At least, he didn’t until he met you. Before you had earned your way onto the task force, he had been on top of everything that needed to be handled, but now that you were here he was beginning to mess up. After you arrived, once he realized the extent of your hold on him, he began to make mistakes; he got sloppy. He wasn’t as careful as he needed to be, he became reckless.
The thing about you was that you made him scared. Not the terror he felt as a child, but a new kind of sensation. A nervous, giddy kind of sensation. You made his heart flutter when you were around and his stomach flip whenever you touched him. You made him want to spend his free time thinking about you, to let some of his responsibilities go by half-finished so he could linger around the kitchen until you talked to him. He was scared of how you made him feel, of how you managed to thaw his cold heart and breathe new life into it. He was scared of how you could make him feel, if you rejected him, or worse, if you liked him back.
He knew that it was insane for him to think that reciprocation would be worse than rejection, but he couldn’t help himself. At least with rejection, he had closure. It was over. It would hurt for a bit but it would stop eventually. But if you liked him back, then there was so much more that could happen, and so much more that could go wrong. The more of you he had, the more he had to lose, and Ghost knew that he was in a position where even the slightest mistake could send everything crashing.
For example, the mistake he was currently making. After years in the military, Ghost knew his own limitations. Sure, he had once gone a week without sleep, but he also promptly passed out afterwards. As a soldier, Ghost needed to be alert; he couldn’t be vulnerable or exposed. Even when sleeping, he needed to have one ear listening for any unusual noises, one hand gripped on the handle of a knife so he was ready to go when the moment arose.
But your presence had a way of distracting Ghost; he couldn’t stop thinking about you, about your body pressed up against him. And of course, he had such a long day as well. It felt like weeks had passed since the task force had first been ambushed by Zhelyazkov, when in reality it had been less than a day. In the end, the combination proved to be too much, and as Ghost fell deeper and deeper into sleep, his mind continued to distract him with tantalizing images of you.
Which is why when the sharp crack of gunshots shook Ghost out of his slumber, he initially wondered if he had dreamt it. However, the loud bark of Bulgarian voices that ensued confirmed that his initial assessment was grossly incorrect. He shot up from his bed, reaching for the gun in his bag as the door to the bedroom swung open. He managed to fire two shots at the man who tried to enter, nailing him once in the forehead and again in the chest. Another man came behind him, his gun sending a spray of bullets in Ghost’s direction. He felt a bullet graze his forearm as he ducked down, the stinging pain waking him up completely. He fired a bullet back in return, hitting him in the arm. Another shot and the man was down easily.
Ghost could hear more gunshots and shouting from outside the room, and his mind immediately went over to you. Were you alright? Did they shoot you? And who even were these men? He assumed they had to be with Zhelyazkov, but in all the chaos he couldn’t get a good look.
He shouldered his bag, reloading his gun as he moved to the doorway. But before he could exit, a bright light exploded in front of him, followed by a deafening boom. Ghost could feel himself stumble as he lost his balance. His vision went blurry, and then black. He couldn’t hear anything except a painful ringing in his ears.
He tried getting back up, but immediately went down again as a burning pain spread through his thigh. His vision was starting to clear up again, and just barely he could see you with your gun extended in front of you, your hair messy and your face sprayed with blood, but then he felt the butt of a rifle make painful contact with his head, and his world went black once more.
What happened immediately after was still a blur to Ghost. His vision came and went as it pleased, filling his mind with strange images and sensations he couldn’t make sense of at the time. The sharp feeling of plastic biting into the skin of his wrists, a sharp prick of pain in his arm, an unfamiliar man speaking Bulgarian as he crouched in front of Ghost.
He could feel the man yanking off his mask, but no matter how hard he tried to move his arms or legs, to yank his face away or fight back, he couldn’t. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion, even blinking felt sluggish. He was helpless as the man’s eyes scrutinized his now bare face, the image of his mouth contorting into a cruel grin burning itself in his mind.
The first thing Ghost registered when he woke up was that his throat was uncomfortably dry. That familiar itch tickled at the back of his neck before he could even open his eyes. And then he felt heavy, as if his limbs were made of lead and weighed down with concrete. He struggled to open his eyes, and even that was difficult. A wave of confusion washed over him as he stared at the ground, which was partially covered by his bare legs. That was weird, he thought, hadn’t he been wearing pants before? But before what? His head felt heavy and throbbed uncomfortably, and when he tried to lift it up he only felt himself slip out of consciousness once more.
When Ghost woke up again, he could faintly hear the sounds of conversation going on around him. It sounded distant and far off, but when he blinked his eyes open he could see two pairs of feet just in front of him. He tried lifting his head up again, this time successfully, and squinted at the two men in front of him.
