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“Who did you send out?” König asks, skimming over the pages. He’s been curious to see what Price would do. The call for help had been a surprise, especially from someone like Price, but König had been willing to oblige, so long as they got paid at the end of the day.
“Ghost and Horangi.”
König freezes, body locked up tight. “You did what?”
Price looks at him like he’s mad but König can’t even be anxious about the blatant disrespect yet. Not whilst he’s hearing something so ludicrous coming out of Price’s mouth.
“Should I not have?”
König looks Price right in the eye, leans down and hisses, “You do not know what you have just unleashed.”
:)
“Is the car supposed to be on fire?” Horangi asks, peering over at Ghost.
“It’ll be fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.”
“It’s fine,” Ghost repeats, stubbornly staring at the flames, like that will somehow fix the problem.
“Should we run?”
Ghost looks over, eyes betraying nothing. “It’ll be fine.”
The car explodes anyway.
Ghost just looks over, eyes inscrutable. “This is fine,” he assures.
:)
With singed hair and more than a few complaints to file, Horangi throws himself in the passenger seat.
“GO!”
“Fuck, just give me a second,” Ghost hisses, fiddling with the key.
“We need to go!” Horangi shouts, accent laid on thick. Stress will do that to a man. Especially when you’ve got three juggernauts trying to shoot through the back window.
“I’ve nearly got it.”
“It’s a key.”
“Done,” Ghost says, turning the key and revving the engine. Just as they’re starting to peel away, the rest of the car boots up.
The radio blasts louder than the gunshots hitting the car, a cacophony of music that sets Horangi’s nerves on fire.
“MWO-YA SSI-BAL!”
“WHAT?” Ghost shouts over the mind-numbing 90s disco music.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!” Horangi screams.
“HOW THE FUCK WOULD I KNOW?”
Horangi’s blood boils. His hand flies to the radio, even though he knows he should have a pistol drawn to shoot at the juggernauts. Against all odds, they still have not managed to shatter the glass of a civilian SUV.
“Does no one know how to aim anymore?” Horangi mutters, pressing as many buttons as he can in the hopes that one might get this to stop. The one dial that he hopes is volume only changes the air conditioning.
Finally, there’s a button that does something. There’s a moment of tense hope, where Horangi thinks he’s done it. The juggernauts can wait, blessed silence is on the way.
Then the familiar riff starts.
COMING OUT OF MY CAGE AND I’VE BEEN DOING JUST FINE.
“No,” Horangi mutters, slamming his hand down on the button again. Nothing happens.
GOTTA GOTTA BE DOWN BECAUSE I WANT IT ALL.
“This is my nightmare,” Horangi says, even though there’s not a chance in hell Ghost can hear him. “This is not happening.” He keeps hitting the button but it’s too late. Nothing will stop the torment.
Even worse, Ghost starts to sing along. He even seems into it, pedal to the floor and the juggernauts still launching bullets at the bumper (miraculously, they have still not managed to hit the window).
“How did it end up like this? It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss!” Ghost shouts, jerking the steering wheel as they squeal around the corner. Horangi can’t help but stare. He seems oddly into this. Like it’s…personal?
Who fucking hurt this man?
Then the fucking back window blows in, scattering shards of glass into the back seat. “Oh, so now they can aim!” Horangi gripes. “REVERSE!”
“WHAT?” Ghost screams over the music, ruining his emotional retelling of the chorus.
“REVERSE INTO THEM!”
“THAT IS NOT GOING TO WORK.”
“IT WILL! JUST FUCKING HIT THEM!”
Ghost glares at him but throws the gear stick into reverse and slams down on the pedal. The whiplash is worth the three instant deaths of the juggernauts behind them. Now free of the wave of enemies (for now) Horangi throws himself out of the car, Ghost following not far behind.
The music stops.
“Oh, so now it stops!” Horangi shouts, kicking the car door with vicious glee. He storms to the back of the car, staring down at the three dead juggernauts.
“We barely even hit them,” Ghost comments, seemingly unfazed. They’re definitely dead, though. Honestly, Horangi is a little impressed. They were barely clipped.
“You would think the armour would help them more.”
Ghost shrugs. “Well, that’s that. Let’s go.”
“I am not getting back in that car.”
“We need to cross the field. We have no other choice.”
Horangi stubbornly plants his feet. “I will not get in that car with you.”
“It’s either that or walk for over a kilometre. Get in,” Ghost orders.
