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YEAAHHH OFF PURIFIER OCSS 💥💥💥🗣🗣🙏🙏

did a purifier oc out of nOWHERE

his name's Yoto, he attacks with a yoyo :3 he's more younger than other purifiers, like, uh, a young-adult or an adolescent, of... aprox 16-20 years

probably likes these mini skateboards for fingers

let's say... while I was sketching this guy I had other ideas and... now I have like- 4 Purifier OCS... oops

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ITS FINALLY DONE YALL!!! IT TOOK LIKE 4 DAYS BUT ITS FINISHED

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That one tf2 comic scene but it's Dadspy

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reblogged some people who needs commisions asap :))

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spydad!

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METAMORPHOSIS ☾

INFO: 2246 words, kafka x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: The threads of fate were never to be interpreted by the senses of mortals, and you pay the price. An extravagant cage, or a slave to destiny? You play your part like the puppet you learned to be, with Kafka serving as your lesson to maintain the realm between art and the artist. You, the Frankenstein's monster of fate's mistakes, and Kafka, the one who sees everlasting beauty in you. WARNINGS: uh nothing really except angst ig and REALLY FUCKING DENSE PROSE good luck reading allat bc i'm not reading what I wrote again LMFAO. this is gonna flop bc it's too complicated rip AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOT PROOFREAD BC ITS CURRENTLY 3:30AM AND IM DELIRIOUS. This was intended to be a weird character study but it turned self indulgent REAL quick i hate it sofuckingmuch YIPEEE!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated i'll give u a fat sloppy kiss.

Art governs the world, as Kafka says.

The world is governed by its artists. Formed by the hands of sculptors, decorated with grandeur by its musicians and dancers, yet art runs far deeper than these meticulous displays. Art is present in all. It allows life to be breathed into the mundane, allows men to understand their souls – the contours of their being, the purity and refinement of their essence. It allows for the soul to become honed as sharp and pedantic as one’s craft, etching the outline of an artist’s life.

Art allows man to discover and become familiar with themselves, and hence becomes a vehicle for all those yearning for greatness to have their wishes fulfilled. Thus, art is mistaken as a noble practice, each misshapen line of a paintbrush burdened with the virtue it cannot promise. Yet art may not be as noble as what meets the eye, with its breath shaping each whisper of life. As there is an art to all, there can only be balance. Shrouded with the curse of mortality and death, the act of stealing life becomes an art as well. Dark and taboo, but an art nonetheless. 

Killing becomes an art, each spray of blood the artist’s signature, each cut, bruise and scar carrying the same reverberations as the splash of paint on a blank canvas. It could never be replicated, even if the artist’s eye was the most honed at their craft. Done right, killing could be beautiful, and death could be revered. It was a mantra for all she did – Kafka, the absurd devotee to all that was beautiful, perpetually in pursuit of beauty and purpose. 

Beauty, she thought, was the hierophant of art in itself. Though this may present a causality dilemma in all art mirroring beauty and beauty ever present in art, she believed that beauty would reign triumphant. To her, it was a sanctimonious practice that would rule out of presence alone, but instead of interpreting the beauty of the world, she craved to find beauty for herself. Selfish to no end, but what were humans if not selfish?

Many thought she was mad. That her self imposed quest was futile, and she’d return tasting bitter disappointment sickly on her tongue. Her self imposed quest was woven into her being, the thread that perpetuated her fate and directed her to Elio. The thread that gloriously pulled her towards you. 

Were you art, or the artist? Were you the creator, or the created? The all knowing maker or the grotesquely beautiful creation? She couldn’t tell. It was trivial. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. You were beautiful to her – the embodiment of all she believed to ring virtuous and true. Causality dilemma as you may be, you remained unshaken by the wiles of fate.

“How did Elio get you?” were her first words to you. 

Composed of fragments of dreams and broken flesh, you appeared in front of her. Stricken by a plight of existence, but beautiful, still. A Frankenstein's monster of beauty and decay. “He didn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I came to him.”

Curiosity flashed in those eyes of honeyed wine. “What reason would someone like you have to enslave yourself to fate?”

In turn, you smiled at her. “Fate will tell, will it not?”

Fate strung its threads across your body in a pattern of knots so ravishingly complex. Your fate, ambiguous to all but Elio, it seemed, wrapped around you in the most tragic and delightful way, she couldn’t resist tangling herself with you; tracing her gloved hands along your bindings, losing herself in the rumination of possibility. The rumination that she once would’ve scoffed at for being so wishful. 

You didn’t know what you did to her.

“Is it time already?” she rose from her position, glancing down at the unconscious man beside you, oblivious to your presence. Blade was barely conscious, drifting in and out of the hypnotic state Kafka had induced on him. 

“Looks like it. Elio’s never wrong.” you reply.

“Are you nervous?”

“Why would I be? Did Elio mention anything about danger?”

Her laugh is musical. “The trailblazer hasn’t met you yet.”

“I’m excited to make their acquaintance, then, if they’re as interesting as you suggest.”

Kafka smiled, slipping through the doorway of the makeshift abode with a fleeting glance. Fleeting glances, furtive touches, whispered words. That’s what the thin bond stringing you together consisted of. Neither of you let the other linger for too long, so help the stain that you’d inevitably leave. You were the substance she wanted to get blissfully drunk on, yet you were far too beautiful to squander on such menial things. In turn, she was the overture that haunted your dreams, yet disappeared once the score came into view.

Some things were best left at a distance, the careful and prudent restriction promising preservation. 

With a laugh to none but yourself, you followed her from a distance just beyond arm’s reach. You realised you would follow her to whatever end she led you to. You’d let her lead you to desolation, because you trusted she’d restore what she called your ‘beauty’ once again. You trusted her cunning eye – the eye of the artist – to watch you become derelict, and to salvage what could be saved from the shards of your remains. 

The trailblazer had the same eyes that Kafka had – willful and shrewd – yet determination sat at the forefront instead of the tinge of deadly curiosity Kafka held. 

“Who are you?” the trailblazer questioned, eyes flickering between the two of you. Two questions spent, one left.

“I used to be a knight of beauty.” a faint glimmer in her eye as she smiles towards you. “We worshipped Idrila, the Aeon of Beauty. We vowed to guard their beauty with the sword, but one day they suddenly disappeared.”

The trailblazer appeared to be conflicted, gaze darting back and forth between the two of you. “And you?”

“I am the interpreter of the cosmos.” Kafka’s amusement is undeniable. Her lie doesn’t escape you as you weave a web with the string she provided. Playing her game as intended. “The stars ordain their prophecy, and I interpret them into coherent events that mortals are able to comprehend.”

The trailblazer says nothing. The best lies are moulded from dregs of the truth, as she’d taught you.

“What’s your last question?” Kafka asks. 

“What are you two?”

Very few times you’ve seen Kafka taken by surprise. The woman blinks. 

“Kafka is an artist.” you respond in her stead as she scoffs at your answer.

“Then you are the wanderer above the sea of fog.”

Full of riddles, always. She could never give anyone a straight answer. Why would she? She was the artist, forever touched by the calamitous effect of your being.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The trailblazer frowns.

Kafka laughs in delight. If you could store the sound in your heart, surviving from its pure, unbridled mirth, you would. “Everything leads to the answer eventually. There’s only the illusion of being lost.”

“Quit being cryptic.”

“The future is a labyrinth. Divergences are merely inducements. There is only one true path. You only have to know how to look.” A smile plays across her lips as she gestures towards you. “And I have my looking glass.”

—

If beauty was present in all art, you failed to find the art in deceit. Morally, its falsehoods nurtured the true nature of humankind, yet the guilt that followed in tandem with this practice ate away at the disposition like rotting flesh in the maw of a rabid beast. 

Elio had revealed his plans to you – your script to act out – and you’d shied away in cowardice. Or could it be seen as self preservation? Where was the line between cowardice and preservation? Surely, you walked across it with fear of teetering to one side. There’d been no deceit on your part until this very moment, the illusion of what you’d had finally facing the denouement. 

You so desperately wanted to continue living this beautiful farce with Kafka, but there were other plains written in the stars. 

“Kafka?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me a lie.” 

“A lie?” 

You frowned, gazing up at the stars. The infinite, perpetually changing stars that voiced their teachings to you with whispers unheard to ears but your own. If it was in Elio’s script, you’d play your part, no matter the height of the fall. Such was your deal with Elio – your shackles in exchange for an extravagant cage. “Yes.”

“Why would I do that?” she asks, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Another city, another task to fulfil via Elio’s requests. Did they ever end? It was a foolish question to ponder. 

“Your lies are pretty. I could get blissfully drunk on them.” your eyes reflect the cosmos in them, and as Kafka leans in closer, you shut your eyes. 

“What do you mean?”

You laugh, palm outstretched in front of you as if to gather the galaxy in your fist and force the fate of the world out of its grasp. “You lie so often that it’s the only constant I can find, anymore.”

She pauses. She’s sure you can feel her body tense beside you. “...Don’t tell me.”

“Lie to me, Kafka.” you close your eyes, leaning against her shoulder as the stars gaze down at you. She remains still. 

“I can’t. Did Elio put you up to this?”

“Why not?” Your avoidance of her question only makes her even more wary. 

“I’ll feel guilty.” she pouts, her light tone an attempt to alleviate the atmosphere, but you turn to face her completely. 

“Kafka, I’m in love with you.”

Silence hung rigid in the air as the stars sang their lonely hymn, their finale of Orpheus and Eurydice. Kafka, the picture of stoicism – the unmoving sword in the stone – was torn. Her facade of cold, amused indifference had shattered, leaving a demeanour that betrayed her emotions, now written clear across her face. You turned away. 

Two stars, born of the same nebula, yet suffering far different fates from one another. Your star burnt far too brightly, while hers shone with cold light that you relished in. Your star would soon wink out, your death a destruction unbeknownst and insignificant to many, yet cataclysmic for one.

Deceit was necessary, or so Elio had told you, for Kafka’s resolve to steel. For her to become the character he needed to execute his script.

So, you supposed, as there was an art in Kafka’s beautiful lies, there was beauty in deceit. A beauty of sacrifice to set Kafka’s beauty etched into time, while you burned away in the depths of history. 

The wanderer above the sea of fog, and the artist that could only appraise its beauty. The two realms far too separate for the artist to reach out and stop the hand that tore the canvas with a blunt knife. 

“Was that a lie?” Kafka asks, voice distant as the look in her eyes. 

“I couldn’t lie to you.” the words spill out like a wound torn open. Rehearsed, and performed like the slave to destiny you became. It repulsed you. You wanted to rip your tongue out. 

