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Simon first notices the plane in the air when it’s still in the air, flying somewhat lower than expected, but still soaring above the tropical trees of the islands. He’s sitting underneath a tree, baking in the heat, despite sitting in the shade. When he looks up, nothing seems to be wrong.
His gun is light strapped to his back, and he rolls his wrist experimentally with his machete in hand. He’s getting used to this kind of life now.
Something shuffles in the bushes. Instantly, he’s got his rifle up and aimed. It’s just a stray rabbit, staring back at him with wide eyes as it hops towards him. He tucks away the gun, keeping his movements to a minimum, regrasping his machete.
He’s skinning the rabbit when he hears the massive explosion, echoing all around. Head snapping up, Simon gently places a hand on his rifle as he listens for movement. Smoke starts to billow from a distance away, far enough that it wouldn’t affect him. What’s worrying is the possibility of a fire, though, and so Simon leaves the rabbit at the foot of his tree before climbing it to get a better vantage point.
He lives on the top of a hill, so with the added height of the tree, he can see pretty far. At first, all he sees is the smoke, before he makes out the shape of whatever is the source of the smoke.
He frowns. Then he looks back up at the sky, to see a lack of a plane hovering in the air.
Looking back down at the ground, the plane seems relatively intact. What’s concerning is not the possibility of survivors, but rather the eagerness of the locals to try and use anyone to their advantage. Simon has lived here long enough to know that even he should steer clear of the local militia.
He glances behind his shoulder just to be sure. There’s dust rising into the air, just a little while away, and he can see the glints of metal and glass zooming closer as vehicles make their way to the crash sight. As expected.
He should probably just slip into a cave somewhere, make sure all the excitement has died down before resurfacing. He just needs to get enough food before doing so.
Fuck. What if there’s weapons and shit on the plane? Even on foot, Simon is closer than the militia, so if he gets there first and confiscates anything that could possibly turn this small-scale war into one that rings all the wrong bells. The last thing he needs is the fuckin’ UN poking around.
Fine. Simon’s decided. He’s just going to go check out the site, make sure that nothing important is left for anyone to take and launch a full-scale war, and then he’s going to slip out. Even though he’s a year out of practise from the SAS, he knows what he’s doing. In fact, living in the wilderness has improved his spacial awareness if anything.
So Simon drops down from the tree, taking his rabbit and dropping it off in a small nearby pond so it won’t float away, before setting a fast pace towards the crash site.
He contemplates what he’d do if he finds a survivor. He can’t interfere, because that will only raise attention, No, he needs to either go completely unnoticed, or he needs a disguise in case.
He hasn’t worn a mask in years. Too hot, on this island. But he has a black scarf that he nicked off a dead militia before, so he pulls it out and ties it securely around the bottom of his face as he gets closer to the site. The smoke, thankfully, is billowing upwards, and Simon crouches behind the closest tree he can find to peek over at the crash.
The plane is small for something that is evidently commercial. He doubts that there’s anything that’s dangerous on this flight, because it’s damningly obvious that it’s just something for tourists. Maybe they were just taking a scenic tour around the islands?
That’s fucking dumb, because at least seven out of the fourteen in the archipelago is at civil war. But. You knever know what crazy tourists do.
Simon shuffles uncomfortable behind his tree. Maybe he should leave? The cars will be arriving within the hour, and he doesn’t want to risk the chance of being caught.
Then he clocks the airline. It’s American, but it flies international. He recognises it from his time running ops.
Fuck, really? Simon can’t remember. Are Americans allowed to bring guns on board with them? Surely not?
Fucking Americans. Always making his life harder.
Simon inches closer to the wreckages, making sure to poke the few visible bodies with his machete to confirm their status as dead. None jolt or move at the stimulus, so he keeps moving, getting closer and closer to the emergency door that seems to be missing. In its place is a massive hole in the side of the plane, and Simon realises that’s how all the corpses managed to fly out of the plane.
It takes a few solid seconds for him to adjust to the smokey insides of the destroyed plane, walking very carefully to avoid any open wires. Some spark on the sides, hanging from the ceiling, so Simon has to hunch over not to accidentally get electrocuted just because he’s too tall to fit. The heat is absolutely unbearable, but Simon pushes through, already falling into the habit of ignoring everything in favour for completing the mission objective.
He flips through every seat pocket, through every visible bag. No weapons.