His head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and then beaten like a piñata, and the harsh buzzing of fluorescent lights didn’t help with the incessant throbbing he was feeling either. He watched silently as the two men continued exchanging words in Bulgarian, still unaware of his newly gained consciousness.
He lowered his head again, letting his eyes fall shut as a semblance of rational thought began to reenter his mind. Realistically, his chances were better the longer they thought he was unconscious. He needed to buy himself as much time as possible so he could figure out what had happened, and start working on a means of escape.
The longer he was awake, the more memories began coming back to him. He remembered leaving for the mission, sitting on the helicopter as he checked that all his equipment was satisfactory for the third time. He remembered seeing Soap double over with laughter at something Gaz had said, and wondering what could have been so funny.
He remembered trying to storm Zhelyazkov’s base, and the strange, awe-induced sensation he had felt when he watched the skies light up in front of him. He remembered the worry that rushed through him when he remembered that Fishers had been with Zhelyazkov, and then he remembered you.
Oh god, you. How could he have forgotten about you for so long? The way you had been pressed against him so tightly as stars shot across the night sky, the way he had thought about you — desecrated you — in the shower, the way your fingers had ghosted along his flesh as you patched him up, the way your hand burned his skin deliciously as he held it against his heart. You were branded into his being with a hot iron; you were a tattoo inked in technicolor on his brain; you were grafted onto the ends of his neurons with lasers. Whether you knew it or not, you had become a part of him, as real and as fundamental as his heart or his lungs or his skin.
But the memory of you was soon followed by gut-wrenching worry. Where were you? The last time he had seen you — really seen you, not just caught a fading glimpse of you — had been right after you had finished stitching him up. When his mind lost all traces of rationality and brought your hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat, that had been the last time he had really seen you. He had seen the way he had rendered you silent, the way your eyes were wide as your hand rested against your chest. He had seen the way you had hesitated as you pulled your hand away, how it seemed, even if just for a moment, that maybe you wanted him back.
And then the moment was over, and the two of you were back to being soldiers, teammates. He remembered telling you to wake him up if you got tired, he remembered how you called him sir. Was that the last thing the two of you had said to each other? It couldn’t be; it was so mundane, so menial. That wasn’t what last words should be; they should be meaningful, a confession of love or an utterance of forgiveness. He tried to convince himself that he had a point, that you had to be alive because whatever deity was in charge — God, or fate, or something else entirely — whatever it was, they couldn’t be that cruel.
And yet no matter how many times he told himself that, he knew it wasn’t true. The real world didn’t work like that, it wasn’t some fairy tale story where everything has a happily ever after. The real world tarnishes the purest of hearts; it uplifts evil and tamps down goodness. It revels in torture and suffering; it scorns innocence and hope. In reality, that very likely was the last thing the two of you would ever say to each other.
He didn’t know what had happened to you after he saw you that final time, with your messy hair and bloodstained face. For all he knew, you could’ve been shot the moment he lost consciousness, your body falling to the ground as he lay there just a few yards away from you, completely unaware of the tragedy that had just unfolded. Maybe you had seen him go down and tried to escape, your mind focused only on your own survival as you ran out the door. One of them would have caught you though, and chances were you were shot out in the snow, the shining crimson red of your blood spreading outwards through the snow, tainting it. Or maybe you were somewhere here — in this cursed building with its obnoxious fluorescent lights — with him. Maybe you were in a matching room, just barely coming out of unconsciousness like he was. Maybe you were already fighting your way out or maybe they were already beginning to have their way with you. Maybe you were thinking of him.
But whatever it was, whether death or capture, he knew that the likelihood of this ending well, of you and him together and safe, was slim to none. There were too many variables, too many moving pieces, for this to go well. And the others, Soap, Gaz, and Price, could they be here as well? Hell, he didn’t even know where ‘here’ was. He needed to focus, to concentrate. He needed to get himself out first, because as counterintuitive as it was, that was what was best for everyone. He needed to get out, to escape, so he could find you. The longer he stayed in here moping and fretting, the longer you were out there, wherever that was.
He tried his best to tune into his surroundings, being mindful to keep his eyes shut. He was sitting in a chair with his arms twisted uncomfortably behind his back; he flexed his wrists cautiously. He could tell by the burn of coarse fibers that he was bound with rope. He tugged at his restraints, trying to make them give a little, but it was no use. They were tied tight. He carefully tried inching his leg forward, but to no avail. The rope restraining his hands had evidently been used to bind his legs to the chair as well. He tried to listen to the conversation happening above him. His Bulgarian was shabby at best, but throughout their conversation one name kept reappearing: Zhelyazkov.
