Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a simple questioning.
Go in, ask the questions, and use.. harsher methods if the sniveling rat didn’t comply.
But unfortunately for him, Ghost was running low on luck, and this nut was particularly hard to crack.
“Just give me the damn names.” Ghost hissed, glaring down at the bloodied form before him.
“Tell me where your base and little friends are, and be done with it.”
The Russian looked at him, before spitting on his mask.
He did nothing but stare back.
With a sigh, he wiped the spit off his mask and stood back up straight, looking over the tools on the table next to him.
Pliers, scissors, rusty knives, old metal…
As he picked up a set of knives that caught his eye, the power of the base went out, leaving Ghost and the hostage in darkness.
He heard the Russian laugh.
“…The boss’s little hound has come to play..” They said, laughing. “..Oh, you are doomed. ”
Ghost raised a brow, and snickered himself.
“..If there really was anyone from your side out there, my team would’ve easily dealt with them already.” He boasted, nearing the hostage in the darkness. “Your little folk stories won’t stop me from getting what I need out of you.”
As he took another step, he heard a thud.
He pushed it aside at first, continuing with his interrogation, before a pained shout pulled him out of his thoughts.
Shouts and grunts of pain and fear emanated from the hall, and he could see the shadows of his comrades being thrown about through the small window of the door.
The only thing separating him and whatever lay beyond was the door.
His hand instinctively reached for his holstered gun, pulling it out and aiming it at the door, eyes glued to the dark hallway beyond as the Russian behind him cackled like a giddy child.
Thump, thump, thump…
The enemy approached.
He realized all too late that the thumps weren’t coming from the door, or the hallway, but instead the vent.
He whipped around, to see a figure hidden in the shadows, within the rafters of the room, climbing and clinging to the beams, tools on their belt jingling like a cats bells.
The pure absurdity and shock of the situation made him hesitate, and by the time he had pulled the trigger, they had scuttled just out of the way, a chuckle coming from the unsettling, smiling, jester masked foe.
“Missed me, Englishman~” they jeered, with a thick Russian accent.
He went to shoot them again, but he was tackled down to the ground.
In sheer strength, Ghost had his foe beat, but they didn’t play fair.
They shanked him in his thigh, before shoving the heavy cabinets and desk onto him, pinning him down.
They hopped up back into their feet, freeing their comrade from their binds.
They helped them into the vent, before turning back to Ghost, who was swearing and threatening them.
They laughed, before giving a dramatic, theatrical bow.
“Until we meet again, skelly face!” they said enthusiastically, before hopping into the vent themself and disappearing.
By the time he had wriggled himself free of the cabinets and desks that had been shoved on top of him, the strange enemy was long gone, and he swore.
He was about to hit the chair in frustration, when a small, rectangular piece of paper made him pause.
On the chair where his hostage had once been, lay a Joker card, with old style drawings, looking worn.
Soon enough, the power came back on, and Ghost got his thigh wound treated, anger still boiling up in him.
Usually, anger would be no problem for Ghost. He would take it out on his next mission, focusing his rage into controlled precision and power to complete the task.
But Ghost’s luck was only running thinner.
Men on his team kept disappearing, missions kept getting hijacked, or going downhill too quickly.
Failure upon failure built up, leaving him seething.
And at each scene, at each crime where he was just too late, lay a Joker card, like an artist's signature on their latest masterpiece.
And the more angry Ghost got, the more sloppy he became.
This new jester-like foe kept him on his toes, and was always one step ahead. It was like they knew what he would do before he even did, and somehow, that scrawny little shit always had him beat.
They would always leave with that dramatic bow, like it was all some elaborate show or game. They would always laugh like it was entertaining.
They would do anything, no matter how crazy or absurd, and it would work.
No one knew what the jester-shit called themself.
So, what did Ghost call them?
Wildcard.
A name to warn others and himself.