He’s getting to the end, where it’s less impacted by the crash. The corpses resemble people now, not charred beyond recognition like the others, and some look eerily unaffected to the point where they could seriously be alive.
When Simon nudges a man’s shoulders, the man’s head lolls way too far to the side. It almost snaps off.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon mutters. He hasn’t seen an accident this bad in a while. Not since he first arrived.
He moves to the last row. Something moves.
His rifle is up within seconds, and it’s pressed right against the moving body. The person stirs, groaning weakly, almost whining in pain.
“Belt,” they whisper.
Simon stares. No fucking way.
“Belt,” they repeat, this time a little stronger.
Simon leans over, carefully, and undoes the belt. The woman falls forwards, about to faceplant into the half-melted seat in front of her if it weren’t for Simon’s quick reflexes.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” he says aloud.
It’s a fucking survivor.
—
It had just been a vacation. Honestly. You just wanted a week or so off work, because that corporate life was just sucking all the energy out of you, and you had finally saved up enough days to go overseas.
It was supposed to be the best week of your life. Then the plane fell out of the sky.
Now, you were sitting in some small cave, which is just an overhanging rock over a specific spot. There are sticks and leaves to pad the ground, and a tarp covers the entrance.
A man sits by the exit, sleeping. A gun is hanging from his shoulder, and a knife as long as your arm rests against the wall of the cave right beside him.
You’re terrified to even move.
A small fire is going, smoke curling upwards to a small hole in the ceiling. It keeps you warm—oh, there’s also a jacket around your shoulders. You’re not sure if it’s an act that you should be wary of, or if it’s just kindness.
Considering how you’re not dead yet, you think you could be a bit optimistic. Unless, of course, he’s going to demand what passport you have and try to use you as leverage to get what he wants. You’re not sure if you can help him get what he wants though.
Your stomach growls in hunger. It feels as if you haven’t eaten in days.
It takes a few minutes to scour up the courage, but you try to reach for the meat that is drying beside the fire. If you shuffle just a little bit, it’ll be within arm’s reach.
“It’s not ready yet,” the man says.
You jump in your own skin. Fuck. He isn’t asleep.
He’s wearing a scarf that’s tied to the bottom of his face, only showing his sharp eyes and blond hair. He’s Caucasian, by the looks of it, but that’s all you can really make out. You distantly wonder what a man like him is doing in a place like this. You’re only half-sure that this is an uninhabited island filled to the brim with terrifying animals.
Or, this could be one of those islands that’s got an out of control militia and a shitload of violence. Either way, you’re screwed.
“You need to wait a few more hours,” the man continues, not even moving, showing no sign that he’s actually conscious outside of his voice echoing around you. “Then you can eat.”
He’s British. Accent-wise. Huh.
He shifts, head tilting towards you. “Not gonna say anythin’? D’ya even speak English?”
You swallow, turning your head away. Maybe if he’s disinterested, he won’t do anything to you. “Huh.” He sniffs. “Maybe I’ll just get rid of you now, since you can’t speak.”
“The fuck?” you hiss, frowning.
“So she does speak,” the man says, eyebrows raising.
“What do you want?” you demand, even though your heart is beating like wild. The glint of his massive knife is paralysing as it winks at you from beside him.
He looks away, tucking his chin into his chest in a way that’s reminiscent of going back to sleep. “I don’t want to know anythin’,” he says firmly. “Not your name, or your nationality, or whatever. I’ll drop you off at the government and then you forget I ever exist.”
“Drop me off?”
His voice is dry when he elaborates, “You don’t want to get caught out here alone. It won’t go well.”
It’s one of the militia islands. “Shit,” you breathe. That’s why he has the guns, of course, for protection—or is he one of them? Is he just buttering you up as one of the few soldiers who can speak English?
What is he? A mercenary? A gun for hire?
Suddenly, you feel cold. You resist the urge to shiver, and you shuffle yourself away from him discreetly. When you look back up at him, even though he doesn’t comment, you know that he’s noticed you placing more space between the two of you.
You’re so fucked.
—
The meat, you find out, is rabbit. It’s tough, with little fat, and without any seasoning, it’s kind of bland, but you don’t complain when the man gives it to you.
The coat around you is his, you realise, but he never asks for it back. Additionally, you’ve made a grave mistake when you first woke up, assuming that he was asleep. The man never sleeps. Whenever you’re awake, he’s awake, and when you startle awake in the middle of night, he’s still awake. It’s as if he can’t sleep.