From there, it wasn’t hard to conclude that he was in Zhelyazkov’s base, given the circumstances. That was good; weeks of staring at blueprints of the building had burned the compound’s layout into his mind. He felt the cold air of the room bite at his nose and his legs, and he realized that not only was he not wearing his mask, he was no longer wearing anything. His pants, jacket, and undershirt had long been disposed of, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. His lip twitched slightly at the realization, and suddenly he felt significantly more exposed.
Meanwhile, the conversation next to him grew louder and faster, each of the men firing what sounded like insults to each other in rapid Bulgarian. They seemed stressed, and the repeated mention of Zhelyazkov appeared to only make it worse. Eventually, the conversation culminated with a final slurry of shouts from one of the men, followed by what sounded like a harsh shove. He listened carefully as the sound of footsteps grew further away from him, followed by electronic beeping and a slammed door.
He sat still for a moment, trying to listen for the sounds of someone in the room with him: breathing, a heartbeat. But there was nothing, and after a moment, Ghost opened his eyes once more. He stared at his now bare legs. His right thigh had been bandaged, but he could see blood leaking through the dressings. He thought back to the moments right before he had lost consciousness. He remembered feeling a burning pain where the bandage was placed; he must have been shot. He could still feel the slight sting of the bullet wound, pulsating through the rush of adrenaline.
He shifted his attention to the concrete floor underneath him, carefully scrutinizing the knots which kept his ankles bound to the metal chair he was sitting on. After closer inspection, he realized the chair had been welded to the ground, most likely to stop him from lifting or moving the chair in an attempt to escape.
He could also see a bandage on his forearm where a bullet had grazed him, and he could only assume they had replaced the one on his back as well. It was an odd thing for them to do, to spend their resources patching him up. He assumed that meant they wanted him alive, most likely to gain intel, but that made no sense. They already had Fishers, and chances were Fishers had one of the higher ups on his side as well, so why did they need him?
He raised his head, ignoring the way it throbbed painfully. He looked around the room, the walls were concrete gray, completely bare except for a few dark spots staining some of them. Blood, probably. He craned his neck to look behind him, wincing as the gash on his back flared with pain. He had probably reopened the wound. You would probably chastise him for that, and he would accept it with open arms as long as it meant you were still alive.
Besides the chair and the door, there was nothing in the room, and after the two men had left, the room had become noticeably silent, save for the buzz of the lights. Not even the howl of wind or the chirp of crickets made it through to him. He tried thinking back to the blueprints, doing his best to figure out where he was. The silence and lack of windows led him to think that he was somewhere underground. When he had seen the basement level on the blueprints, he had assumed that they were simply for storage. Perhaps they had another use.
He looked to the door the two men had exited from. It was solid white, with no windows and a keypad above the handle. So that was what the beeping had been. He wiggled his arms from behind his back, trying to keep the blood flowing when suddenly, the lights above him shut off, leaving him in pitch black darkness.
He felt his heart skip a beat as the light abandoned him, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He didn’t remember seeing a light switch in the room with him, and even if there had been one, there was no one to turn it off. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness around him, but the lack of windows and the shapeless walls made it hard for his eyes to find something to latch onto.
Ghost wasn’t sure how long he had been alone before the door finally clicked open. For a moment, the open door let in a stream of bright light from the hallway, and in a weird way Ghost felt safer for that brief moment. But it didn’t take long for the door to click shut, and he was swallowed in darkness again. He could hear someone enter, but he chose to keep his head down and his eyes shut. His chances were better the longer he played dumb, that way he could flesh out a plan.
He listened carefully as the footsteps grew closer to him. The person didn’t say anything, but Ghost could hear the rustle of cloth and the strange click of plastic as he approached him. Wordlessly, the person wrapped the cloth around Ghost’s eyes, and he could feel his heartbeat quicken. Part of him wanted to stop the act, to get up and try to stop this person from stealing his last morsels of light, but the other part of him yelled at him to stay frozen, and he sat stock-still as the person tied the cloth into a secure blindfold.
For a moment, Ghost could hear the person messing with whatever he was holding, but to his horror, he felt him place a pair of headphones over his ears, and then there was nothing. No sound, no light, absolutely nothing. He could feel the person lift his head, followed by an uncomfortable pressure as the headphones pressed against his head tighter — most likely some attempt to to secure them to his head — but he couldn’t hear anything.
Very, very faintly, he heard a dull thud, which he assumed was the door closing, but he couldn’t tell. For all he knew he could have imagined it. With the headphones on, he couldn’t even hear if the person was still in the room with him. There was no longer the sound of clothes rustling or heavy breathing to comfort Ghost. And in a weird way he almost missed that mystery person, because although they had been responsible for this twisted method of torture, at least for a moment, Ghost wasn’t alone. But now there was nothing; there was no one. He was completely and utterly alone. Abandoned by light, abandoned by sound, and for all he knew, abandoned by you.