“You can’t do this.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do this.” she meets your eyes. Pleading, almost. The Kafka you know never pleads – but the thread between you is stretched taut, and the three fates lie in wait. 

“Tell me a lie, please.” you step closer. She steps back, expression carefully blank. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you despise the air I breathe. Tell me that the beauty that you see in me is unfading.”

“Stop.” her gloved hands rest on your shoulders. Delicate, as if you’re a statue that she sculpted herself. 

“Kafka, please.”

“Enough.” She releases her hold, turning away from you. “Goodnight.”

The art must be separated from the artist, or so Elio had claimed. You were the grotesque creation, and she was the artist with unbridled curiosity. Your mere touch was poisonous to her, Elio claimed – he claimed many things, and you wanted to scream at him, to tear the tapestry of destiny apart with your bare hands, but he gave you a choice. 

Though a life as destiny’s slave was demanding, life as an orchestrator of the most beautiful catastrophe sounded far more enticing – morbidly so. 

Kafka was the artist in perpetual pursuit of all things beautiful, and you could think of no entity more beautiful than the tragic story of your own satirical tragedy. 

Elio handed you the options, and you tugged at the thread lined with gold, cajoled with fables of love and artistry. The world fell silent around you as you stepped into the role of the artist, commanding the orchestra with a baton of bones. Cold, unfeeling. Such should be the shape of your soul, as your art demanded. 

Art aids mankind in discovering the contours of their soul. Yours just so happened to be the missing star in the sky. A tale of destruction unknown to any other except the star burning blindingly bright beside you, mourning. 

You, the monster of art, pressed too close to the artist, and now you were marked with lacerations none could erase. Kafka’s sword found its mark through your heart, and blood sprayed onto the floor in a flourish of red. The artist’s signature. 

“I can’t lie to you anymore.” 

And so the star burned brighter.

written by @atlaswav , published 17th of January 2024

this whole series was amazing 😭😭

Alone

Ghost Team & Male reader

Word Count: 7,218

Warnings: Catholicism, reader attending church for a funeral

Summary: The reader decides wether or not to join “Ghost Team” in their mission to not only take back a Los Vaqueros’ bases, but also handle Commander Graves in the only way they know: killing him

Part I / II / III / IV / V / VI (The End)

Tight, balled fists resting in your lap—if not for your gloves, your nails would be piercing the palms of your hands—as you listen attentively to Captain Price and his other sergeant, Gaz—or Garrick, you’re not entirely sure on the specifics of his name—recite what Laswell had uncovered: the most recent traumatic event—up until now—that left you scarred, inside and out.

You remain silent in your seat next to Soap, keeping your gaze limited to your lap or the floor, though you notice the frequent glances the other men exchange from the corner of your eyes, except for Gaz, who keeps his eyes on the road in front of him (and perhaps only occasionally stealing glimpses in the vehicle’s rearview mirror to monitor you, specifically, without you knowing).

You struggle to recognize when your breathing becomes harsher and labored, engrossed in every word leaving Price’s mouth, anticipating what else would come out or how far Laswell’s digging had truly gone. Your chest tightens with each bout of you withdrawing breath for an extended amount of time, completely unaware of you doing so in the first place, and underneath your mask, your jaw is severely clenched; even so, you make an effort not to grind your teeth as well. At one point, you unclench your fists to press against your knees, restraining your legs from nervously bouncing in place.

Despite this less-than-subtle panicking, you possess a sole concern: whether your involvement in that mission would come to light.

Regardless of what they do or don’t know, you seem plenty guilty enough to them. A nervous wreck would be an understatement of your outward appearance and expressions, to the detriment of your lacking efforts to seem otherwise.

Although your primary focus should be on the speaker, whether that be Price or Gaz, your concentration falters from the onslaught of thoughts preoccupying your mind.

What if Price already knew of your involvement within the mission—and if so, why would he let you assist? Did he want to make use of you before disposing of you? If that were the case, at any point, you could have been thrown over, trapped within the prison’s walls, and left for dead.

Going off the assumption that he doesn’t know, you can’t imagine the captain being keen on letting a Shadow run loose—even if you no longer consider yourself one. Besides, what more use could you provide from them? Because, by the looks of it, Los Vaqueros is a plentiful team of allies willing to do whatever it takes to protect Las Almas, and you’re just someone who ended up fighting alongside them and Ghost and Soap.

Will you have a choice or any say in what happens to you? The chances of that are looking slimmer by the second as Price nears the end of his recount of Laswell’s information. If they know, there’s no telling what they’ll do to you.

Should you just be honest from the start and hope all goes well? The task force has little reason to go out on a limb for you, especially the captain, who doesn’t know you very well—none of them do, not even John, who’s given you the benefit of the doubt and stuck out his neck for you at each and every given chance.

Would Soap maintain his dependable stance on you, or would that image shatter right in front of his eyes once he knew the reality of what transpired two months prior?

Either way, what will become of you when all is said and done?

When Price mentions that Kate informed them that there were no survivors from the mission, a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This is a good thing, right? If at least they won’t have that information to hold against you, then why does your stomach feel like it’s tied up in knots?

The car rolls to a halt after non-stop driving to wherever Alejandro has led them, just as Price wraps up the informal briefing.

Finally, you work up the courage to look up from your lap, slowly craning your neck to gauge the reaction from everyone. They don’t seem all that surprised.

Price leans forward, staring at you dead-on and asking, “Know anything about that?” in reference to everything he’d explained.

Your fingers around your knees flex, and you gulp inaudibly. Is now the time to speak candidly, or should you feign ignorance? Will your answer have any impact on your outcome, or would revealing the truth be all in vain?

Fuck—you’re thinking about this too intensely; your temple begins to throb.

“Yes,” you reply at a moment’s pass, maintaining eye contact with the captain, “but I’d like to speak somewhere privately on that.”

Gaz turns around, still in the driver seat, and sends Price a cagey expression. He notices, yet doesn't acknowledge it.

“Alright. Let’s get inside.”

Instead of informing Alejandro on the matters that have led everyone here, Captain Price merely requests a place to gather in privacy, and the colonel obliges.

You’re not quite out of the woods yet, it appears.

As you make your way inside, the pain from your ankle becomes excruciating; nevertheless, you push forward, masking your lamp to walk normally, therefore putting agonizing pressure on your ankle, despite the pain flaring and seeping into your skin.

Your hands tremble, laced behind your back, as you stand alongside Ghost, Soap, Gaz, and Alejandro while Price gets into contact with General Shephard via video call. In a bleak, private room, the five of you gather around the table, opposite Price, who’s sat down for his less-than-cordial conversation with Shephard.

Although Alejandro isn’t properly acquainted with the incident responsible for the missing missiles in specifics and great detail, he’s quickly caught up to speed as Price lists off Shephard’s wrongdoings at every turn, to the general’s face—on the laptop screen, at least.

“You hid this, why?”

“We all keep secrets, Captain.”

His response evidently frustrates Price. “Why the hell wasn’t I informed?”

“Consider yourself well informed now, John.”

Instinctively, you glimpse over to Soap. There are two Johns in the task force?

Price restrains himself from losing his cool, especially over someone as clandestine as Shepherd. “Oh, that’s really fuckin’ helpful, General. Thank you, but you’re a day late and a missile short. There’s three of ‘em—we only found two.”

“Then point yourself in that direction and fix it,” Shepherd snaps as if the missing missile isn’t a direct result of his actions.

Price tilts his head, staring at the general through the screen. “And who fixes you, eh?”

“I don’t need fixing. I’m a patriot protecting my country.”

Price rises from his seat—the wood subtly creaking from the shift—attempting to keep his ever-growing frustration at bay.

“You’re protecting your own arse.”

“I do what needs to be done, and no one holds me down with a roll of red tape. I know what’s best for the cause.”

The captain chuckles, shaking his head at the sheer audacity of the man. “You’ve lost your mind, General.”

Shepherd raises his voice and says, “And you’ve forgotten what you’re fighting for, John. To do good, you gotta do some bad. When we shit, we bury it, that’s how it works,” justifying his actions in an attempt to defend himself.

“Yeah…” Price agrees, then points at the screen and continues, “But we don’t bury each other with it, do we?”

“You need to turn off that side o’ your head and face down the real enemy.”

Price pulls back the chair to hover closely to the laptop’s camera. “You need to call off your Shadow.”

“Graves?”

“Yeah.”

The general laughs in a mocking tone. “He’s a dog with a bone, and I highly recommend you don’t try to take it.”

“This is your last chance to change your mind,” Price warns.

“Then what?”

He leans closer to the camera. "Then, after I go for him…I’m coming for you.”

Price strips Shephard of a chance of retorting back by simply closing the device.

The general has no power over the captain when he sets his mind to something, even if it means pitting himself and his team against the Shadows and whoever else Shephard would throw at them.

Price's eyes scan across the table at the others, who are processing the extent of damage Shepherd and the Shadows have caused, before they land on you.

Offering a faint nod, he asks, “What do you know?”

Your hands twist behind your back as you lightly tug your hands apart. It’s now or never.

Regardless of your internal struggle and going back and forth on whether or not to be honest and just how honest to be, none of it could prepare you for the excessive unease settling in your being. Your distress may have dampened from the change in location from the back of the vehicle to this dim room, though it doesn’t negate that your nerves are shot and the unpleasantness of guilt attaching itself to you, gnawing at your deepest wounds and eating away at you.

To these men, you are not to be trusted—within well enough reason, to be fair—and if you were to disclose the level of participation you had in those missiles falling into the wrong hands, wouldn’t you just be proving them right? That all Shadows are spineless, deceitful bastards, unworthy of compassion, and, least of all, the continuation of a life span.

Still, you admire both teams for their—well, everything. The respect they grant to one another, the perseverance they exhibit no matter the situation, and the tight-kniteness across each member, which resembles a familial unit, more than anything.

You know—knew what that felt like as a fellow Shadow, but by and by the disconnect grew larger and larger until it all came to a head once Commander Graves decided massacring the people of Las Almas was their best bet to deal with the narcos and the corruption they induced in the town.

Los Vaqueros and TF141 could care less about you if not for your aid or possible information to offer; however, you continue to feel as if you owe them more than that—your honesty and everything that entails it.

You stand straighter, subtly rolling your shoulders back and clearing your throat.

“Laswell’s information is solid and mostly accurate, except for each Shadow dying.”

That gains everyone’s attention well enough.

Next to you, Ghost and Soap glance at each other, and Gaz tilts his head, fairly curious.

“What?”

Alejandro scoffs in disbelief. “You expect us to believe that?”

“How do you know this?” Price asks, ignoring the others' reactions.

“Because you’re looking at the sole survivor.”

John examines you in a different light. “You were..?”