Horangi winces but he can’t deny someone pulling rank. Ghost may not be his usual commanding officer, but he is for the sake of this mission, so Horangi reluctantly climbs into the passenger seat.
The moment the key is in, the music is back but with a simple flick of two buttons, Ghost shuts it off. “Happy now?”
Horangi gapes at him. “You- all this time? You could have- I’m going to kill you.”
“No you won’t.” Horangi can see the smug fucker’s smile even through that creepy mask. What kind of tto-ra-i wears a skull mask? It’s impressing no one (except him…a little bit…just a little bit).
Ghost pulls out, cautious for all of a second before he pressed down on the pedal.
“We will not fit through that gap,” Horangi warns, looking as the small gap in the wall comes closer and closer. Ghost does not slow down.
“We will.”
“Slow down,” Horangi says, voice going embarrassingly high.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fucking fine!” Horangi screams, just as they collide with the wall on both sides, a second car going up in flames and leaving them stranded in the middle of fucking Al Mazrah with no backup and no transport.
Guess they’re walking after all.
“I fucking hate you,” Horangi mutters under his breath. Ghost almost definitely hears him, but ignores him in favour of hopping out of the car. This time they even make it a decent way back before it explodes.
:)
They traipse over half a mile, guns at the ready, before they finally find a car again. There’s a short moment where both of them spot the white SUV, keys (miraculously) dangling next to the wheel. They look at each other. Look back.
They both sprint as fast as they can.
Ghost has height on his side, his long fucking spider legs getting him to the door faster than Horangi.
“Ssi-bal,” Horangi hisses. “You cannot fucking drive, mi-chin-nom,” he accuses, standing at the driver seat’s window. Ghost doesn’t even look at him, just turns the key and revs the engine.
When Horangi doesn’t move, he turns with a dead-eyed stare and deadpans, “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”
“I fucking hate you,” Horangi hisses, rounding the car and throwing himself into the passenger seat with all the aggression of a pent-up teenager. “Now fucking drive, I am in the mood for murder.”
:)
Ghost cannot drive, that much is evidently clear. But Horangi is learning to cope with the squealing turns and constant ricochets. The car will not survive the journey but Horangi is fine with it, so long as the car is taking the damage and not him.
He takes his time checking over his gun, making sure his mag is full and trying not to flinch each time they hit a wall.
“I think we’re almost-”
Ghost is cut off by a screech in the back. Not human, not animal, not even machine. It’s like someone is shredding the world, nails on a chalkboard at nuclear power.
There’s a moment where Horangi thinks someone has managed to throw a flash bang into the car before his vision clears and he notices that there’s a fucking person in the back of the car.
“Mwo-ya ssi-bal,” he whispers, staring at the rearview mirror.
“What the fuck is this then?” The man says, in possibly the thickest Scottish accent Horangi has ever heard. And he’s fucking met Soap, if only for a few minutes. Honestly, they look a little similar. But maybe it’s just the mohawk. Is that a Scottish thing? If so, then they really need some lessons in hairstyling.
Ghost slams on the brakes and turns in his seat. “Soap?”
The man visibly recoils. “Who the fuck do you think ye are calling me Soap, you lanky fucking skeleton.”
“Then who the fuck are you?” Ghost growls.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I asked you first,” Ghost deadpans and to Horangi’s absolute horror, the man immediately comes back with an, “I asked you second.”
“Oh god, we’ve got another fucking child,” he whispers to a god he doesn’t believe in.
“Fine. Ghost,” he says, pointing at himself, “Horangi. Now where the fuck did you come from?”
“How the fuck would I know?” The Scot complains. “But Ghost, now that’s a familiar name if I’ve ever heard one. Simon?”
Ghost’s glare could kill a family (if he hasn’t already killed at least one family in a road accident, Horangi will be shocked). “How the fuck do you know my name?”
“Ah, well, I’m your Captain, aren’t I, Lieutenant Riley.”
“Fuck off,” Ghost says. “Are you takin’ the mick?”
“Not a fuckin’ chance. Similar mask and everything. Though yer a scary fucker aren’t ya? My Ghost is pretty fuckin’ tiny in comparison.”
“Fuck. Off,” Ghost grits out. “And you’re not a fucking Captain, you Scottish fuck.”
“Ach, goin’ for insults now, are we? Guess I’ll have to bring out the English fucking slurs-”
“Will both of you shut the fuck up!” Horangi snaps. “Who the fuck are you?” He asks, when both of them fall silent.
