Chapter Text
The rain hit the roof of the vehicles with vigor, taking most of his attention as he stepped out. He shut the door and set his face hard. He didn't like this plan.
He really, really didn't.
His second in command, Joseph White, stood next to him, holding his gun in a relaxed motion that he knew well.
White was ready to shoot the minute things went sideways.
He didn't want things to go sideways.
"Whoa, what's this?"
"This is supposed to be the immediate future. Step away from the gate, please."
His voice felt weak and Alejandro noticed it. He didn't get angry, he was calm and raised an eyebrow at him.
This didn't feel right. White had already detained Alejandro's men, but he didn't feel good about any of this.
Soap stood behind Alejandro and Ghost was on the other side of the car.
He lifted his head and shuddered, bad omens rattling in his head from the older days.
When his mother used to beat him. When his father put a scar on his cheek for getting a B in a class.
Phillip Graves was visibly uncertain and internally, he couldn't think straight. His thoughts were everywhere at once, but White spoke beside him, responding to something Soap had said.
"Don't do this guys, we don't want to have to do this"
We? Graves didn't realize there was a we. His brain felt foggy.
He tipped to the side.
White caught his shoulder.
"Snap out of it. We don't want to have another doctor's appointment, Commander."
The title made his head hurt and he furrowed his brow.
"I.. don't want this.. it's not right.."
White seemed to pale and Alejandro started to get verbally louder, shouting. Something about the base. White pushed Graves back, which knocked him down and he hit Alejandro over the head.
Shouting rang out and Graves couldn't see. Soap locked eyes with him and gestured over the barrier that separated the road and the woods and Graves nodded, a curious expression on his face, he crawled to Soap, but a hand pressed his face into the ground and shot at Soap.
As Soap hit the ground bleeding from the shoulder, Graves snapped, rolling over and punching the restrainer over and over, taking his gun and shooting the shadows all around him before a rifle smacked his head and he crumpled in a heap on the ground, like Alejandro.
~
"What do you mean, can't find him?"
"We couldn't find him anywhere. We think he was relocated."
"They were talking about doctor's appointments. Was he being drugged?"
"Possibly"
"We need to find him"
~
"How long has it been now?"
"5 years, mate"
"We can't fucking find him anywhere?"
"No, Laswell's finally got a lead. Shepherd slipped up, left some info uncovered."
"Location?"
"No, a name"
"Who?"
"Joseph White?"
~
"Find White?"
"Yeah, he spilled. Not very trained to endure torture "
"It's what happens when Ghost goes all out"
"This search means a lot to him"
"Indeed it does. Get moving"
~
5 years.
Phillip Graves was in that cell for 5 years. He had access to water to bathe, which was only given to him once a week. His bed was made of wood and the pillow was as thin as a small novel, almost. His blanket was paper thin and not resistant against the cold.
He was sick multiple times and thought he was finally going to die multiple times over.
They didn't touch him, didn't talk to him, only gave him mushy, dry broccoli, which was a feit of its own, and bread with water that tasted like blood and lead.
He realized after 2 years that the blood was his own, from chewing his lips so badly.
He rarely got protein, so his well-trained muscles disappeared. He still exercised, running in place mostly. It made him seem much more sane than he felt.
He didn't talk to himself, no, he did it in his head.
He sleep a lot, often throughout the whole day.
They didn't torture him, they just, ignored him. Shepherd didn't need him anymore.
He was old news.
4 years in, he wanted to die.
He felt like ants crawled on his skin when he didn't itch it, so he had scars from breaking the skin repeatedly. A spider in the corner died and he grieved it.
He didn't grieve the loss of his friends. He couldn't remember their faces anymore, he thought about so many things at once time that he started to develop memory issues.
He couldn't recall where the scar in his cheek came from. He remembered names. John Price. Simon Riley. Soap. Kyle Garrick. Kate Laswell. He couldn't remember Soap's real name. It was worrying him greatly. Bad enough he could remember faces other than Ghost's mask and Price's beard and Soap's mohawk bad Gaz's skin and Laswell's bun.
These were the people he could trust.
He just didn't know if they trusted him.
Maybe they weren't even looking for him.
He went into depressive states because of these thoughts. He often wished he'd die of a cough and get his life over with already.
5 and a half years in, he was sick again. and it felt like the fatal kind.
He was coughing blood, his arms were constantly bleeding from itching, his eyes were crusting over faster, his sleeping patterns were stopping, leaving him awake at all hours until the following day.
His joints were getting sore and his release of fluids was becoming frequent after eating, as if the food was passing right through him. And the releases were beginning to hurt badly.