You nod, averting your gaze from him.

“But, how?”

A haze glazes over your eyes, recalling the events of that mission.

“By playing dead, which wasn’t all that hard since I thought I was—well, I was dying, or bleeding out pretty badly, at least.”

You remove your best, setting it down on the table to tug the collar of your shirt down, stretching out in the process, as you lower it to reveal the gnarly scar on your chest—the one you went to great lengths to keep hidden while being patched up the morning prior.

“Two centimeters to the right, and it would’ve nicked my heart and killed me.” You let go of your collar soon enough, unwilling to let their eyes linger on the imperfection for too long.

Shutting your eyes, you sigh, the memories flooding back all at once.

“We didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into, and if we had, we wouldn’t’ve gone in blind like that or without backup that could’ve prevented what’s happened.”

“And if you’d known?” Alejandro questions.

You open your eyes, peering at the Colonel.

“Would you still ‘ave done it?” Soap challenges.

Your stomach churns, and if the grimace on his face was anything to go off of, he already knows the answer.

“Shephard has stuff on all of us, Ph—" You feel your mouth go dry. “Graves,” you correct yourself, “is just his puppet executing his every command, and by extension, us—his Shadows.”

Ghost huffs from underneath his mask; your reply is deemed unsatisfactory.

“Why didn’t ye say anythin’ earlier?” John pesters.

You shift your weight off your injured ankle, silently mulling over how to not only answer honestly but also nicely.

“I-I don’t know...I guess I just thought I wouldn’t make it this far.”

He frowns at that. “What?”

You pause, biting your tongue to hinder yourself from saying something snarky.

“John, any one of you could’ve killed me at some point.” You begin to mumble, “I’m sure some of you still do, and I don’t fault you for that.”

John’s frown doesn’t worsen, yet the corners of his mouth don’t lift either.

Crossing his arms, Price narrows his eyes on you. “What does Shephard have on you?”

You clench and unclench your fists, remaining hidden behind your back. “You’d have to ask him about that, but I’m done with Shadow business. I can’t—I won’t have them dictate my life. Not anymore.” You stare at your vest laid out on the table, taking a deep breath. “I truly am sorry—and I know just saying that won’t change or fix anything, but I really mean it. None of this should’ve happened in the first place, so I’m sorry you all had to get involved to clean up this mess.”

Price steps forward, and you keep your feet firmly planted on the floor, ignoring your instinct to flee without ever looking back.

“You’re right, this never should’ve happened, but you’re here now, yeah?”

‘Here’ meaning alongside TF141 and Los Vaqueros, as opposed to Shadow Company or as another one of Shephard’s lap dogs.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

He looks at the rest of the men, signaling them with his own nod.

Alejandro is the first to move, making his way over to the room’s doors, with you and the others following behind. He swings both wooden doors wide open, their hinges slightly creaking, almost making a show of a grand entrance. 

Now, outside of the room, the sounds of lively chatter and Spanish music greet you. On either side of the main area are the parked vehicles from which both teams traveled, creating a walkway in the middle between the vehicles.

You quickly spot Rodolfo, standing behind a table in the very back, and Alejandro is conveniently leading the five of you over to him.

Alejandro whistles loudly, garnering the attention of his men. “Orale—Vaqueros, pongon atención.” [Hey—Cowboys, pay attention.]

The Vaqueros halt what they’re doing, assembling behind the seven of you gathered around the table.

“Alright, listen—we are taking back your HQ,” Price announces, resting the tips of his gloved hands on the edge of the metal table. “We are getting our prisoner. We are killing Commander Graves.”

Directly across from the captain, Rudy asks, “When?”

Next to Price, Ghost answers, “Now.”

“This is a fight against our own." Price taps his fingers against the table to emphasize his point. “We are not 141 or Los Vaqueros on this. We’re a team…”

Ghost leans down, picking up a bag by his side and tossing its contents onto the table—masks, more specifically, his skull balaclava.

“...Ghost Team.”

Before you can contemplate the aspects that would entail this mission, Ghost abruptly reaches for the top of his head, yanking off his skull mask to reveal his face.

As curious as you were about the lieutenant’s identity, you restrain yourself from seeing him. If there was anybody more undeserving of the privilege to view his unmasked face, it was you.

“Good to see you again, Simon,” Price says softly.

Simon? It was hard to imagine Ghost being anything other than Ghost, a hardheaded lieutenant without a legitimate name or identity besides his call sign.

Simon doesn’t respond, and Price takes off his boonie hat and places it on the table.

“If you’re in, take a mask. If you’re not, don’t.”

Price grabs one first, with Simon doing the same, and the rest follow—excluding you.

They each take a few seconds to adjust the fabric properly as you blankly view the dwindling pile of masks.

You can’t do this. You just can’t.

As much as you feel indebted to them, you can’t go through with this—not after the countless Shadows you’ve killed for more or less their sake. You’d rather die by their hands than willingly put yourself in the position to do so again.

There’s no reason for you to keep fighting; they’ll have it covered from here.

After fixing his mask on, Soap turns to look at you; only you haven't removed your mask, staring at the pile in front of you. Perhaps you’re strict about showing your face? Moreso than Ghost, apparently.

He wonders what’s going through your head at that moment, if you’re questioning whether or not you should join the team, and why this would be something to have to consider.

How could you want to back out now? Considering all you and he have been through, wouldn’t you want to see this through to the end?

John nudges you carefully, seemingly breaking you out of your daze. You catch his gaze, and disappointment seeps into his chest when you shake your head.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“It’s nothing personal, I just…I can’t be there when you face Graves.”

“But—”

“John, it’s okay. Besides, you guys don’t need me. You’ll be fine.”

From across the table, Price asks, “Are you sure?”

You nod, “More than ever,” and separate from John’s side to approach Price and Alejandro.

You stick your hand out, and Price calmly shakes your hand, a stark difference from the handshake you and he exchanged hours prior.

“It’s been an honor to serve alongside you and your men, both of you,” you say as you inspect Alejandro, who seems to regard you less harshly. “I’d wish you all good luck, but if there’s anyone who can deal with the Commander, it’s you guys.”

You offer your hand to Alejandro, who gives you a nice, firm shake.

[You are a great colonel with a wonderful team, and I applaud you for all the great things you are doing for Las Almas. I wish you and your soldiers the best of luck.]

“Eres un gran coronel con un equipo maravilloso, y te aplaudo por todas las grandes cosas que estás haciendo por Las Almas. Les deseo a ustedes y a sus soldados la mejor de las suertes.”

You can’t quite make out his expression with the mask covering his face, but he accepts the compliment with grace. “Gracias, lo aprecio mucho.” [Thank you, I appreciate it very much.]

Suddenly struck with an idea, you hastily remove your radio and its respective earpiece to set it on the table. “I don’t have much to offer in terms of intel, but it’s not like I’ll be needing this any time soon.”

Price claps you on the back. “You’ve done more than enough, believe me.”

“Thank you for the hospitality—from everyone—but I should get going. The less I know, the better.”

John inches forward, trying not to appear too desperate. “Where’ll you go?”

You shrug. “Not sure—but don’t worry, we won’t have to run into each other again.”

Ghost huffs in what you think is laughter and otherwise doesn’t comment.

With that, you wave goodbye to the rest of the table before looking back at John again to wink at him.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

You exit the compound, straying outside of the building to momentarily collect yourself. Observing above you, the sky darkens, with water-filled clouds moving along the mild wind’s route. You wonder how long it'll be until rain begins to pour out and if the weather will be as intense as the previous day.

John’s question clings to your thoughts as well: Where?

Truthfully, you hadn’t—and still haven’t—formed a proper answer. Where should you go? What place is there left for an outsider like you? And more importantly, how would you come to such a place?

You find yourself considering such things as you glance over at the parked van to your left. Perhaps you should’ve thought this out more, or you could go back inside and see if they’re willing to part with one of their vehicles. You scoff at the thought, nearly scolding yourself.

Ridiculous, as if they’d ever do that for you of all people.

Your bullet wound aches as you paw at the opposite shoulder, finally tearing off the velcro patch of the Shadow Company insignia. Also foregoing the mask in privacy, you let both items fall from your hands onto the concrete ground.

This moment has long been due—shedding the skin of the Shadow that clung onto you so tightly, you imagined it was futile to view yourself separately from it, but that couldn’t be farther from the case; that’s just what you are: yourself—not the mercenary you’ve been molded to be.

With the cool breeze wisping along your bare face, you decide, I’ll go where the wind takes me.

It takes a while to reach the heart of the city, with the compound located in a relatively remote area, not to mention your ankle’s painful swelling the longer you walk. You could count on a single hand how few cars have passed your limping figure, though, as a rule of thumb, you don’t get into strange or unfamiliar cars if you can help it.

You wander the streets of Las Almas with a semblance of a sense of direction, taking the route you and John had lurked upon. It’s substantially easier to navigate where you’re heading not only without constantly monitoring your surroundings for Shadows but also in the daylight—if this weather could be considered 'daylight.'

A light drizzle, the grey clouding the sky, and not a sun in sight. Fog encompasses every crevice, obscuring things from a distance and misting the fine details of what is visible.

You observe what little differences there are to make out. Most stores continue to have their doors unlocked and wide open, while some have been locked up and have a sign hung up reading [Sorry, WE'RE CLOSED] Lo Siento, CERRADO.

Out of curiosity, you scour two specific shops and find that the bodies of both Shadows Ghost had executed have already been recovered.

Blood is no longer flowing through the streets, having been washed away with the rain, but the bodies remain, and the aftermath will too.

Even where there is an absence of corpses, tiles and walls remain tainted with the viscous splattering of blood.

Soon enough, you locate the ledge overlooking the lower part of the city—with a distinct lack of dead Shadows—and stay to watch a slow, steady stream of water flow in the alley.

After a moment, you turn back around, fixated on finding an alternative, safer approach to finding your way down there. You allow yourself to get lost, roaming where you hadn’t, and eventually find your way there.

You don’t go all the way to where you jumped and landed and had to have John lift you to your feet; instead, you approach the gated alley, separating one’s house from the coffee shop. The dead man still lay there, face down, on top of the doormat.

Is his family out there searching for him at this very moment, or have they met the same fate?

Your lips drag into a frown as you jostle the gate, only to find it locked. Looks like you’ll be going elsewhere.

Moving along, you return to the gated area with the Día de los Muertos altars. It’s become disheveled from exposure to the elements: picture frames fallen over, marigolds strewn about, and shattered glass from the now-broken jars lit with LED candles.

Like previously, you walk to the end of the area, observing the tunnels below. Unsurprisingly, they have remained flooded, though the water level has diminished. Nevertheless, you stray off the path to find a different way to reach the plaza near the church.