He suddenly felt very vulnerable sitting there in the dark. He felt helpless. Besides his boxers, he was completely exposed, he didn’t even have any clothes to offer himself a semblance of protection. He couldn’t move his arms or his legs, couldn’t do anything to defend himself. He felt like a child again, cowering in fear of the darkness, but this time, he didn’t even have a blanket to hide under. He was at the whim of whoever had put him here, whoever had blindfolded him and stolen his hearing. He was defenseless, susceptible to whatever torture his kidnapper chose.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been alone for. His training told him to count the seconds, to time how long he was alone, to do anything to try and get a better bearing of what was going on, but he couldn’t. All of his training went out the window as he sat alone there, blind and deaf to what was happening around him. He was disgusted by how scared he felt; this wasn’t him, this wasn’t Ghost. Who was this trembling fool who was rendered helpless simply at the loss of his senses? Where was the elusive Ghost he displayed for his teammates, the cold killer who could end a life with the flick of his wrist, who dropped bodies like they were nothing? That was the person he needed to be right now, the fearless leader who commanded soldiers into battle, not this quivering fool who had the same amount of courage as a child. He needed to be Ghost right now, he needed it. But he wasn’t; he couldn’t be. He was Simon. No matter how hard he tried he was Simon, cold and scared and vulnerable.
He couldn’t stop his mind from racing as he sat alone in that cursed room. He tried to organize them, to take a deep breath and collect himself, but it was so hard for some reason. His mind was both processing a million things and processing nothing at the same time. Thoughts flooded his mind but he couldn’t make sense of them. He couldn’t register anything except fear; pure, unbridled fear coursing through his veins and filling every crevice of his being.
He felt suffocated, trapped. He wanted so badly to be able to pull his limbs into himself like he had when he was a child. He wanted to curl up into himself, to hide under a blanket while he scanned the corners of his room for monsters. But he couldn’t even do that, he couldn’t even see anything through the damned blindfold. He was paralyzed with fear, dreading whatever was to come.
He wasn’t even sure why he was so scared of his impending torture. He had been through situations like that before, he had trained for it, but for some reason it terrified him now. At least before, he had been able to see their swings. He could hear them coming and do his best to dodge it, or at least to brace for the impact. But now? Now that was no longer an option. Whoever would come to beat him, Zhelyazkov or one of his men, would be more than able to have his way with him, and he would be completely defenseless. In every sense of the word he was vulnerable; he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t even move. He was back to being a child again, too small and too weak to fight back. Resigned to sitting there and taking it; scared of the dark but too scared to close his eyes.
After a while, his thoughts trailed over to you. It started off abstract; his thoughts were less of you and more of the idea of you. Bits and pieces of your being that floated around his brain, filling him with a brief moment of comfort, but leaving him with more fear than when he started. At the base of it all though, underneath all the noise and fear and incoherent thoughts, he was scared for you.
He was scared you were gone, that your vibrant body had let out its last breath hours ago. He was scared you were laying out there somewhere, your body cold and blue and unmoving. He was scared that your death was slow, that you were out there somewhere strong enough to keep breathing, but too weak to move. He was scared you were being forced to watch through frozen lashes at the snow that fell above you, the once pure snowflakes turning red with your blood as you lay there. He was scared that they had gotten to you, that just like him you could no longer see or hear. He was scared of what they would do to you, they didn’t need the two of you alive, and considering his rank, he knew that they would find more use in him than you.
It scared him to think of that, of your death being his fault. Of his stupid title being the reason they chose his life over yours, the reason they cursed the world by removing your presence from it. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened, he knew it. He would be overcome with grief. He couldn’t even fathom the idea of getting out of bed if he knew that he was the reason you were gone.
It wouldn’t be a quick death either, he knew, if they had gotten to you. There was no doubt in the world that they would torture you, and judging by the stains on the walls it wouldn’t be something you leave relatively unharmed. He could practically imagine your screams right now, shrill and desperate and terrified as you tried to find some sort of reprieve. They sent chills down his spine, and he had to force himself to stop thinking about it. He couldn’t afford to torture himself further with hypotheticals.
But even then, he couldn’t help but still feel guilty. Obviously this had happened for a reason; they had found them at the cabin somehow. Maybe if he had covered their tracks better on the way there, if he had kept a closer watch on who was lurking around the corner, following them. Maybe, if he had just stayed up, if he had fought the tiredness like he had before, he wouldn’t be here. Maybe he would’ve been able to see them coming, maybe he would have had time to get you out of there safely. Maybe you would be together right now.
He had to stop himself again, because the more he thought of what he could have done, the more he began to hate himself. He tried to control his thoughts, but despite everything he knew, everything he had learned, his mind turned to the future, more specifically, his future with you.