You’re kept in the cave for at least a week. At first, you had listened obediently, hoping he’d let you out soon, hopefully leading you to safety. But two days turns into four, which turns into six, and you’re starting to get nervous.
He hasn’t made any moves. In fact, he hasn’t even tried to get close to you, always announcing his presence with very heavy footsteps to give you time to scamper away. He has never touched you before, but that doesn’t mean he never will. Maybe he likes they plump, which is why he’s feeding you. You don’t want to be around to find out.
So when the sixth day rolls around, you’ve decided. You’re going to leave. Even though he never sleeps, he has to go out for hunting. He comes back with either fresh duck or rabbit, somehow expertly butchering them with an expertise that you don’t really want to think too deeply about, leaving you alone inside the cave for up towards two hours.
You hadn’t dared to leave because you didn’t know where to go. But you can’t just sit here forever. Maybe he’s just waiting for something dangerous like Stockholm syndrome to kick in or something.
But you’re no survivalist. So you had tried to get some information out of the man. Asking him when you’d leave, every day, at least thrice. He humoured you for the first few times, but now he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even answer you when you ask him why he saved you, why he pulled you out from the plane wreckage.
Maybe he’s just a quiet person. You don’t know. But he goes nowhere without his gun and his knife, and there’s only a limited amount of time you’d be able to spend with him.
You slip out of the cave with his jacket over your shoulders as soon as he’s gone for about twenty minutes. Time is a bit of a vague construct here, since you don’t have a watch or a clock, so you just have to squint through the tarp to see the sun and wait until it drops just a bit.
The foliage is the same in every direction. So you just take the right, because you like the right, and you start trekking.
Even though you’ve been mostly living in the silence even with the man, there’s something final about actually being alone that has you on alert. At every single crack of a branch, every single coo of a bird, you’re gripping the small pointy stick you’ve snagged as a weapon.
Eventually, you come to terms with your paranoia, and you get quite far. You find a nice tree to settle under, covered by the leaves to create a nice blanket of darkness as the sun sets, and you struggle to sleep with the chill settling in.
The jacket hugs you tightly, and you wonder how the man reacted when he found you gone.
You can’t imagine him upset. He seems so…unaffected by everything. Once, you had accidentally burnt some food on the fire by holding it too close when trying to reheat it, and all he had done was look at it apathetically before tossing it into the fire to feed the fuel. You hadn’t eaten that night, but that was no one’s fault but your own. Another time, you had made a grab for his massive knife. Maybe it was a sword, but either way, he had just snatched it out of the way before you could weasel your fingers around the handle. He hadn’t even said anything; he just placed it further away and purposefully sat in between the blade and you in a clear warning.
Still, you wonder about his story. Why was he here, in the middle of nowhere, living in solitude? Maybe he also came from a situation similar to yours? A sole survivor off a plane crash, never being rescued by his country, thus forced to find his way of life here.
You have newfound respect for the man when the sun rises, and you’ve only slept half the time through the night because of the freezing cold. The temperatures are completely bipolar—absolutely sweltering at noon, but freezing cold at midnight, and everything in between. How does he catch rest with this awful weather mood swings?
You continue stomping through the jungle as soon as dawn arrives. You barely make it a few hours though before you hear other voices, speaking a language you don’t understand, in a rapid and aggressive manner. You shield your body with a tree for protection as you peer around it to see who it is.
A man is yelling, pointing at the rest of his buddies. He swings a massive sword like the one your saviour has, except he’s much more lax with it and you’re half-afraid he’s going to lop some poor guy’s head off with the amount of movement he has. His voice is harsh, almost mean as he directs everyone around him, yelling and screaming in an obviously displeased manner.
You don’t think he’s the type you should go to for help. Shrinking down so you’re hidden by the bush as well, you try your best to stay hidden and hope they move on soon.
“Paco,” a familiar voice says, and you freeze. Then he speaks curtly in the native language, and you peek up from the bush to see the Brit. Approaching the aggressive local.
The local sneers at the Brit. “Ghost,” the man jeers, heavily accented. “What you doing here?”
“I heard you were in the market for a merc,” your saviour replies, calmly ignoring the way Paco swings his sword around.
“You looking for job?”
Ghost inclines his head. “Depends on what you offer.”