You scarcely encounter others, which was to be expected. So many lives were lost, all because of one stubborn man and his fleeting figures on a manhunt.

On the rare instance you do come across someone, more often than not they’re kneeling over the dead body of a loved one, weeping fiercely and begging to God. At various times, you see lonesome people on the corner of the street or in front of their houses, calmly smoking a cigarette and watching the smoke whirl into the air.

Your trek to the plaza takes longer than expected, with numerous streets of housing and unopened shops and the agony of treading cracked and uneven concrete sidewalks, declining and inclining at random.

To your shock, the plaza is livelier than the different areas you’ve explored.

Shop owners are sweeping along the front exteriors of their businesses, and mothers are clutching dearly to their children.

Those who are operating food stands are giving away their labors of love, and a majority of people have gathered in the center of the plaza to create ofrendas in commemoration of those who had not survived the massacre brought on by Graves.

The large rings of barbed wire are no longer there to act as a border outside of the city, though the knocked-over food stand Ghost had run over remains, with shards of broken glass near the area.

Again, there are no traces of Shadows in sight, dead or otherwise, and the armored trucks are gone.

Feeling out of place, you keep your head low, staring at your feet as you walk forward. You appear normal enough and civilian-like, you suppose, since leaving your vest in that one room in the compound and ditching your mask and Shadow Company patch. Your gloved hands remain in your pockets, more for comfort than tactical reasons; otherwise, you may just seem odd for wearing all black—though considering the entire town is shrouded in mourning, maybe not so.

You stop in your tracks as the front of your shoe lightly taps against the bottom of a set of steps. Lifting your head, you find yourself in front of the church, the place of worship somehow grander up close than from afar.

Before you realize what you’re doing, you’ve already begun to walk up and pause when your foot bumps into something else.

Lying before you is a dog with honey-brown, almost golden-like orbs, peering up at you through the scrunch of its brows. Your foot had collided with its paw, but the dog made no indication of moving, and on closer inspection, you notice how wet and matted its coat of black fur is and the lack of collar or dog tags around its neck.

You move your foot back, and slowly the dog rises to sit ever so politely in front of you. It tilts its head, staring at you expectantly, causing your heart to melt and sympathy to grow.

Upon a second glance, you promptly mutter, “Hey, boy,” while running your knuckles across the top of his head in your unique way of petting him.

It may not be the best or safest idea since you’re ignorant of his history—medically speaking—but how could you resist when he looks at you so? If he were human, he wouldn’t have trusted so easily; alas, he's just a dog and isn’t quick to judge based on appearances. In fact, he seems to be relishing the touch of your hand—or knuckles, rather—as his snout leans in to sniff at you.

Even strays are deserving of love, are they not?

You pull your hand back, allowing him to continue sniffing at you. Once he’s done evaluating your scent, he leans his head back into its normal position, and you stuff your hand in your pocket.

Both of you stare at one another, waiting for the other to make a move until the dog breaks eye contact to glance at the church’s gate.

Is he urging you to go forth, or is he anticipating someone’s exit from the church? It would explain why he’s taken to lying at the gates, except if he doesn’t have an owner, then why wait here, of all places, when there are plenty of shops with canopy awnings to take shelter underneath, at least until the rain subsides?

Regardless of his actions or motivations—after all, he’s just a dog, one you just met, mind you—you proceed toward the vast structure, passing the black, metal gates that you can’t quite seem to recall if they had also been unlocked the night prior.

Even while wearing your slip-resistant boots, you tread carefully across the slick, tiled floor, approaching the considerably large and carefully composed wooden doors, propped open to entice and invite passerbyers like yourself. Framing the doors is detailed stonework, with an arch flawlessly outlining the shape of the doors, along with pillars and statues on either side. Above the stonework, resting on the ledge of the upper floor of the exterior of the church, is another, more intricate statue of an archangel, with the phrase [WHO (IS) LIKE GOD ?] QUIS UT DEUS ? scrawled in gold letters beneath it.

Not thinking much of it, you enter the church. A foreign feeling overcomes you as your eyes glide to the pulpit to discover you’ve stumbled into the middle of a funeral. Your body freezes in place, giving you a few seconds to decide what to do. You shouldn’t be here in a ceremony to honor the deceased, much less among the family and friends of said deceased, but if you were to step out now, it’d undoubtedly be rude.

I’ll just stay until it ends, you tell yourself.

You blend in with the shadows, slinking quietly and carefully so as not to make your presence known, and head toward the nearest pew, all the way in the back and far from the attendees. Despite the church's noticeable age, the wood does not creak as you sit down, and you nearly thank the heavens for that. The relief in your ankle is almost instant the second you rest your feet, crossing it over your uninjured ankle.

You sit back, trailing your eyes over every inch of the interior, and discover all there is to admire in its grandiosity, from the shimmering silver, almost white, chandeliers hung in between each arch, to the portraits of saints and holy men alike mounted to the walls, the panes of intricately crafted stained glass windows depicting Christ and other figures from the Bible lining each wall, and the gold trim neatly applied to the stone arches, pillars, lectern, and altar table, the metallic sheen glistening beautifully off of the many candles lit across the expanse of the room.

You draw your attention back to the pulpit, where the sleek, cherry-wood casket lay, the lid completely shut with bundles of flowers and bouquets on top of it. Next to the casket, propped on a metal stand, is a wreath composed of all-white flowers, such as roses, lilies, and carnations.

The Father, dressed appropriately in black vestment robes, strolls casually amongst the pulpit, at times drawing nearer to the front pews as he preaches along the lines of nothing that holds your interest as you dwell on personal experiences with death—near death—not of these last few days, however, but of the ordeal from two months ago.

One minute, you’re sprawled on the dirt ground, lying beside your dead comrades as fire spreads among nearby patches of dry shrubs, convinced this is where it all ends for you.

You lay your head to rest, accepting fate as it comes, and wait for your final moments to pass, except the agony of the shot to your chest is far worse than imaginable—borderline unbearable. In a last-ditch effort, you drag your hand up to your radio.

“Graves?”

“2-3? What is your location, and why isn’t anybody answering?” The commander asks sternly, though you know it’s an act to mask his fear.

“Dead. They’re all dead.”

Static rumbles in your ears before his voice becomes intelligible. “—Repeat your last.”

“Fuck off,” you manage to bark out, aggravating the excruciating pain in your chest. “Not wastin’ m’ last breath on tellin’ what’chu already know.”

You can hear him curse under his breath. “What’s your condition?”

“Couldn’t say, sir.”

“Y/N—”

You interrupt him, “P-Promise me..." The ache in your chest worsens, and you fear it won’t be long ‘til you’re through.

Philip’s voice softens. “What?”

“Don’t trust Sh—”

All at once, your chest tightens, and you clutch onto the source of the pain, accidentally pushing the bullet farther into your skin. Something obstructs your airway, so you roll onto your front, sputtering and hacking up a pool of blood onto the dirt.

Graves is fuming in your ear to procure an understanding of what’s happening, but you kneel there, uncontrollably shaking as you release blood and bile. When you stop, you collapse onto your side, breathing heavily at an erratic rate, until you shut your eyes, enveloped in darkness.

You do not wake while your body is being dragged and hauled away separately from the dead Shadows; instead, you regain consciousness in bed in a medical ward.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you will them to open, barely able to view past a squint in your sluggish state as the bright, fluorescent lighting assaults your eyes.

For a moment, your eyes flutter, opening and shutting in a battle to rest or remain awake, and it’s then that you almost bolt up upon realizing where you are—the incessant beeping of the heart monitor, the fluorescent lighting, the sterile smell lingering in the air, the cords and IV attached to your body—everything cluing you in.

The beeping accelerates with your heart rate increasing, and your eyes shift all around the room as your breath comes out in a short staccato.

No, you’re supposed to be dead—you were left for dead—you heard so yourself when Shephard repeatedly refused to authorize Graves to provide you and the other Shadows assistance.

How is this possible, and why did you survive, out of everyone involved in the mission? What did you do to deserve to live?

Soon enough, someone is at your bedside, stroking your head to coax you out of your panic.

“Shhh, relax. It’s alright,” Philip attempts to assure, using his opposite hand to hold yours as a means to ground you.

You look up at the commander, squeezing his hand to determine whether you’re dreaming or not. Philip squeezes back gently, and you can’t help the hiccup that escapes from your mouth or the tears that well in your eyes.

Why did it have to be you?

What follows is a coughing fit, brought on by sniffling and your breath getting caught in your throat. Phil ceases his stroking, hardly separating from you as he brings a plastic cup to your lips.

“Drink up, soldier. Yeah, that’s it. Nice and steady.”

You empty the cup of water with his help. So many questions fill your head, yet all you can think to ask is, “Why?”

Philip turns to you, confused, as he sets the cup back on the bedside table. He goes to ask what you mean, but when he sees you touching your hospital gown over your injury, he understands and shakes his head mournfully, staring down at the floor.

The next minute, you’re back in the pristine church, with all the attendees repeating, “Amen,” before rising from their seats at the pews. You stiffen as some quickly exit the church, while others linger behind, conversing with one another or engaging in conversation with the Father, and some approach the casket to say their last goodbyes.

It’s over, so you should leave now, right? Although you were the last one to arrive—uninvited, of course—so shouldn’t you be the last one to leave?

So, you remain seated, observing from a distance the grieving friends and family, consoling each other as best they can. Tissues are passed around, hugs are exchanged, and farewells are given.

All the sorrow has you pondering over your own funeral and what it will look like—or what it would’ve looked like if you had already died. Would this many people show up to your funeral, and which of them would truly grieve over your death? If you were to die soon, would there be any Shadows left to attend, or are TF141 and Los Vaqueros currently eradicating them? Would your body be honored or left to rot in some desolate area like the narcos and terrorists you’d been responsible for ‘taking care of’ were?

Maybe you should have died two months ago in Al-Mazrah with the rest of your squad instead of being here and crashing someone’s funeral, but not much can change that now.

As the crowd disperses, you rise from your seat, step out of the pew, and head toward the exit. You hesitate to leave upon reaching the doors; the bowls of holy water are coincidentally placed on either side. You’ve viewed people on their way out, stopping in front of the bowl to dip their hands in and sign the cross on themselves—not that you felt the need to mimic them, but it doesn’t feel right to leave without doing something.

Don’t churches usually have donation boxes?

In the corner, beside the pulpit, you find the votive stand with the donation box—an offering box welded underneath the rows and rows of white votive candles contained in red glasses. Some of the candles have already been lit, thanks to the matchbox provided, illuminating the kind face of the La Virgen de Guadalupe statue with her head slightly tilted, gazing down at those who light candles for her or give money as an offering.