He knew it was a stupid thing, to hope, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. Hope was the beginning of disappointment; it was every soldier’s Achilles heel. Hope was the initiation into delusion, it was a sham that clouded your thoughts and ruined your judgment. Hope was the antithesis to rationality, the gateway into hatred. In a situation like this, hope was an impenetrable wall blocking the way to survival. Hope sounds great on paper, but when you were dealing with someone like Zhelyazkov, it was a horror story waiting to happen. It should’ve been something to live for, but through the cruel practices of men like Zhelyazkov it turned into something to fear.
Men like Zhelyazkov, they were sick and twisted. They would let you continue to hope for a while, let you believe that maybe there was an end, that you could eventually return to that one thing you were living for. But then, when you no longer had anything left to live for except for that one thing, they would hunt it down, and kill it. They would stomp on it and squash it, beat it until it was unrecognizable and then grin when they showed its desecrated remains to you.
Simon knew that — knew it better than most people — because he had been that man before, that man who was just like Zhelyazkov. That man who sought out the one thing his victim had to live for and extinguished it. He had planned on being that man for this mission, the man that would ruin Zhelyazkov’s life until he only had one thing to live for, and then he would destroy that one thing as well.
That was just how the way things went. No matter how important that person was, no matter how much you loved them or how much you wanted them to be safe, if you were subjected to enough pain, enough torture, enough agony, you would give them up. It was as simple as that. No matter how selfless or caring you think you are, when faced with complete and unending torment, selfishness takes over. You would do anything, give up anyone, just for a chance for it to end. And when you give up the last thing you have to live for, you can finally be broken.
The only way to survive, to get through it with your heart still beating, was to relinquish hope yourself. To accept your chances and focus not on living for something that could be so easily ruined, and instead focus on increasing your chances through skill alone. Simon knew he shouldn’t be wasting his energies on hope — which was a beautiful thing on its own, but was absolutely crushing to have torn away from you — but despite what he knew, what his brain screamed for him to consider, he couldn’t stop himself.
He hoped you were out there. He hoped you were somewhere looking for him. He hoped he would see you again. He hoped he would feel that electric feeling of your skin against his. He knew it was stupid, that he was deliberately endangering you by letting his thoughts continue to run wild, but he needed this. He needed you to get him through this. He needed to believe that you would be together again.
And so, even though it went against every rational thought in his body, even though it went against every single thing he had taught himself, he let his mind continue to dream about what his future with you could hold. There was so much he hadn’t done with you yet, so many feelings he hadn’t felt with you.
He wanted to wake up with you, to sleepily shut off his alarm clock because staying with you was more important than getting up to train. He wanted to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, to take a deep breath and let his nose be filled with the intoxicating perfume of his laundry detergent mixed with your shampoo.
He wanted to feel you sigh as you pulled yourself closer to his chest; he wanted to rub circles on your back and try to fall back asleep as he let his eyes fall shut again. He wanted to feel you stir as you woke up, to savor the rasp of your morning voice as you tried to encourage him to get up. He wanted to be able to pull you back into bed, to squeeze you against him as he tried to convince you to stay. He wanted to feel the way you relaxed into his grip as you gave in; he wanted to be able to spend the entire day in bed with you.
He wanted to hold your hand when the team went out for drinks. He wanted an excuse to glare at all the people that tried to hit on you. He wanted to be able to call you his, to flaunt you, to show off that you had picked him out of everyone else. He wanted to wrap his arm around you, to talk to Price and the others about how amazing you were. He wanted to be the one to take you home, to be by your side while you fought off the effects of your hangover the next morning.
He wanted to take you out on a date, to knock on your door and see just how beautiful you were. He wanted to open the car door for you, to rest his hand on your thigh while he drove and to look over and admire the way the lights of the city framed your face just the right way. He wanted to pull your seat out for you and ask what you were thinking about ordering, he wanted to let you take bites off his plate whenever you wanted and then fight with you over who would pay the bill. He wanted to drive you home but stay parked in front of your place while you laughed over stupid things together. He wanted to be able to kiss you goodnight and look forward to texting you when he got home. He wanted to—
His was interrupted by his head violently jerking to the right, followed by a throbbing pain in his cheek. He didn’t know what to do. He was completely shocked, blind-sided. He just sat there, for a moment, his neck still twisted by the impact. Suddenly, the situation felt all too real. He knew it would be bad; he knew that he wouldn’t be able to predict when or where he would be hit, but it was so much worse than he expected. He hadn’t even heard the door unlock. He hadn’t heard the heavy steps of boots approaching his direction or the rush of wind as his attacker lifted his hand.
He had been too distracted to even feel the presence of someone else in the room. Too absorbed in his thoughts of you, in his stupid hope, that he was rendered completely dumb as he sat there in the dark, still reeling from the punch. He felt another punch land on his other cheek, twisting his head to the opposite direction, followed by a punch to his gut. He doubled over at the impact, and he felt a burn along his shoulders as his arms twisted uncomfortably.