“My land,” Paco says, extending his arms out wide, “my law. Alvar taking land; you push him off.”
Ghost seems to consider the offer. “How many men does Alvar have?”
“Twenty,” Paco replies, “maybe more.”
“You have weapons?”
Paco smiles widely, showing more teeth. “Cost.”
Ghost is undisturbed, only crossing his arms. “You know my rate,” he says, finally.
“I will pay you one month,” Paco says, holding out a hand for the man to shake, “if you finish in a week.”
“You want me to kill all of Alvar’s men, at least twenty of them, within a week.”
“You cannot?” Paco keeps his hand up. “You are the Ghost.”
Ghost only hesitates for a moment. “I want two months.”
Paco grins. “Deal.”
They shake hands. You feel distinctly as if you’re witnissingly something utterly illegal and horrible, but all you can do is stay frozen to the spot as Ghost accepts a second rifle from one of Paco’s men after Paco motions for the man to step forwards. He looks distinctly dangerous, two guns strapped across his chest, big ass knife in hand, and he stalks off into the jungle in the opposite direction you where you were.
You lean against your tree, heaving a sigh of relief. Thank fuck you left when you did.
—
The only problem, you realise, is that you have no idea where you’re going. You feel as if you’re going in circles, but you can’t even check, because the time you finally decided to put markers on the identical trees, it pissed down with rain and it washed away your vines tied to low branches.
When you tried to etch markings into the tree trunk, you didn’t have anything strong enough to make anything recognisable, and so all you could do is wander around, hoping that you get a stroke of luck.
You figure how which plants are safe to eat by observing rabbits and other small critters nibbling on grass. You can’t catch them, not yet, but you’re trying to developing a hunting skillset, albeit very, very slowly.
Sometimes, you regret leaving the cave. Maybe Ghost would’ve already brought you to the government if you had just been a little more patient. But then you’d remember his and Paco’s deal, and you’d feel just a little more comfortable sleeping against tree roots.
Things go to shit when you stumble across what you later realise is the part of the island which Paco claims is his but it’s beting occupied by Alvar. It’s a flatter part of the land, with less trees, and so you thought you had been going in the right direction, when in fact, it was the opposite.
For fuck’s sake, a psycho with a sword finds you and starts chasing after you, screaming in his native language. You high-tail it out of there, stumbling over the uneven ground, almost tripping and landing face first to eat shit when you barely stabilise yourself against the tree. Instead, you rip your plam open with horrifying splinters, but at least you don’t slow down too much, and so you hug your bleeding hand to your chest as you bolt through the forest.
You only realised that this was the Alvar part of the island when you run straight into Ghost’s chest, almost getting your head lopped off by his sword when he’s caught off guard. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, barely catching you as you stumble, dropping his knife in favour for his rifle.
“Cover your ears,” he warns, before he’s firing right beside your head. You only managed to half-clasp your hands around your ears before he deafens you.
It takes an embarrassingly long moment to discover that he’s trying to speak to you, voice echoing awfully as your ears ring, and you stare up at him in complete and utter incomprehension as his eyes dart from left to right, taking in your face. His mask is still on, covering his lips, so you can’t even make out his words, and you just think:
I’m fucked.
—
Simon doesn’t know if he’s more relieved or more exasperated to see you. For fuck’s sake, how did you even survive out in the woods for a week? What did you even eat?
But out of all the places to find you, he didn’t expect you to run into him when he was busy dealing with Alvar’s men. Considering that he spent most of his time combing through Paco’s land for signs of you, it’s even more laughable that he finds you in the middle of a fucking warzone.
Simon quickly tucks you behind him as he raises his rifle, making sure to nail anyone that gets too close. Shoving you in the direction of the trees, you make your way to the treeline in a dazed manner, moving far too slow for Simon’s liking.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles, and he grabs you like a rag doll. Tossing you over his shoulder, you let out a yelp, but you’re no match for Simon’s strength. Shooting the last of the men, he runs straight into the woods.
He can fight twenty-odd men alone on a good day, with a good plan and good intel. He can’t with a fucking civilian in tow.
So he runs. You’re starting to regain your senses, starting to speak now that you can hear yourself, but Simon doesn’ let go as he vaults over a particularly tall hump in the ground. Alvar’s men don’t pursue, probably trying to salvage the wounded, and so Simon tries to take advantage of that by putting as much distance between them and you two.