You quickly search the insides of your pockets, only coming up with dollar bills instead of pesos. Regardless, you place your money into the box—surely a member of the congregation could exchange it for the appropriate currency if they were to use it.

Following other examples, you strike a match and light one of the candles before blowing the match’s flame out and discarding it in a nearby box with the other used matches.

You stand there, watching the flames dance and flicker at a steady pace, until you hear a voice from behind you.

“Con permiso…” [Excuse me…]

Stepping aside, you move out of the way for an older woman to light a candle just as you did.

“Disculpe, no sabía que estabas allí,” you apologize. [Sorry, I didn't know you were there]

She waves her hand in the air as a dismissal, though not unkindly, and clasps her hands together in prayer, closing her eyes and mumbling words you can’t quite catch. After reciting the prayer, she pivots to look at you.

“¿Conocía al fallecido?” [Did you know the deceased?]

You drop your gaze back to the candles, shaking your head. “No.”

Still, she grins, cupping her hand on your upper arm and saying, “Que Dios lo acompañe.” [May God be with you.]

You raise your eyebrows, stunned at her comment, nearly forgetting to reply.

“Gracias.” [Thanks.]

She nods and lets go of your arm to leave you be.

When you turn around to exit the church yourself, she isn’t there. Nobody is—not even the Father. You practically scurry out of there—the eerie fact of being alone with only the body lying in the casket accompanying you, unsetting you to your core. 

The fog has worsened in the short time you spent indoors, with your view limited to a few meters in front of or around you. Droplets of rain continue to fall from the sky, and the faint chatter of nearby and distant discussions alleviates the anxiety building up in your chest. There are other people here, and you are not in some abandoned town by your lonesome.

As you draw closer to the gate, you notice the dog that had been there also left from the church’s vicinity. Curiouser and curiouser.

Once you reach the bottom of the steps, you walk in the direction of what you think is the center of the plaza, though you have no way of knowing until you either come across the ofrendas or ultimately find yourself lost and turned around.

The few street lamps in the area guide your (most likely misguided) way, but by the second, the chatting seems to subside.

You consider repositioning yourself to move forth in the opposite direction, except you swear you just heard your name being called.

You stand in place, listening carefully for it to be a mere fluke, and then—

“Y/N,” a voice rang.

You spun around, straining your eyes to hopefully make out a figure in the distance, and yet the fog persists.

The disembodied voice snarls your name again in a hushed tone.

Whoever it is must be nearby, but why have they not presented themselves then?

You gulp, finding your voice following your hesitancy. “Hello?”

No response is given.

Reluctantly, you pad your feet along the wet pavement, roughly making it a few steps until something yanks at the back of your collar, simultaneously choking and tugging you backward. You’re manhandled and thrown into the back of a vehicle—a van, if you had to guess by the sound of the side door being closed. You grunt as your back makes contact with the steel wall, protecting your head from any further harm with your arms.

The rumble of the engine running from the van starting up has you scrambling to sit up, and there in front of you is Shadow 2-1, peering over his shoulder in the driver’s seat, and—no, this isn’t right. Surely your eyes are playing tricks on you.

He can’t be here. How is this possible? Did something go awry in Ghost Team’s objective? Otherwise, he wouldn’t be sitting here, right before you.

“Commander?”

A triumphant smile spreads across his smug face, accentuating the scar on his right cheekbone.

“We have a lot of catchin’ up to do, now don’t we?”

Graves isn’t supposed to be here. It couldn’t have taken you that long to reach Las Almas for the Ghost Team to have either failed or succeeded in their objective already, so how is he here? And better yet, how did he find you?

He tosses a few items that end up falling in your lap, and your heart drops as you examine them: the Shadow Company patch and your face mask you left behind.

This doesn't make any sense. How does he have these—have you been followed this entire time? That can't be possible; you've been with the task force and Los Vaqueros; surely any one of them would've noticed if you were being tailed?

But if a Shadow had managed to track you down, then what did that mean for your allies? Did Ghost Team even make it out of the compound, or were they immediately ambushed as soon as you left?

"How—"

"Did'ya think I'd let you get away so easily? I'm hurt, Y/N. I thought you'd expect more of me."

You subtly inch away from the man as reality sets in.

Alone.

Even surrounded by Shadows and Philip Graves in the flesh, you are utterly alone here—no Soap to help you now, no members of his task force to provide aid, and certainly no Vaqueros to watch over you.

You just hope whatever Graves has planned for you doesn’t involve imminent death this time.

Masterlist

Taglist; @cumbermovels @tobbotobbs @cptg00s3 @copiasratscheese @maskedmenenjoyer @marsontherocks @cerberusking @kanaminamine @kaoyamamegami @mikahrh @ghostsgh0st @luc4luc4 @spiritzofthedead @nikaloosgarden @senmiyaazx @logicalhorror

a/n: this is it!! i hope everyone enjoyed this while it lasted, i certainly did. kept the ending vague and sorta open ended on purpose :) does it count as a cliff hanger? idk if i ever considered it that but i planned to have it end like this pretty early on into writing this series.

to be fair, i still haven’t delved into mw3 gameplay, so it might strike some inspiration in me, but for the time being, i don’t have plans to continue this series or write a sequel

ALSO, don’t know if it was clear or not since it was written so early on in the series, but some of the dialogue from the flashback is the same as Not Alone p2 when reader is panicking/having a coughing fit, so that flashback has been planned for a LONG time now

can't fathom how much I love this series

Prison Break

Ghost Team & (Ex-Shadow) Male Reader

Word Count: 6,550

Summary: Reader aids in the prison break, but his presence isn't necessarily appreciated by all

Part I / II / III / IV / V / VI

PRISON BREAK LAS ALMAS, MEXICO 03, NOV 2022, 0400

Possibly hours pass by of you staring out the back seat window, watching the stark, black sky lighten into a dusty blue—nearly identical to yesterday morning.

Conversation is minimal, besides Soap—John narrating to Rudy what happened prior to getting to the safe house and only slightly boasting on his lieutenant’s behalf; how neither you nor he would have made it without Ghost’s help; or his unique input on cultivating distractions and making molotov cocktails and trip-mines from whatever Soap had access to.

His story-telling is mesmerizing, with his profound and boisterous way of speaking, to the point where you find yourself hanging onto every word that leaves his lips, even though you had been there right by his side and lived through most of what he’d recited.

Ghost slams down on the brakes, and you jostle in your seat, holding your arm out to grab the back of the passenger seat to lessen the impact.

If this was how he drove the day before, you’re glad you passed out when you did.

“We’re here,” Ghost announces, and he takes the keys out of the ignition to toss to Rudy.

Everyone else—you included—unbuckles the seat belt and hops out of the car as quickly as possible. There’s a sense that maybe Ghost wasn’t the best choice when it came to driving.

Rudy climbs up into the back of the vehicle, stating, “Graves’ll have this place locked down.”

He hands Ghost a small pack, and the lieutenant responds with, “Expect patrols on the outside.”

“No doubt,” Soap says, accepting the much larger bag Rudy gives him and slipping his arms through the straps.

“We geared up?” Ghost asks.

Rudy glides off the back, gun in hand and his own bag strapped to his back.

“Guns, ammo, and charges in the pack,” Soap lists.

Rudy turns back around to grab something. “I’ve got the plummet gun. Ascenders?”

“Check,” you and Ghost reply in unison. 

Soap nods. “Check. Let’s hope Alejandro’s alive.”

“Count on it,” Rudy asserts with vigor.

“On me," Ghost says.

Next to you, Soap cocks his gun, following behind Rudy, who’s behind Ghost, and directing the lieutenant as they march past a raggedy shack, bolted with wood boards and sheets of metal.

“Go left,” Rudy instructs him.

“Trail,” Ghost identifies.

The rocky terrain, dirt, and cacti surround you as you make haste onto the trail into the mountains.

“Rudy, how long’ve ya known Alejandro?” Soap asks out of the blue.

Rudy’s answer is immediate. “20 years. Signed up together. Toughest dude in the regiment.”

Twenty years?

Shit, that’s much longer than anyone you personally knew in Shadow Company.

As the four of you curve around a rock formation, a mild fog mists up from the knees and below.

“I wouldn’t wanna mess with ‘im,” Soap remarks.

“We used to say, “El unico que puedo matar a Alejandro es Alejandro.”

“No kidding?” you blurt out.

“What’s it mean,” Ghost asks.

“The only thing that can kill Alejandro, is Alejandro…” Rudy translates for them while moving past Ghost to take the lead.

“So glad he’s on our side,” Soap admits.

Rudy jumps down off the short hillside. “A heuvo.”

You let out a short sigh, preparing to take the jump as well. The height isn’t as considerable as the ones in town, but that doesn't mean you aren't less than pleased to have to do it at all.

A small cloud of dust dissipates when your boots meet the dirt ground below, and the other men are standing by since you went last. You bounce on your heels, ignoring the faint pang of pain in your ankles. At this rate, you'll have to be carried out to efxil once the mission's complete.

Here's to hoping you can make it out unscathed.

From this position, the prison is in view, with the yellowish tint of their searchlights shining brightly.

“Hold up. Eyes on the prison. Patrols on the outside,” Ghost assesses.

Rudy retorts in kind with, “We’ll have to take them out first.”

“Two snipers, first tower,” the lieutenant observes. "Soap—you take one, I’ll get the other.”

Everyone takes cover behind rocky piles that have eroded from the mountain.

Soap looks through the scope of his firearm, diligently following instructions, and shoots one of the patrols while Ghost takes the counterpart.

“Shadows down,” Soap confirms.

You and Rudy watch through your own scopes as a precaution.

“Good shots, hermanos,” [brothers] Rudy praises.

“I’ll flank around and clear the field,” Ghost says, and Rudy shuffles to the cliffside as if he knew what Ghost would say next. “Rudy, give us a hand. Hold fire, Soap.”

Us? That could only mean one thing.

Rudy boosts Ghost up to the top of the cliff, and you get into the same position, muttering a soft "Sorry" in exchange as soon as he presses his gloved hands against the soles of your shoes.

You follow the lieutenant before he stops in his tracks.

“Got a heli incoming. Looks like a supply drop.”

“Copy,” Rudy says. “Eyes on six shadows.”

You and he wait for it to pass, then continue to crawl in the tall, spindly blades of grass.

“Affirm…Three at the vehicle, two behind the rocks, one solo on the right,” Ghost lists off.

Soap made his own way down the patchy field, watching the two figures in the scope crawl toward the vehicle and their targets.

“Take the two at the vehicle first, the others won’t see,” Rudy advises.