So this was it, he thought. The torture was beginning. He did his best to prepare for the oncoming attacks, tightening his muscles, trying not to flinch, but it was hard to do when there was nothing to clue him in on where the attacks were coming from. He tried to ignore the throbbing pain that was beginning to envelope his entire body, but it was hard when there was nothing else to focus on. He tried to hone in on the feeling of his own heartbeat, but there was so much going on his mind couldn’t stay focused.
The lack of sight or sound made every single punch so much worse, the sensations increased tenfold. Every hit to the gut had him doubling over, every punch to the face sent him reeling. It didn’t take long for the pain to go from tolerable to excruciating. Every single thing he did to defend himself was quickly reversed by his attacker. Whenever he tried to curl up into himself, to decrease the amount of skin exposed to his attacker, he would feel his body be wrenched open and punished with another punch to the gut.
Between the flurry of punches he could feel the hard feeling of a boot kicking against him, attacking his sides, his legs, his chest. He felt the familiar sting of a slap in the face, the sharp thud of the butt of a gun hitting him in the temple.
The beating went on for what felt like ages, with Simon given no choice but to take it. His whole body throbbed with pain, his mouth was filled with the taste of coppery blood, and every time he breathed his chest twanged agonizingly. But all of a sudden, the beating stopped. The blows stopped coming, the punches stopped landing. Simon braced himself for another attack, mentally preparing himself to swallow down the pain one more time, and it never came.
He kept waiting for the next punch, trying to count down the seconds until the next attack, but there was nothing. He sat there for what felt like an hour, just sitting alone in the dark, muscles tensed for the next blow which never came. He was unsettled, to say the least. He hadn’t heard anyone leave the room, hadn’t sensed the shift in light that should’ve happened when the door opened. He couldn’t tell if there was anyone in the room with him, if it was safe for him to work on an escape.
For a moment, he wondered if this was the end. If you or Price or someone else had managed to infiltrate the compound and save him, but as more and more time passed that notion slowly fizzled out. He tried to collect his thoughts, to bring some rationality back to his fractured mind. After so long, he had almost grown used to the darkness and silence. The terror that had once filled him had begun to subside, and in a weird way he almost found it peaceful.
He tried to take a deep breath, but was stopped short by a sharp pain in his chest. He cursed under his breath, although he couldn’t hear it, as he tried once more. This time was equally unsuccessful, and he let his head fall forward as he instead tried to take a series of shallow breaths to ground himself.
Mentally, he tried to trace over his body, taking note of any areas that harbored an abnormal amount of pain. His chest, of course, which he assumed was caused by a fractured rib or two. The top of his back, which he could tell by the uncomfortable sensation of blood dripping down the expanse of his skin, was caused by the injury you had so tenderly stitched up breaking open again. His right thigh pulsated with an angry, burning sensation, which didn’t surprise him given the circumstances. And his forearm, which had also been injured during his initial altercation with his captors, was stinging painfully once more. Besides that there was the general aches and pains that came with this kind of brutal treatment, and he could only imagine the litany of bruises he would have when this was finally over.
Simon had planned to use this time of reprieve to start working on a way out, to find a way out of his restraints and finally take off that damned blindfold. But as the adrenaline started to wear off, he felt a tidal wave of exhaustion wash over his body, followed by another wave of debilitating pain. Suddenly, any drive Simon had to try and find a means of escape abandoned him, and frankly all he wanted to do was close his eyes and fall asleep.
But even though he had shirked the lessons and rules of his training numerous times earlier in the day, he knew he couldn’t do it now. It was very likely that if he was to close his eyes and let sleep take him, he might never wake up again. And although once death may have sounded like a welcome escape, now it felt like a cruel punishment.
He tried to keep his mind engaged as he wiggled against his restraints, screwing his eyes shut at the way the movement caused his body to reel with pain. The ropes didn’t give, and he could tell that whoever had tied him up knew what they were doing. He tried moving his legs again, and though he was able to ease out a little bit of give from his ropes, he was ultimately unsuccessful.
Somewhere along the line though, it all got to be too much for Simon. His body and his brain had simply had too much, and even though he tried to fight, the tight grip of exhaustion won, and Simon drifted off into unconsciousness once more.
This time, Simon dreamt. He dreamt he was a child again, sitting in his bunk bed and trying to stay up as long as possible. He had just felt himself on the verge of sleep, when suddenly, his younger brother sprung downwards from the top of the bunk, a ghoulish skull mask on his face. Simon felt himself screaming, but no sound came out. He tried to wiggle away from his brother but he suddenly found he couldn’t move. He tried screwing his eyes shut but he could still see that mask, and suddenly he heard his father laughing around him, the sound echoing throughout his head.