“Put me down!” you’re yelling. Simon pretends it’s just background noise.
“Fucking—just put me down!”
He takes a sharp left, just to lay some tracks to throw any later pursuers off. He does a few wide laps, starting to flag when the sunset is ending, and he only stops at a familiar rest stop when he’s sure they can’t track the two of you.
When he finally puts you down, you’re instantly placing at least ten meters between the two of you. Simon reaches for his machete, just to make sure you hadn’t nicked it, only to feel a flare of stress when he can’t find the handle.
Then he realises that you don’t have it either, and that he left it behind.
“Fuck,” he says aloud.
“Who the fuck are you?” you demand, hiding behind a tree. “ What the fuck are you?”
Simon is exhausted. He’s spent the last few days methodically working through Paco’s territory to find you, knowing that you’d end up in his land, only to turn up with days old tracks. Then, he had to stake out Alvar’s compound, and that had taken a few days too. He hasn’t slept in a week.
“Don’t run off this time,” he says, tiredly, “I won’t be there to save your bloody life again.”
“I never asked you to,” you snark back at him.
Simon points in the way the two of you came from. “Be my fucking guest.”
You don’t budge. He slumps down on the ground, a certain kind of relief flooding through his limbs at having finally found you, but the relief also makes way for fatigue.
“Ghost?” you ask, tentatively when he doesn’t move for a while.
He’s in a semi-sleep state, and he only wakes at the sound of his callsign. “Simon,” he corrects, almost inaudibly.
“What?”
“Simon,” he says, louder. He hasn’t been Ghost in a long time.
“Oh.” You shuffle a little closer. “Right.”
Simon thinks about how you know the people here call him the Ghost. Had you bee eavedropping on some conversations? Could you understand the local language?
His hands tighten on his rifles just in case you were, in fact, not as innocent as he presumed you to be. He doesn’t know how the plane actually fell out of the sky; if you had anything to do with it, then that meant he was putting himself at unnecessary risk. He cracks open a single eye to see what you’re doing.
In the dim light, he can only really make out that you’re trying to make yourself comfortable at the base of a nearby tree. The way you move is clumsy, definitely not trained, and it is wholly reminiscent of a civilian.
Simon keeps watching you. You say something, but he doesn’t catch it. He must be more tired than he thought he was.
“I won’t run, this time,” you say, this time with more volume. “Just saying.”
Simon doesn’t answer. But he does close his eyes, and lets himself succumb to sleep. His grip on the guns never loosen.
—
“We’ll head to the government now,” Simon—you’re still reeling at the fact that he had offered his name, isn’t that just so unexpected?—says, first thing in the morning.
You’re still barely half awake. He had shaken you awake at first light, and you’re still trying to get your bearings. “Huh—what?”
“We need to move now,” Simon squints up at the sun, “Alvar would’ve declared war by now.”
You rub at your eyes. “Wait, what—what are you talking about?”
“Paco will also be sendin’ men to find me,” Simon continues, as if you haven’t spoken, “so it’s best that you arrive at the right authorities before they hunt me down. You don’t want to be here when that happens.”
“I don’t understand,” you say, because you really don’t.
“I didn’t finish the job,” Simon explains, “and I started a war. Both sides will be gunning for me. Knowing Paco, he’ll try to spin it so that it looks like I acted on my own. Alvar won’t take it though, because he knows my policies. All in all, things are going to shit.”
Your mind reels at the information. You don’t have the energy to deal with this right now.
Simon peers at you. “Can you run?”
“Uh,” you reply.
“If you can’t, say it now.” His voice is dead serious. “I can carry you, but that means I need to plan a different route.”
“No, no, I can run,” you say, remembering what it was like to be carried by him earlier. “Actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t carry me, you know—”
“Then don’t run off,” he says firmly, “because I can’t guarantee your safety.”
You stare at him. “Were you,” you say slowly, “a soldier?”
He makes no outward reaction. Now, you realise, that’s more telling than if he had flinched. “We need to move now,” he settles on, after a beat of silence. The non-answer should be infuriating, but all you can really feel is a flare in curiosity.
The two of you start on your run. You’re nowhere near as fit as Simon is, and so he makes sure to give you frequent breaks as he scales trees to get a good look of where you’re going.
As you travel, you finally get some information out of him. He’s a Brit, or was a Brit, you suppose, from Manchester. He refuses to talk about his job, which you deduce to be something military-related, but he sometimes tells you stories at nighttime about teammates.