“Good call. Y/N–on my mark, drop the one in the cap,” Ghost instructs.

“Set,” you respond, attempting to push any personal feelings aside.

You’ve already killed a shadow, and it certainly won’t be the last time you do.

Besides, you offered to help them. There’s no backing out now.

“Check-3, 2, 1,..."

The shadows are swiftly executed.

“Solid. Two down. On the move,” Ghost verbalizes.

He signals to you with his hands to move up to the back of the vehicle while going in the opposite direction, stationing himself at the front of the car, just behind his target.

“Soap, Y/N, take the two, right of the vehicle, I’ll hit the one on the other side.”

“I got it,” Soap insists, lining up his shot perfectly and killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.

You blink, and both shadow’s bodies are on the ground, with matching bullet holes through their heads. Less work for you, then.

Peering to the other side of the car, Ghost drives his knife through the neck of a shadow, immobilizing and pinning him to the ground.

“Clear,” Rudy claims.

“All clear,” Ghost parrots. “Push up to the base of the tower, that’s our entry point. Stay quiet…”

All of you gather together to approach the tall, looming walls and size up the tower in a convenient gap of darkness between the searchlights.

“Let’s get up there,” Ghost says.

Rudy kneels down, taking out the plummet gun to aim and shoot for the tower railing. It attaches wonderfully, and on the first try, no less.

“Good hook,” Ghost commends, lightly tugging on the rope.

“Take point, Lieutenant,” Rudy encourages.

He clips on the ascender, beginning his ascent.

“Soap, cover him,” Rudy obliges him before the sergeant follows after Ghost. “Check, fire up top—keep us quiet.”

“Aye.”

You and Rudy watch him get up and into the tower in a matter of seconds. You tilt your head at Rudy, expecting him to go next, except he shakes his head.

“All you, Y/N.”

“Alright.”

Your ascender latches on, and you climb into the tower in no time, verbalizing, “Up.”

“Copy. Behind you,” Rudy acknowledges.

There’s already a dead body off to the right, undoubtedly Ghost’s work, with blood splattered on the windows of the watch room.

“Let’s get to the security room. Stay close,” Ghost urges.

“Look for a hatch with a ladder,” Rudy tells him.

You trail behind the other two, walking around the platform into the watch room.

“Got it,” Ghost replies.

He pulls the hatch open, beginning his descent down the ladder.

“On me, Soap. Down and in.”

“Aye. Comin’ down.”

Soap practically glides down the metal, not having to worry about friction burns with the gloves protecting his palms.

You soon join him at the bottom of the ladder, and Rudy’s voice hums in your earpiece.

“Above you…”

Ghost carries on. “All in. Let’s move.”

Now outside of the tower, Rudy informs that the “Security building is straight ahead. CCTVs inside.”

“Move fast and stay low,” Ghost prompts.

The four of you make a run for the building, stopping outside the door.

Rudy glances through the barred window to get a visual on the inside.

“Two inside. Let’s take them out before they call their amigos.” [friends.]

He moves next to the door on the left, with Ghost behind him, and you mimic their stance with Soap in front of you on the opposite side.

“Let’s get you in there,” Ghost says.

“On you, Soap,” Rudy spurs.

Soap barely taps the door, letting it fall open on its own as he enters the room, promptly shooting both shadows.

“We’re clear,” Rudy verifies. “We’ll use the closed circuit to locate my men.” He peers down at one of the computer screens showing off the security cams.

“And find Alejandro,” Soap adds.

“We’ll need diversions when we move. Y/N and I’ll plant charges on the outside. Soap, your eyes will guide us,” Ghost discusses.

“Aye.”

“Get on those cameras,” the lieutenant directs.

“On it.”

He seats himself at one of the desks in front of a computer.

“Same,” Rudy says, sitting at the other desk.

Ghost steps further into the room to nudge Soap on the shoulder, similar to how Soap had before their first (unsuccessful) mission to capture Hassan.

“We’re out. Watch out for us.”

John nods. “Rog. Good luck, Lt., Y/N.”

“You too,” you express, though it’s mostly directed toward Rodolfo.

Rudy gives a thankful wave, and you and Ghost are off.

The next 15 minutes or so are spent lurking just out of sight of Shadows as you and Ghost plant charges to the underside of numerous vehicles, all the while Soap’s voice buzzes in your ear to navigate you both, which by the minute seemed more like him and Ghost flirting nonstop.

You did your best to focus on the task at hand, refusing to intrude on their…moment, though you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t entertaining.

To hear Soap say “Nighty-Night fuck head" or “Trash bin on your right. Time to take out the trash,” to his superior, of all people. Or when he compliments Ghost for his handiwork in dealing with shadows by saying “Lookin’ good, Lt." and “Classic Ghost,” or even proclaiming “Fuckin’ beautiful, sir!” after dumping another Shadow.

At first, the lieutenant did not want to even entertain Soap’s chattering, but there’s a certain charisma John possesses that is thoroughly irresistible, and it certainly wore Ghost down enough to have their back-and-forth ‘banter.’

Once all four charges have been set, Ghost speaks, “We’re all set here. Have we located Alejandro?”

“Perfect timing, I found him,” Rudy declares.

“Where?” Soap asks.

“Stand by.”

In the security room, Soap finally takes his eyes off his own computer screen to look at Rudy’s. And there he is, in the bottom left corner of the screen.

“Blood fuckin’ hell, that’s him,” Soap mumbles.

“He’s in solitary. Two on the door.” Rudy points to the upper right corner, where two Shadows are stationed outside Alejandro’s cell.

“I see ‘em. Ghost, we got him. He’s alone. Two Shadows on guard."

“Not for long,” Ghost rasps. “RV outside the cellblock, we’ll pry him loose.”

“Roger that, on the move,” Soap responds.

Both men separate from their screens.

A job well done, but not quite finished.

“Good work,” Soap tells Rudy.

[Same, friend.] “Igual, amigo.” He slips his bag of weapons back onto his back. “Alejandro would’ve come for us.”

John cups his hands with Rudy to shake hands with him and says, “Eso qúe ni qúe.” [Definitely]

“Vamos por unos Vaqueros, cabrón.” [Let's get some cowboys, bastard.]

They exit the security room together, and as soon as they step outside, the obnoxious droning of a nearby helicopter grows louder the further they go.

“Ghost, Y/N, what’s your status?” Soap checks in.

Ghost answers for both of you. “Comin’ your way.”

“Copy. We’re on the move,” he lets him know.

“Heads up on the helo,” Rudy mentions.

“Looks like we’re outta his line of sight,” you comment.

You and Ghost come into view of Rudy and Soap on the other side of the walkway. They join you and him in taking cover behind brick walls on the opposite side, overlooking the relatively empty area fenced in with more brick walls.

“Cellblock. Entry’s ahead. Shadows blocking the way,” Rudy audibly perceives.

“Let’s send ‘em to hell and get inside,” Soap grunts.

Everyone moves up, ducking behind cement barriers to avoid being spotted.

Soap takes the honor of throwing a molotov cocktail at the two shadows the furthest away, flames immediately spreading upon impact and their petrified screams ringing out.

Rudy and Ghost shoot the remaining shadows while you try to ignore the immense suffering of the shadows lit on fire.

“All clear,” Rudy reports.

You make your way to the double doors, finding yourself in the same position as earlier before entering the security room.

Soap tugs on the door handle, except it doesn’t budge. “It’s locked.”

“We’ll need to breach it,” is Rudy’s immediate thought.

“No, Rudy–Knock,” Ghost suggests.

Boy, does he like the sound of that. 

Rudy switches his weapon for a lighter one, inching closer to the door. “On me.”

With two swift knocks to it, the door unlocks, and Rudy yanks the Shadow that answered the door by the scruff of his neck, pulling him outside for Ghost to fire a bullet into his head.

He and Ghost storm inside, shooting the other shadows near the doors, and you and Soap follow after them further into the prison.

Instantly, the four of you are being shot at from many directions.

“Enemies on the second deck—” Rudy alerts.

Soap shoots one of the Shadows on the deck while Rudy takes care of the other.

“More comin’ down the stairs–!” Ghost draws attention to; his voice is hardly distinguishable among the storm of gunfire.

“Soap, we’ll keep ‘em busy up top, press forward!” Rudy shouts.

Soap listens to the order, taking cover behind a pillar as the rest of you stay back to deal with the Shadows in sight and reach.

With the three of you working together, it doesn’t take long to get the enemy fire under control, and Soap is also quick at killing his targets.

“Coming up behind you, sergeant,” Ghost notifies him as Soap shoots the remaining Shadow peering past the staircase.

“Alejandro’s up here, let’s go,” Rudy enthuses.

Soap reloads his weapon, climbing up the stairs in haste, with you and the others following closely behind.

“Alejandro’s down the hall, right side,” Rudy tells him.

“Expect contact…light ‘em up–!’ Ghost implores.

Now at the intermediate landing, Soap chucks a smoke bomb into the room next to the staircase to the second floor, leaving the two shadows guarding Alejandro’s cell dazed and coughing.

[Die (you) fucking Shadows!] “¡Mueran pinches Sombras!” Rudy hollers.

Soap promptly shoots one of them, then bolts into the room to close in on the other, wretching the gun out of the Shadow’s hand and knocking him down by pushing his foot against his stomach before stabbing him in the neck.

“There’s Alejandro’s cell...Open it up, I’ll cover for you,” Rudy offers, staying posted by the stairwell while Soap walks up to the cell.

Ghost pulls out his trusty bolt cutters, getting into position. “Johnny, when I pop this lock, push in.” The lock snaps off, clattering on the ground. “This is what we came for.”

Soap enters the cell, softly calling out, “Alejandro–” until a hand grabs him from behind, tugging at his vest for purchase to slam him against the wall by the man himself, Alejandro.

John huffs from the force, and Alejandro groans from the effort. His arm is reeled back, with his fist closed tightly, preparing to punch Soap.

In a panic, Soap cries out, “Al–It’s me, hermano!” [brother]

Rudy rushes inside, more concerned than ever for his friend/colonel. He puts one hand over Alejandro’s wrist and gently places the other on his chest.

“Coronel, relajate, cabrón, somos nosotros.” [Colonel, relax, bastard, it's us.]

Alejandro relaxes upon seeing—and hearing—his second in command.

“Soap—Rudy!” He peers past the aforementioned man. “Ghost!”

A relieved grin replaces Soap’s momentary fear of getting his shit rocked.

“Didn’t think we’d leave you, did you?”

They lock hands into a firm grip as Alejandro sports his own grin.

“What the fuck took you so long, pendejos?” [idiots] Alejandro asks without a hint of malice.

Rudy hands the colonel a firearm in response.

