Work Text:
When people think of war, they always think it’s just loud. Just noise. People shouting, hails of gunfire, explosions off in the distance… The screaming of comrades dying… But most battles are like an orchestral symphony. Every sound builds on the next.
The 141 were en route to the staging area for their next op. Sure, it was through potentially hostile territory, but no more so than any other Monday in the deserts of hell. As always they were geared up and weapons live as the small convoy rolled through the ancient streets, however they weren’t overly concerned about anything happening. Some might say that was their mistake, their downfall. But there was no intel that anything was amiss.
The loud static laced call from their aerial support to break formation cut through low music from the hummers radio. The maestro calling the attention of his musicians. The first rig pulled left, leaving the other to pull right leaving an empty path between them. The rpg missed its intended targets, hitting the middle of the road and exploding on impact. It was the opening notes of the Battle Song, the first rumblings from the percussion section.
Large chunks of earth, and a lot of sand, rained down on the homes and businesses that lined the street. The panicked civilians screaming and running in every direction. Calls for the people who were right next to them a mere moment ago, and now are missing in the chaos. The cries of the choir.
The team quickly piled out of their vehicles and took cover. Their Captain, John “Soap” MacTavish, uses the scope of his rifle to identify the enemies location, calling out positions for his men, before going down a side street to the left. He ordered Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley to go right down a side street to loop around and flank the enemy from the other side. Sargent Kyle “Gaz” Garrick and Alejandro Vargas, on loan from Mexican Special Forces, draw their fire. The sounds of shouted orders and rapid gunfire fills the air; the crowded nature of the city's layout causes the sounds to magnify to a nearly deafening pitch. The brass section.
Soap and Ghost work in near mirrored tandem to surprise attack the enemies. The plan to keep their fire front has paid off. Ghost is silent as he uses his kbar to slash through his opponent’s with ruthless aggression. Soap, while no less capable, lacks the panther like finesse of his counterpart, but makes up for it with his speed and agility. The wind section.
As the last enemies fall, and each member radios that they are unscathed; they seem to relax. Perhaps this was their true mistake. The music isn’t complete, the song half sung.
Suddenly the recognizable sound of mortar fire fills the air and the building behind Soap’s location explodes above him. Ghost returns fire, eliminating the threat as Soap dives into the open vehicle in front of him that the enemy combatants had exited previously. Rubble heavily impacting the roof of the vehicle as the building loses all structural integrity. The returning crescendo of the percussion section.
Then comes the silence. To the casual observer, it does sound deathly still. But to those instruments of war, the silence is filled with the high pitched string section. Medically known as tinnitus, the high notes of war’s violins stay with its players long after the maestro has taken his bow. Ghost can hear nothing but the strings, not even the baritone of his own voice as he shouts for his Captain as the dust starts to settle.
Then, through the haze of the remnants of battle, the strings start to quiet. Ghost is suddenly aware of the metronomic sound of blood dripping from a limp hand. The entire roof section of the vehicle is crushed to be level with the from and back end of the vehicle. The doors blown off at improbable angles as the frame collapsed in on itself. Sticking out from the open door is Soap’s blood covered hand, steady droplets of blood dripping from his fingertips to pool at the base of the vehicle.
Ghost calls for a medivac and rushes to his friend's side. Calling his name, silently begging to Gods he doesn’t believe in and those long since forgotten, hoping that Soap will be alright. Taking the hand of his brother in arms, he clutches it tightly. Hoping that his friend didn’t take his final bow too quickly. His audible sigh of relief as the bloody hand returns the tightened grip the final notes. The medivac whirling blades, the audience's applause at the end of the song.