“Captain MacTavish, at your service.”
“Not a fucking Captain,” Ghost mutters.
“Then what the fuck am I, ye cunt!”
“My subordinate, Sergeant .”
“Hell’s fucking bells, I am not yer sergeant. You follow my fuckin’ orders.”
“No, pretty sure you follow mine .”
Horangi cannot find a single fuck left to give about them as they start to bicker like children. Captain MacTavish even leans into the front of the car, squashed between the seats just so he can get right up in Ghost’s face, leaving Horangi with a face full of mohawk and a knowledge he wished he didn’t have on what shampoo the captain uses.
Without a second thought, he gets out of the car, determined to trek the rest of the distance to the final bomb site. It’s at least another 200m but Horangi can’t bring himself to care. If he runs fast enough, he might even beat the enemies there.
But he only makes it halfway up the road before the other two are storming out of the car, still on each other like fucking school children. Captain MacTavish has devolved into indecipherable Scottish rambling whilst Ghost just keeps barking “I will fucking kill you,” louder and louder, as if at some point the captain might start believing it.
Horangi wishes his headphones were noise cancelling, military disadvantage or not.
Then finally, “Horangi! Get back here now, and that’s an order.”
He locks up but reluctantly spins on his heel and marches back, his death glare somewhat ruined by his sunglasses. “It’s too slow to walk,” Ghost explains, “we’re getting back in the car.”
“Sir, with all due respect-”
“That is an order.”
Horangi wants to tear Ghost limb from limb (maybe he’ll even find someone who will pay him to do it) but for now, he reluctantly drags himself back in the passenger seat, glad that the car at least muffles the continued arguing outside.
It’s almost like they never stopped.
Then, fucking surprise, surprise, Captain MacTavish clambers into the driver’s seat and revs the engine with all the anger of a Scottish man who has been disallowed a brawl.
From there, Horangi’s worst nightmares come true.
Almost immediately, the radio is back on, even fucking louder than last time, with Mr Brightside still fucking screaming through the stereo.
“Turn it off,” Horangi orders, turning to face Ghost in the backseat. Ghost does a pretty good impression of not being able to fucking hear, see, or sense him at all. “Jejeongsin-iya,” Horangi says to himself like a prayer.
Captain MacTavish is just staring at the radio like it’s fucking shot him. “What?” He mouths.
Horangi just shakes his head. If Ghost is intent on doing this, then so be it.
For the next two minutes, they listen to Mr Brightside, Ghost clearly mouthing the words in the backseat, as the captain goes through every button on the car again, his foot on the pedal and his eyes entirely off the road.
Horangi is forced to take the wheel when they nearly slam into a wall. “ JUGEULLAE? ” Horangi screams, yanking the wheel to the left. “Watch where you are fucking going!”
“Not until I get this fucking music off!” Captain MacTavish shouts, foot still all the way down.
“Why am I the only one not allowed to drive when I am clearly the only one who can drive!” Horangi screams, though he might as well be screaming into the ether. Ghost looks miraculously unbothered. Then again, that man has probably lived through as many car crashes as he has fucking days.
They round the final bend and finally, fucking finally, they’re there. A wave of enemies for Horangi to slaughter until he feels this rage inside him displaced. He flings himself out of the car and unleashes fucking hell on the hoard, Ghost and the captain following closely behind.
Horangi has managed three headshots (a thing he’ll have to make sure he’s recompensed for later) when he hears the others. “Horangi! Here now,” the Captain shouts, in the middle of the fray, whirling around a Lachmann sub like the absolute lunatic he is.
“He’s not your fucking subordinate!” Ghost shouts, ISO Hemlock raised from afar, picking off people with single-shot headshots.
“Well, he’s your subordinate and you’re mine so-”
“I am not your fuckin’ subordinate!” Ghost shouts, popping another shot, grinning when he manages to line up two heads in a row.
The Captain grunts and rolls his eyes, sliding his way further into the fray, Horangi following close behind to make sure the Captain doesn’t take a point-blank shot to the head. “Seven, eight, nine-”
“What are you counting, sir?” Horangi asks, gritting his teeth and trying to burn off the endless well of rage with blood and guts. The good stuff.
“How many kills ya got, Ghost?” The Captain shouts, a mad grin on his face as he whirls and gets another four kills in one spray.
Spray and pray, Horangi tuts. What? Can’t he aim?
“Twelve!”
“Thirteen. Keep up, Lieutenant!”