He could feel himself crying, and then he was no longer in his childhood bedroom. Instead he was back in his flat in Manchester, unlocking the door while a strange pit of dread filled his stomach. His legs moved on his own volition as they carried him to the kitchen. You were standing there, cutting vegetables when you turned around to face him. You smiled at him, called him ‘honey,’ and then before he knew what he was doing he was grabbing the knife and plunging it into your stomach.
He stood there terrified as you looked down at the knife and back up at him. He watched with horror as the blood spread throughout your clothes, ruining the white cloth. He tried to reach out for you, but he couldn’t move his limbs. He listened as you asked him what he was doing, and then you were crying, tears streaming down your face as you begged for an explanation he couldn’t give you.
He felt his stomach twist and churn as your skin began to lose its vitality and your eyes began to dim. It wasn’t until after you had fallen to the ground that he was able to move again, and he lunged down to grab you. Your skin was cold against his, and Simon could feel the pit in his stomach growing deeper and deeper.
A sudden punch to the guts had Simon snapping awake. For a moment, he was stunned by the force, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what was going on. His captor was back, ready to beat and punch and kick him like before. Simon felt himself let out a groan with each impact that struck his body, and his body was almost shaking with pain as the torture continued.
But again he had no choice but to take it, enduring blow after blow as he sat there defenseless. That was how he spent his time in that room, for what seemed like ages. His captor, Zhelyazkov he assumed, would come in every few hours, beat him black and blue until he was on the verge of passing out, and then leave. From there he would be left completely alone, left to stew with his own thoughts as his body grew weaker and weaker.
For a long time, his captor didn’t say anything. Simon was left to the onslaught of the torture with nothing to focus on but the pain, which in a cruel way kept him grounded to reality.
At some time during one particularly painful session, he wasn’t sure when, Simon had passed out once more. Whether it was from exhaustion or from the blinding pain that wracked his body, he wasn’t sure. But when he opened his eyes again, he wondered if he had finally died, if his body had finally had enough and gave out, because he was met with a blinding white light.
He had to shut his eyes at first, because the harsh lighting was making his head throb. But as he regained his sense, he realized that the once annoying sound of the fluorescent lights buzzing had returned. He blinked his eyes open, squinting through his lashes as he got used to seeing light again. Was this it? Was it finally over? He was still in the same dreadful room as before, but maybe you had finally come to save him, or maybe it was simply time for him to die.
Whatever it was, gratefulness surged through his body at the ability to see and hear again. Even though hours of darkness had left his eyes unaccustomed to the bright lights of the room, he refused to close them, wanting to stay aware of his surroundings. He looked around him, swallowing slowly when he saw another man sitting in a char in the corner. Zhelyazkov.
Zhelyazkov shot Simon a sinister grin as he stared at him. His teeth were pearly white, unnaturally so. He wore a patterned fur coat which gave him the appearance of looking larger than he was, paired with flashy rings and jewelry along his fingers and neck. “Finally,” he said, in a thick accent, “you’re awake.” Simon watched as he got up from his chair and moved towards him. “I was worried I had been too rough with you, but,” he said, picking up Simon’s chin and tilting his face to the side, “you’re a big boy, eh? I knew you could take it.”
Ghost stared at him for a moment before spitting in his face, his courage renewed thanks to his newly regained senses. He let himself admire the disgusted look on Zhelyazkov’s face, which was now splattered with blood and spit.
Zhelyazkov clicked his tongue, pulling out a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket as he sat back down. “You know that’s no way to show your appreciation, Simon,” he said, wiping the blood off his chin.
Ghost stiffened, “And why the fuck should I be appreciative of you?”
Zhelyazkov grinned, “You’re alive aren’t you? You have all your limbs, every finger, every toe. I had my people fix you up, did I not? I’d say that’s plenty of reason to be grateful.”
‘You also spent the last days beating me the fuck up, you bastard,” Ghost growled, annoyed by how relaxed Zhelyazkov seemed.
Zhelyazkov chuckled, “We have not been together nearly that long Simon, and I could’ve done worse, couldn’t I? I could have cut you, shot you, electrocuted you. I could have buried you alive, covered you in tar and feathers, I could have skinned you alive. There are a lot worse things I could have done to you Simon, be grateful I chose to have mercy on you.”
“How’d you know we were coming for you?” Ghost asked, choosing to ignore Zhelyazkov’s comment.
“The same way you knew how to find me, lieutenant. Intel. It’s a valuable thing in fields like ours, and so easy to get too. Just dangle the right prize in front of the right person, and an entire country’s secrets can be yours.” He smiled again, folding the handkerchief neatly back into his pocket. “Do you have any other questions, lieutenant? I told my men not to bother us, so ask away.”