“Place is crawling with Shadows,” Ghost announces, still standing at the doorway of the cell. “There’ll be hell ahead.”

“Let’s fight fire with fire,” Alejandro states.

Rudy comfortably holds his gun again. “There’s more Vaqueros in the cells upstairs.”

“Time to get ‘em out,” Soap says.

Alejandro jerks his head. [OK] “Órale, on you, Rodolfo.”

You overhear their conversation from outside the cell, staying put at the stairwell in case anyone should happen by.

It doesn’t take a genius to see or hear how much Rudy and Alejandro mean to each other, considering how long they’ve known one another—not limited to just their military service but also in their personal lives.

There’s an ache in your heart as you wonder if you'll ever have that sort of relationship with someone ever again.

You wouldn’t get your hopes up, seeing as you no longer work for the Shadows—or anybody, for a matter of fact. You’re merely working alongside 141 and Los Vaqueros, not for them.

The dull thud of their approaching footsteps causes you to straighten up, your shoulders tensing just enough for the bullet wound to sting.

“There’s somethin’ else ye should know, Alejandro.”

Soap lowers his voice substantially, though by then it’s too late. You make eye contact with the Colonel, and he swiftly draws his gun at you.

You stash your gun out of sight, putting your arms up by your head to appear as non-threatening as possible.

“Wait–!” Rudy opposes, putting his hand on Alejandro’s to get him to lower the gun.

Alejandro’s eyes rapidly shift to Rudy’s, then Soap’s, then Ghost’s, and back to Rudy. Why do they look so indifferent? There’s a Shadow right here!

“Listen–” Soap begins, but Alejandro interjects.

[What is there to listen to?] “Listen?! ¿Qué hay para escuchar? I’m not letting a single shadow live if it’s the last thing I do."

[Colonel...] “Coronel…” Rudy mumbles, moving in front of him to shield you from getting shot.

Soap holds Alejandro by the shoulders. “Please, hermano. He’s on our side, I promise.”

You don’t utter a word, figuring you have a better chance at survival if you keep your mouth shut.

His chest visibly rises with every intense draw of breath, wanting to understand where everyone is coming from while also having his fury fueled by the second the longer he stares at you.

“It’s alright, Alejandro,” Ghost assures.

Alejandro scoffs, shaking his head and finally lowering the gun. “Are you serious? Nothing about this is alright! First Valeria, and now this...Did you learn nothing?!”

He shuts his eyes, inhaling and exhaling sharply.

“Fine, fine. We’ll do it your way.”

He shrugs off Soap’s hands from his shoulders, shoving past Rudy to get to you.

They all stand aside, watching and waiting in anticipation for what comes next.

Alejandro sizes you up, clad in your gear and uniform, and indistinguishable from any other Shadow.

“Why didn’t you introduce yourself earlier?”

“Didn’t wanna interrupt your happy reunion,” you calmly explain.

His grip on his firearm tightens.

The nerve you have on you.

“Then go.”

“Y/N. Formerly part of Shadow Company.”

He hums, staring blankly. “Well, don’t blame me if I confuse you for one of those monstros.”

A not-so-thinly veiled threat. How kind.

[Do what you have to, Colonel.]

“Haz lo que tienes que hacer, Coronel,” you establish.

He doesn’t react, simply looking back at the others and asking, “Well, what are we waiting for?”

You stick close to Ghost, ensuring you stay in Alejandro’s line of sight as much as possible as you move up to the second floor. There’s no way you’re going to let him mistake you for any mere Shadow—not after all you’ve sacrificed to get to this point.

With Soap at the end of the line with Alejandro, he asks him, “You’ve seen Graves?”

“No,” Alejandro sighs, “but I plan to pay that cabrón a special visit.”

Soap hums. “Me too.”

“They have guards on all the floors, be ready,” Alejandro warns.

Now in the hall of the second floor, Soap picks up a flashbomb from an unlocked and unattended crate. He takes the lead, peering over the corner, only to be shot at.

Thankfully, they miss, yet it looks like there are always Shadows to be dealt with.

“Riot shields!” Alejandro articulates.

“Soap, throw whatever you got at them!” Ghost authorizes.

He chucks the flash bomb.

[Sons of bitches—] “¡Hijos de puta—kill everything that moves!” Alejandro howls.

The two shadows keel over, turning to the side without using their riot shields for cover. Soap quickly shoots them, and they’re no longer an obstacle.

“Think we’re clear,” he says.

You join the men in stalking down the hall while avoiding the fresh corpses.

“Los Vaqueros are locked in these cells,” Alejandro indicates once the smoke diminishes.

Rudy sets down his bag of weapons on the ground between two cells, enthusiastically purporting, “Aquí estamos, Vaqueros, hora de ir a casa.” [Here we are, cowboys, time to go home.]

[We're here, my brothers, we'll get you out]

“Estamos aquí, hermanos, to sacaremos,” Alejandro guarantees.

“We breachin’ the doors?” Ghost wonders aloud.

“Doors are powered. Controls are in the command post across the hall,” Alejandro briefs him.

Soap goes into the control room, and you follow after him since it’s only natural that you feel more comfortable in that position.

Instinctually, you search the room for supplies and barely turn up with a small crate of ammo on the desk beside the controls.

Without much thought, Soap switches the dials, which are lit red, until they turn green, hovering his hand over the big red button at the bottom of the control panel.

“Doin’ it.”

A loud buzzer rings momentarily as the cell doors unlock.

[Alright! My brothers unto death] “¡Órale! Mis hermanos hasta la muerte,” Alejandro exclaims before explaining to his men, “El Sargento Parra tiene armas, tomen una y esperen aqui.” [Sergeant Parra has guns, take one and hold here.]

[Commander, you're alive!] “¡Comandante, estás vivo!" One of them cries out.

“Rest of you, with me,” Alejandro declares.

A Vaquero behind you gleefully laughs. “El unico que puede matar a Alejandro, es Alejandro.” [The only one who can kill Alejandro, is Alejandro.]

You move to follow him and the others, except Alejandro puts his hand out in front of your chest, stopping you in your tracks.

“Not you,” he growls.

Clenching your jaw, you try to push aside your own growing frustration.

You know he has every right to be wary of you or downright resent you. You know this, but fuck, is it starting to get to you that so far, anyone you’ve come across has greeted you with a violent or loathsome reaction.

Who else will you have to prove yourself to, and what will it take for everyone to realize that you’re not their enemy?

“Really? So you’d rather I stay with your Vaqueros, unsupervised?” you inquire, knowing he’d refuse when you put it that way.

If he didn’t already look like he was one second away from punching the daylights out of you—well, let’s just say if looks could kill, you’d be long dead.

Rudy grips Alejandro’s upper arm, subtly trying to keep him in check.

You stare back at Alejandro, unwilling to let him intimidate you—though that gun in his hand is not very reassuring—as he looks at you with pure disgust, his lip curled in disdain and eyebrows furrowed tightly together.

He clicks his tongue, huffing to himself. “Pinche mierda—vamos, entonces.” [Fucking shit—come on, then.]

At the end of the hall, the barriers preventing people from falling from the second floor to the first are crumbling, with enough leeway to jump down from them.

“This used to be the mess hall,” Alejandro remarks off-handedly, peering below.

Soap chuckles. “Let’s make a mess.”

“Órale.”

One by one, those who were appointed to join Alejandro jumped from the ledge into the mess hall.

Great. Just your luck.

Your knees nearly buckle underneath you as a shooting, almost paralyzing sting spreads further up than just your ankle once your feet touch the ground on the level below. You take a moment to stabilize yourself, breathing in deeply and heavily as a means to mask the pain.

There are no other options but for you to continue on in this state. It won't be easy, and it certainly won't be painless, but one way or another, you are getting out of this prison.

The once-dark room is suddenly illuminated, with the bright lights in each corner flickering on.

“Shadows know we’re here, stay sharp,” Rudy cautions.

As he says that, bullets fire out, and everyone takes cover behind cafeteria tables or oil drums scattered about.

“Movement–open fire!” Alejandro calls out.

“Check high!” Rudy advises.

Everyone, including you, does their part in combating enemy fire, yet there are far more Shadows than anybody was expecting.

“Watch the catwalk,” Ghost barks.

Soap takes care of the Shadows hiding in the serving line by throwing a molotov, and you heed Ghost’s warning, shooting anything moving along the catwalk.

For a solid minute, all you hear are gunshots after gunshots, and then all is silent.

“Big room! Make sure we’re clear,” Alejandro insists.

[Clear, Colonel] “Despejado, Coronel,” Rudy verifies.

“No threats,” Ghost vouches.

“Re-group on the door,” Alejandro instructs.

You, along with the others, scurry to the closed metal doors on the other side of the mess.

“It’s padlocked,” Alejandro murmurs.

“I got it,” Ghost replies confidently, pulling out ol’ reliable: bolt cutters.

A quick snip and the lock is broken off.

Alejandro chuckles. “El Fantasma, siempre preparado.” [The Ghost, always prepared.]

“On you, Colonel,” Ghost states.

Alejandro gladly kicks the doors, busting them open completely, and takes the lead.

“Weapons hot, hermanos. Stairwell leads down and out.” A line is formed behind the Colonel to march down the stairs. “We’ll link up with the others and get the fuck out of here.”

“Exfil vehicles are set. Ghost and Y/N planted charges to help us get out,” Rudy informs him.

“With Johnny’s help,” Ghost adds.

Alejandro complains that he can’t call Soap ‘Johnny’ and Soap tells him not to as you reach the bottom of the stairs with them and find the room leading outside.

Now outside of the actual prison, but still within its bordering walls, Rudy says, “We’ll have to cross the yard to get everyone out.”

“Lead the way, Soap—let's give these [Shadows] Sombras hell,” Alejandro all but encourages.

As expected, it results in another gunfight. Everything moves so quickly, with everyone focused on counteracting enemy fire, until the engine of a vehicle rumbles loudly as it charges in.

“Johnny—that truck’s got one of our charges on it. Detonate it,” Ghost commands.

Soap takes out the remote detonator, says, “Here it comes..." and presses the button. The charge goes off, and the truck momentarily disappears in a cloud of fire and charcoal-gray smoke.

“Ka-freaking-boom, baby.”

John couldn’t sound more proud of himself if he tried.

Heading in the direction where the truck came from, more bullets whizz by. You recognize the vehicle with the terret gun actively keeping you and the others from escaping as one you planted with a charge. You enlighten Soap, and just as easily as before, with a click of a button, the vehicle goes up in a cloud of smoke.

Perhaps more impressed this time around, Alejandro cries, “¡Órale, que belleza!” [how beautiful!]