“Oh you fucking wanker,” Ghost mutters, and shouts “thirteen” as he pops off another headshot.
Horangi is going to just wait for an enemy bullet to hit his own fucking head to have this all end.
“Fourteen!”
“Seventeen!”
“Twenty!”
When will it end?
Ghost and MacTavish, despite their arguments, work as a seamless team. Competition fucking works, even if Horangi wants to wrangle both of them.
Meanwhile, Horangi finally gets a moment to himself, M4 in hand (because by god does that gun just fucking work ) doing headshots like it’s a game. And, possibly, because he gets paid extra for it. Though he’s never been sure how his boss checks that.
Silence falls quickly after that, all the bodies seemingly displaced by some mystical power, leaving the road clear of body and blood. Just the three of them and one slightly smoking car.
“Nothin’ like a good old gunfight,” MacTavish says, rolling his shoulders back with an almighty crack. Ghost just glares down at him. Horangi has had enough of both of them by now.
“Refreshing,” Horangi agrees.
None of them go towards the car. No one wants to go through that shit-fest again. Instead, they linger on the road.
“So,” Ghost says, “where the fuck are you gonna go now?”
MacTavish rolls his eyes. “I’ll find my way back,” he says, like the cryptic fucker he is. The two of them lock eyes, the sexual tension so sickeningly thick that Horangi almost gags (fuck, he misses König).
There’s only one thing left to ask, in the wake of what they’ve just done. A question that’s been waiting on Horangi’s tongue since the moment the captain appeared in the back of the car. “Did Ghost run you over or something? I wouldn’t be surprised, given his track record,” Horangi says, faking nonchalance. But that goddamn war paint. It’s a choice.
“What are you fuckin’ on aboot?”
“You know,” Horangi says, pointing to his face, “the tire tracks.”
“The fuckin’ wha?”
“The tire tracks. On your face. Or maybe a BBQ grill. I’d do anything for a BBQ right now.” Horangi’s not lying. He’s fucking starving. Having to cope with these two will do that to you.
There’s a moment before the storm, where all feels calm. MacTavish doesn’t even look ruffled, just stares blankly at Horangi. Ghost doesn’t even seem to care, staring at MacTavish’s face like if he somehow looks enough, it’ll be imprinted on his memory forever.
One second, two. MacTavish’s eyebrow twitches, pulling at the scar that their own John MacTavish is yet to get (and what a shame that is).
Then Horangi is on the floor, a veritable Scottish stream of expletives flying out of the Captain’s mouth. “Yer about as fucking funny as a blind toddler in a minefield, you crabbit fuckin’ cunt. You think that’s funny? Have a fucking piece of this in yer skelped erse of a face.”
Ghost tries to pry him off but fails miserably. Eventually, he stops even trying and stands back to watch the show. (It is a glorious one).
Horangi doesn’t even understand a word that’s coming out of MacTavish’s mouth anymore but, well, there’s just a bit of him, just a fucking tiny bit, that may, may, find this the tiniest bit hot. The tiniest bit. Barely at all. A crack. A drip. An iota.
But it’s just…having a man on top of you like that. It’s, well, it’s…
“An’ if you ever fuckin’ dare to speak like that to me again, I will shove your cock so far up yer own arse that you willnae be able to breathe,” the Captain finishes, spittle flying into Horangi’s face. Then, he leans back, clambers to his feet and looks at the both of them like nothing ever happened at all.
Still splayed on the floor, Horangi doesn’t know whether to be terrified, horny or both, but he’s certainly feeling something.
“That’s my soldier, captain,” Ghost says, now that the storm has passed.
“Then get a fuckin’ better one.” MacTavish turns on his heel and starts strutting down the road, gun slung over his shoulder, cool as can be. Horangi, rather miserably, is still panting on the floor. “Good fighting, lads.” And then, just as miraculously as he appeared, he’s gone.
“Mi-chin-sae-ggi,” Horangi mutters with a grumpy frown. Then groans, bringing up a hand to his face to tentatively feel at the slowly forming bruise.
“Stop pouting and get up, we’ve got to exfil.”
“I am not getting back in that car with you,” Horangi gripes, rolling over with a groan, trying to get his arms under him.
“Then we walk.” Ghost shrugs and holds out a hand. “Come on, I want a fucking cuppa and I’m not gettin’ tha’ out here, am I?”
“What the fuck is it with you and tea?”
“It’s the good shit,” Ghost says and hauls Horangi to his feet. “Now come on, exfil is over a mile away.”