Once, you asked him what happened. He had just said, with a very quiet voice, that he outlived his usefulness. You didn’t ask him again.
Simon, as a person though, likes tea. He let slip once that he hadn’t had his favourite kind of tea in years, implying to you just how long he had been stranded on this island, but you smartly kept quiet about it. Sometimes, at night, when he’s tired and the two of you have fostered some kind of companionship between each other, he’ll talk about life before the island. He’ll talk about what it was like at home, and tell you a bit about the men he used to work with.
He refers to all of them with present tense except one. He calls that one Johnny, and Johnny used to be one of the best men he knew.
“Do you wish you can go home?” you ask, one night. You suspect you’re getting closer to the government, because he’s becoming more open.
He ponders the question for a long time, before admitting, “No.”
You wonder what happened at home. You wonder what made him so detached like so.
You’re right in your deduction, because the next day, he tells you that with another four more hours of walking and hiking, you’re going to make it to the local government. They should, he tells you, be able to contact your government and get you exfiltrated out. You don’t exactly know what being exfiltrated entails, but you suspect it has to do with getting out of the country.
So, that last night, you shuffle a little closer. He doesn’t push you away, he never does, but he never initiates contact either. You press into his side at night, sharing body heat, staring up at the winking stars.
“I’m sorry for running away the first time,” you say to him.
He just laughs, the first and only time you hear it. “I was expecting you to,” is what he replies with.
The two of you sleep side by side like that for the last night, before he’s gently rousing you for your final trek. You have to climb up a small mountain, terrified as you continue upwards, hugging the rock tightly just in case your feet slip.
Simon helps pull you up to the top before the two of you are standing at the peak, looking into the valley at a somewhat bustling city. Simon points to a large, green building towards the centre.
“That’s where you need to go,” he says.
“I see,” you say, even when what you really want to ask is what about you? But you know enough from context now; that he’s unwanted, and that probably means he’s wanted by the law. Yet, for some reason, you kind of want him to come with you.
“Thank you,” you add, because you can’t really say anything else you’re thinking of saying.
He looks over at you, and you swear he’s smiling. You can’t tell because of the mask though.
Then the two of you being descending. He helps you with your footsteps, and you discover than descending is actually much harder than ascending. You slip on something, and he catches you, arms winding around you in a moment of reflex.
His breathing is just as loud as yours. It takes a second for him to pull away.
“Watch your step,” he mutters, looking away. You make a hum, knowing that your voice wouldn’t hold.
You’re almost at the foot of the mountain when something akin to a whip echoes in the valley, and Simon is instantly pushing you down.
A bullet ricochets off a nearby rock. You almost scream.
“Stay down,” he orders, whirling around with his own rifle.
For a long, arduous minute, it is the worst minute of your life. You are crouched down, knees pressed against your chest, wildly hoping that you nor Simon get hit. It takes a while, but then Simon is grabbing you and hauling you to your feet. “Move!” he yells, shoving you towards the outskirts of the city. “Run!”
You run. He fires from behind, and all you hear is loud swearing in both English and the native language, but you don’t dare turn around.
If you do, you think you might stop running.
Simon’s footsteps are almost silent behind yours, and you only realise that he’s following when he presses himself solidly to your back. You weave desperately through alleys and buildings, getting more and more panicked when all you find is a dead end that forces you to turn further away from the centre of the city, but Simon is a grounding anchor that keeps your calm for you.
Finally, you get close to the city centre. You can almost taste it.
“Sprint,” Simon orders. “Don’t look back.”
You know better than to not listen to him now. So you sprint, and you don’t look back.
He doesn’t follow you this time, drawing fire from his assailants by running in a different direction. The closer you get to the government, the further the gunshots are. It’s only when you reach the gates, the guards looking very concerned at your disheveled state, that you finally turn around.
You think of a starry night sky, of rabbit meat, and of his coat.
You see him get shot in the street.
“Miss!” The guard is yelling at you. “Miss! What’s your name?”
You whisper, “Simon.”
—
The thing is, Simon had never expected to get something out of his ‘retirement’. He just thought that he’d be doing mercenary jobs until he died from injuries or exhaustion, carrying the weight of his career in the SAS on his back as a silent cross forever.
He didn’t think he’d get to play hero one last time.
He can’t lie; it feels good. He’d rather go out like this anyways.