After clearing the area, you cut through a building onto the other side of the yard, where you’re greeted with even more Shadows, though this time they came prepared with riot shields.

In turn, you either have the choice to rely on grenades to break through or close in on the Shadows—getting up close and personal as you take their life, seeing the look of recognition spark, before watching the life drain out of their eyes—so, it’s fair to say the choice was easy.

“They’re down,” Rudy announces once the Shadows have been eliminated.

“More will be posted near the cell block entry, stay alert,” Alejandro advises.

Since you’re no longer being shot at, for the time being, at least, you move across the courtyard with ease, and as Alejandro warned, there are still Shadows eagerly waiting to fire at you and the others.

“Alejandro was right—”

Ghost is interrupted by Rudy.

“We need to finish them off, or they’ll give chase.”

“Good call, Rudy!” Alejandro agrees.

Even after all those hours of sleep you caught up on, the onslaught of Shadows is really starting to wear you down.

It’s hard to imagine there was a time when you stood alongside them, admiring their tenacity and unyielding efforts.

Now, it’s just pissing you off.

Once the Shadows are taken care of, you feel the end is just out of reach, except things aren’t over quite yet.

“Push through, there’s a field we can use to flank up,” Rudy attests.

“We need to get up and over that wall,” Ghost reminds him.

Following Soap’s lead further up, a familiar sound garners everyone’s attention.

“Ye hear tha’?” Soap rasps out.

Your eyes gravitate towards the early morning sky to confirm that it is, in fact, a—

“Helicopter—searching for us!” Alejandro distinguishes.

The smart and immediate response is to take cover behind cement barriers, but John has to practically wrestle you to get you to move.

Bullets fly in the air, raining down at rapid rates and reminding you of the Las Almas streets, drenched in water and blood.

“We’ll need more than this to get out!” Ghost bellows.

Regardless, he also shoots at the heli in hopes of slowing it down, at the very least.

Then, like an angel being sent from above to answer their prayers, a new voice rings out.

“All stations, this is Bravo-6—get down!” 

You watch as something is shot through the air—much larger than a mere bullet—hitting the tail of the heli, causing it to catch fire and spin out of control.

The captain of Task Force 141 himself has come to their aid—our aid, you mentally correct yourself.

“It’s Price!” Ghost about cheers at that very moment.

John, on the other hand, has no shame in cheering. “Hell fuckin’ yeah!”

“All Bravo and Vaqueros, top o’ the wall. Get here and I’ll get you out. How copy?” Price asks.

“Loud and clear, Price. Comin’ to ya..!” Ghost responds.

To re-quote Soap, hell fucking yeah, they are.

You make haste, nearly tumbling over your own feet to keep pace with Soap and Ghost, who are steadfast in making their way to the wall.

A green flare shoots down from the wall, signaling Price’s location.

“Who is he?!” Rudy questions, confused and only slightly panicked.

“A friend,” Soap tells him.

“I like him already,” Alejandro remarks. “¡Vaqueros, vayan al muro, entre las torres, ya!” [Cowboys, get to the wall between the two towers, now!]

“Be advised, ropes deployed. Find ‘em and climb,” Price states.

“Roger that,” Ghost says.

Panting from excitement—or the short run, either way—Soap attaches his ascender, with Ghost doing the same on the rope next to him.

“We’re clear for now, but Shadows are on the way, count on it,” he reminds Soap.

They reach the top of the wall, with Price offering his hand to Soap and Gaz doing so to Ghost.

 “Sergeant MacTavish…” Price greets.

“Good ta see you, Captain,” Soap replies in kind.

Gaz and Ghost greet each other rather simply.

"Ghost.”

“Garrick…Price.”

Soap shares a glance with the lieutenant, wondering how to break the news.

“There’s someone you should meet,” Ghost mutters rather cryptically.

Price arches his brow while Gaz's head tilts to the side, intrigued with curiosity.

“Yer no’ gonna like it, but—just give ‘im a chance,” Soap adds, in hopes of diminishing their initial reaction, which he could only assume would be hostility.

Price huffs, unamused by their lack of transparency. “So, who is it?”

Hearing someone come up behind him on the rope, Soap turns around to help you get up onto the top of the wall.

You stand before their captain, dressed as any other Shadow is.

Now’s the time to make a good impression, if ever.

You hold your hand out for him to shake, introducing yourself.

“Y/N. No longer of Shadow Company. You must be the captain, yes?”

Price doesn’t hesitate to shake your hand, keeping a firm grip that could be interpreted as a threat with how harshly he presses his thumb against the back of your hand.

“That’s right. No last name?”

You fight the urge to rip your hand out of his; instead, you loosen your grip.

“No.”

That garners his attention; however, he doesn’t push on the issue.

Before Price can continue his line of questioning, Soap butts in.

“How’d you know..?”

“Laswell,” Gaz answers first, and Price elaborates. “Soon as Shephard went dark, she called us.”

“Laswell, still solid as a rock,” Ghost is relieved to say.

At the sound of the rope, Soap turns back around to give Alejandro a hand.

“Colonel Vargas, meet Captain Price and Sergeant Garrick.”

He speaks quickly and with urgency. “Thanks for the assist—my men need cover fire.”

Price nods. “Y/N, Gaz, Soap, Ghost-overwatch-now!”

It seems like the fight never stops.

Regardless, you obey the captain’s orders, getting into position alongside the other men and kneeling in front of the wall’s ledge, firing back at the Shadows persisting in their ways.

“Vehicles incoming, right side,” Price spots.

“Soap—that one’s rigged, detonate it,” you give the go-ahead.

“My pleasure,” Soap coos all too happily as he clicks the remote button.

“Vehicle destroyed! Rudy, send your men up that rope!” Ghost coaxes him.

“Copy. ¡Suban, Vaqueros, ahora es su oportunidad!” [Climb up, cowboys, now's your chance!]

Price grunts, “Shadows in the right tower, watch your backs!”

With you and Soap being the closest to the tower, the two of you shoot at the doorway, lest any Shadows get the jump on you from up here.

Slowly, and ever so carefully, you approach the tower with Soap walking ahead of you. In the middle of the room lay a single shadow, dead.

Surely they’d send more than one, wouldn’t they? If their intention was to take everyone here out, then why only one?

They can’t be that low on numbers unless they really thought just one Shadow could finish the job.

As if to confirm the bluff, John begins to get shot at from right beside you.

“Shit–” you curse, turning to the corner next to the door, where neither of you had checked.

You shoot the Shadow, ripping the gun out of their hands and bashing them across the face with it. A sickening crack resounds, most likely from their nose.

“You hit?” you ask John as soon as you face him.

He shakes his head, focused on the rack of weapons in front of him. “Steamin’ Jesus, look a’ this…” Soap picks out one in particular, almost gloating, “Got a grenade launcher!”

You leave the tower with him, a clear pep in his step with his new toy in hand.

“More vehicles incoming from the front!” Rudy discerns.

When an opportunity presents itself like that, how could Soap resist?

He launches grenades at the vehicles, while you and the others continue to gun down Shadows and their vehicles.

“Suppressive fire, friendlies comin’ up the ropes! Once they’re up, we’re pulling out!” Gaz explains.

Everyone proceeds as usual, though not without exercising caution.

[Move, move, quickly—while the coast is clear!] “¡Vamos! Levanten, raipdo—mientras la costa está despejada!” Alejandro shouts.

Once the rest of the Vaqueros have made it onto the wall, Rudy tells him, “We’re good to go, Coronel.”

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, hermanos.”

You couldn’t agree more.

“Down the wall—We are leaving!” Price yells, more than ready to leave soon after showing up.

Still receiving enemy fire, you glide along the metal flooring, dodging bullets as you head for the rope. You climb down faster than you’ve ever done before and soon hit the ground on the other side and outside of the prison.

Alejandro joins you and the others down the rope, leaving Soap and Captain Price as the only ones left up there.

“Sergeant, get on those ropes. We’re going,” Ghost demands.

John virtually slides down the rope with ease, and the captain is last to arrive.

Price points to two different vehicles, citing, “Those two are ours,” before moving toward them with his team in tow.

“Check,” Alejando acknowledges.

“Rodolfo—you take the truck we came with,” Soap proposes.

“Roger that.”

[Cowboys, on me! Rudy, meet us at the house] “¡Vaqueros, siga me! Rudy, los vamos a la rancho,” Alejandro dictates.

“Asi, sera, Coronel, bueno suerte.” [Will do, Colonel. Good luck.]

“Captain, follow me,” Alejandro implores him, swaying his head at Price to get the point across.

“Copy. Gaz, drive!”

Price tosses the keys, and the sergeant catches them with ease.

“On it—Ghost, Soap, this is us!” Gaz hollers as he runs to the driver’s seat of the vehicle in front of them.

Price opens both back doors. “Load in.”

You sneak a glimpse at John, wondering if you were purposefully being left out, and this would be where you part ways.

As if sensing your apprehension, Price finally addresses you.

“You’re coming with us.”

There’s no sense in arguing with that, and you climb into the vehicle with them.

Ghost seats himself on the left side, with Soap sitting across from him, so you take the spot next to him. Price shuts the doors behind him and moves to the very front of the back of the van.

“Hit it, Gaz.”

No sooner does the vehicle begin to move, with Gaz following Alejandro as instructed.

“Shephard burned us” is the first thing Ghost brings up.

Soap further explains, “He sent Graves and his Shadows to kill us and round up Los Vaqueros,” scrunching his nose in disgust with every word.

“We know why,” Price says.

“Laswell did a bit of digging,” Gaz tells them.

“What did she find?” Ghost asks.

“The truth…” Price trails off, unabashedly eyeing you warily.

You gulp, wondering what Laswell uncovered and how long it would take to reach the destination Alejandro seems so keen on.

Masterlist

Taglist; @cumbermovels @tobbotobbs @cptg00s3 @copiasratscheese @maskedmenenjoyer @marsontherocks @cerberusking @kanaminamine @kaoyamamegami @mikahrh @ghostsgh0st @luc4luc4 @spiritzofthedead @nikaloosgarden

a/n: the taglist has grown sm since the previous part 👁️👁️ as always, all you have to do is ask and you too can be part of the list

i wasn't sure how many parts were going to be in this series even before i started writing it, but i can confidently say that the next part will be the last one/the finale. after that, i don't have anymore fics planned for the rest of that year, but ofc that's always subject to change

also wanted to repeat all my thanks to everyone who's sent lovely asks, comments, and whatnot in reblogs. idk what it was but i feel like the previous part in particular received a lot of attention fairly quickly, so it was very nice to read and respond to what you guys had to say :) i hope this one was just as enjoyable as the others, stay tuned for more!