He wouldn't be surprised if he checked and he found he had shat out blood.
He laid out on the cot in the corner of the cell.
He couldn't move very well.
The cell door did not open and give way for a medic. The cell door never had.
If he got too ill, there'd be a tangy taste on the surface of his bread. Possibly medicine.
The shadows didn't want him to die yet.
Either out of spite to him because he obviously wanted to die, or because it's the right thing to do or because they still cared about him, he couldn't tell.
He chose to believe it was spite.
He didn't think they cared about him. If he tried to think about it any other way, he'd feel more depressed.
The flap opened and the food for the evening slipped in.
He only knew it was evening because evening meals had dark blue styrofoam trays.
Mornings has white ones.
Small mercies left and right.
He certainly wasn't the worst off prisoner the shadows have ever kept.
Some prisoners became part of the food chain the first interrogation they were met with.
Some were chained to a wall and starved for months only getting by on the small scraps given to them once a week.
Shadow prisoners were never supposed to have these small mercies.
Like. A shower. Even if it only operated once a week for 30 minutes, it was still there.
He had calendars on the wall.
Scratches out with a piece of coal and a nail.
He'd mark the day, wipe it away when the week is up, shower, mark the week with another tally.
Every time he hit a year, he'd use the nail to mark the year and wipe away the week tallies.
He was on week 36, year five, Wednesday.
He hadn't showered the week before, too weak to get up.
So he was laid down in his own fifth and wondering why he ever thought he was someone important.
~
"Any news?"
"We've located a compound. It's under the name Joseph White, even if the guys dead now"
"He inside?"
"He better be or so help me, I'll blow the place sky high"
"We'll have to do this like we did Alejandro in Las Almas."
"Find CCTV?"
"Exactly. Plant some charges here and there while Captain locates the target."
"Let's do this"
"Aye, let's move!"
~
Week 37. Not much has changed. Another tally on the week side, a dash to signify it was Tuesday. He'd showered this time.
The sickness was starting the solidify his muscles and joints so he laid on his bed on his back, still and flat as a board.
He only moved to eat, and that was getting less often.
They gave him a potato the other day with a sliver of ham.
He didn't care for the fact that it might have been poisoned, he really didn't. He was eager to die.
So he ate it up and laid back down. He had chugged the water in hopes it would soothe his throat.
He counted the days in the week in should be.
Week 37 was between September 12th and September 18th. Starting from Sunday to Saturday. Tuesday would be…
The 14th. His birthday. He didn't celebrate his birthday. Neither did the Shadows.
Had to be a coincidence. He was now 31 years old. Holy shit. He had been 25 when all this started, the youngest Commander the free world had ever seen. Once this year over, it'd be year 6.
Graves was baffled however, by the potato and the ham.
Maybe they really were poisoned.
~
"Breach!'
"Clear!"
"Get looking on CCTV"
"Ghost, go left, to the crate and slip in that last charge"
"I've got him"
"Holy shit, are you sure that's him?"
"It's been almost 6 years, Soap. He's bound to look sickly."
"Oh, fuck he's throwing up"
"Let's move them. Have a stim ready. We can't carry him out the way this place is surrounded"
"Got it"
~
He wiped his mouth and hunched back, laying back down on the floor.
He'd successfully aimed his vomit into the toilet and now he could feel the bile settling down.
5 years without anything but dry ass broccoli and bread, only to throw up the first bit of meat given to him.
Made sense.
He wondered if this was sign they were trying to finally kill him.
It was night time again. The ham had been on a blue tray, so he laid down and went to sleep. Attempting to nurse his throbbing head and shaky limbs.
He fell asleep in pain and woke up to gunfire.
He didn't move.
Gunfire was common. The Shadows had an execution process they called the firing squad where they'd line up prisoners and unload an entire magazine into their bodies.
They never stopped that tradition it seemed.
Even under new leadership. Graves didn't know who was leading now.
Maybe it was Joseph. No, White never had the balls for leading. Couldn't be.
Graves lay awake and rolled his head to the side and listened again.
The gunfire was closer this time and he frowned.
And then his eyes widened.
All he could think was, the shadows were compromised and we're killing all the prisoners to clear the base out.
Graves forced himself up, clutching a bar that had come loose in the ventilation system air duct and clutched it with one hand.
No bigger than a shitty shiv, kind of like holding a knife's grip.
Graves leaning on the wall by the door and listened as muffled voices shouted.
All he could think was ways to escape. He nearly missed the sound of the chain on his door snapping off.
Not key locked then, chain locked. And someone didn't have the needed tool other than perhaps pliers to cut the chain like a knife through butter.
Graves held the bar in a grip and waited in silence.