Ghost stared at Zhelyazkov, pondering his next move,
“I’ll answer whatever you like, within reason of course. You may be a guest but this is still my home after all,” Zhelyazkov said, leaning back in his chair.
Ghost wondered if he should ask about you, or the others. On one hand, he needed to know if you were still out there, he needed some sort of closure. But on the other hand, he didn’t want to place an even larger target on your back by mentioning you.
“I’m waiting,” Zhelyazkov said, twiddling his thumbs together.
Ghost squinted at Zhelyazkov. What was his game here? What was he trying to do? He couldn’t figure it out, but he chose not to waste any more time thinking about it. Right now, he needed to buy time. For what, he wasn’t quite sure, an escape or maybe a rescue team, or maybe just to extend the amount of time he had where he could still see.
“This your base?” Ghost asked finally.
Zhelyazkov rolled his eyes, “You know, Simon, for all the stories I heard about I expected better. Yes, this is my base, but I think we both know you already knew that.”
Ghost grunted, “Yeah? Who’s telling you these stories?”
“That, I am afraid I can’t answer.”
“Is it Fishers?”
Zhelyazkov didn’t say anything in response, only mimed zipping his lips.
Ghost looked around, staring at the bloodstains on the wall. “Who’re those from?” he asked, nodding at the stains.
Zhelyaskov grinned again, following Ghost’s gaze. “Ah, those,” he said, his voice low and unsettling, “those belong to some men who were here long before you. They gave their lives to our cause. Hopefully, you will not have to join them there.”
Ghost paused, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zhelyazkov rose from his chair, a wide smile spreading upon his face as he began to walk around the room, “Now, you are asking the correct questions, my friend.” He let out a sigh. “Like I said, I have heard many things about you. You are a good soldier, good at following orders, yes? You see, Simon, a new future is coming. And if you choose, that future can be very bright for you, or very dark. But this future,” he clicked his tongue, “it will not come easy. Nothing that is good can come easily. Which is why we need soldiers, men like you, to help bring about this new age, this new future. You ask what I mean? I will tell you. I mean for you to join us, Simon. How long have you been fighting for the wrong side? Your government offers you nothing, you are nothing more than a pawn to them. But with us, with us you can be great. We will bring about a new world order, and you can be at the helm.”
Ghost scoffed, “I’d be damned if I joined your stupid cause. You’re bringing about a new world order led by terrorists.”
“Our world order is already led by terrorists!” Zhelyazkov yelled, his voice inflamed with anger. “They hide it under fake smiles and fancy suits, but you know, Simon, what atrocities they hide under their belts. The United States, Russia, China, Europe, they all pretend that they have done no evil, but you and I know that is not the case. You fight for a country of hypocrites, we fight for a free world.”
“Free world, my ass,” Ghost spat, “is that what Makarov tells you? Does he also tell you that your guns are used to kill innocent people? How many people have died because of you? You’re nothing but a terrorist supporting a terrorist.”
“Do not,” Zhelyazkov whispered, leaning into Simon’s face, “call me a terrorist. I am doing the right thing. When people die, their blood is nothing but a sacrifice to our future. Your leaders bury their dead, we thank ours.” Zhelyazkov yanked a hand into Ghost’s hair, pulling his head back as he leaned in closer, “Rome was not built in a day, Mr. Riley,” he said, with a sneer that sent spit flying into Ghost’s face. “To build an empire that is great, truly great, you need sacrifice. Their deaths will be remembered, they are a contribution to our new society. And you can join us and be celebrated as one of the heralds of the new world, or you can die here alone.”
Simon stared at Zhelyazkov, his neck sore from the awkward angle he was holding it at. He could smell Zhelyazkov’s breath; it reeked of alcohol and tobacco. Was this what Fishers had fallen for, what he had betrayed the task force for? This new world order? This false promise of greatness and grandeur? It made him sick. Ghost knew that some of the things Zhelyazkov said were true; at the end of the day, he was no more than a pawn to the world’s leaders. But he also knew that this wasn’t the answer. It was a bunch of self-absorbed dribble, delusions pouted from one maniac to the other.
He had planned on saying this to Zhelyazkov, on taking advantage of the close contact to try and headbutt him and find a way to escape, but before he could, the lights suddenly shut off, the buzzing stopped, and Ghost and Zhelyazkov were shrouded in darkness.
Ghost could practically feel Zhelyazkov freeze as the darkness swept throughout the room. His hold on his hair grew tighter, and he listened carefully as Zhelyazkov pulled his gun out of his holster. Suddenly, an electronic beeping filled the room, and Ghost felt his heartbeat pick up. He tore his gaze towards the door, his heart racing as it swung open, exposing him and everything else that hid in the dark.