The door opened and no one entered.
Muffled, but there, came a 'clear'.
"Why the fuck would a chained door be clear?"
"I don't fucking know but let's go"
These must be who compromised the building. They talked like they didn't know the Shadow company's plans or layout or prisoner holding.
"The CCTV said he was here!"
"Maybe they moved him."
"Wait, shh"
The voices went quiet and walked down the hallway nearly silently and gunfire echoed out.
Graves stuck his head out and saw two figures with skull masks on.
A face flickered in his head but these guys didn't resemble his old friends in any way. These masks were cheap knockoffs.
"Let's check the next floor."
"Alright"
Accents were heavy and Graves looked down the hall and noticed they were in his way. He'd have to sneak by then to get to the stairwell.
Or he could wait until they went up.
He laid on his stomach and made sure not too intensely. Some people had feelings when someone stared at them too harshly.
Graves was one of those.
The two went up the stairs, joking on their way.
If Graves was in his right mind he might've laughed at the humour but he was tired, weak and definitely one good flick from collapsing.
He crawled along the floor as when he heard bootsteps, he played dead.
Feet walked by him.
He waited until they went up the stairs before getting up and making himself lighter as too avoid detection.
He rounded multiple corners, heard chatter and dropped down, tugging a dead shadow over him.
He hasn't been caught. He saw the exit. He stayed crawling.
His hair was long as fuck after 5 years and he'd cut it multiple times with a shard of glass he used from a cup.
That's why they only ever gave him bottles after that.
His hair was badly damaged from poor care and frayed like string, and hung around his ears, he hated it. His eyes were very dimmed out, not their usual bright green anymore.
Dimmed with fatigue and hopelessness.
His clothes were bloody, covered with the fluids of dead shadows he might have trained at one point.
Betrayal felt raw as he crawled, body tense and he stopped at a shout.
A boot nudged his side and he didn't move, holding his breath.
"I thought I saw this one move"
"Must be seeing things, MacTavish. Let's go"
Graves let out a breath and pressed his head into the muddy, filthy ground and sighed.
MacTavish sounded familiar.
Graves racked his brain.
Wasn't that Soap's surname?
He took in a breath and shook slightly as he stood up, searching around blindly before looking at the exit.
To leave or look for someone with Soap's surname?
That was the question.
Graves never really liked Shakespeare. Too self-sabotaging and self-sacrificing for his taste.
He frowned and closed his eyes.
He has nothing to lose. Logically, going out there was sure to be met with resistance. If there people out there, he was dead no matter what, shadow or 141.
Looking for this MacTavish would prove his own point. That they had been looking for him all these years.
Or at least for the shadows.
Whoever opened the door hadn't checked inside but said someone was supposed to be there.
Maybe it was him they were hoping would be waiting there.
He had been, 3 years before.
Graves turned away from the exit, not wanting to die just yet and walked up the stairs.
Two soldiers stood at the end of the hallway he had just left, in front of his cell.
"Ghost went on the roof and I came back down to check, and came to you, Captain. He's not there, I'm not sure how we could have missed him"
"Maybe the footage was recorded, not live?"
"Is he already dead?!"
"MacTavish, calm down. He's been here for 5 years at the most, there's no way they'd just kill him."
"You don't know that"
"Well, I know Phillip Graves. He's a tough sin if a bitch"
The one called MacTavish, no doubt in Graves' mind this was Soap, looked over the Captain's, Price was his name that's it, shoulder and stared at Graves with wide eyes. Price turned around and smiled.
"Soap? Price?"
"Hey there, Phillip."
Graves smiled wide and felt his steps waver. Soap and Price walked forward caught him as he started to tip.
"We've got you pal, where were you?"
"Hiding on the side of the door. You didn't go inside. Had a bar, would've stabbed you."
Soap pulled off the skull mask, which Graves didn't get the point of, and smiled.
"Sorry, Phillip. Need a hand?"
"Be great, thanks. Been shaking the last 30 minutes."
Soap narrowed his eyes at Graves and laughed.
"Were you the body I nudged downstairs?"
"Yeah, that was me"
"Goddamn you gotta be a dog, you okay dead too well"
"No, you're just dumb"
Soap feigned offense and pulled Graves into his back without zero effort.
"We gotta get some food into you, you're like a feather, pal"
"No shit, Soap, no shit. Had a slice of ham for the first time in 5 years today and puked it."
"We start slow then"
Graves nodded and smiled, laying his head on Soap's nape, a shiver running through the Scots body, causing Graves to smile.
"I'm tired"
He fell asleep before Soap could give him the go ahead and slept through nightmares, yet again, but something new this time.