Chapter Text
The man-thing snarls as it paces in its cage.
Eyes bright in the darkness. There are voices around it but they mean nothing. Everything is scrambled, twisted, turning and churning around in spirals so bright it is no longer sure of the way out. Incomprehensible strings of sounds leave its lips and equally garbled phrases are returned to it.
Finally it hears a recognizable phrase.
Four.
Name. Its name, or as good as any it gets here.
The confusion snaps away in a second, leaving it reeling, dizzy. The spirals stay and it falls to the floor, leans against the wall, clings to the bars. It wasn’t supposed to fall. It wasn’t supposed to fall.
A crack noise and it snaps upright, limbs perfectly straight, standing tall, model soldier ready for playing war. Overgrown hair flops into its eyes but it can’t move to shift it away.
A target, another target. Short. Squat. Brown eyes. Old. It doesn’t matter. Toys don’t need information. Dogs need only to kill.
Toy and animal. Soldier and dog. Human and not. It’s all so confusing in its head. An ache settles there, familiar as the weight of the chains around its wrists and ankles.
A command; it marches. Toy soldier with clockwork joints picking up a plastic cork gun and fake ammunition to use in the battle. Not much of a battle, when things come down to it. Just the cork gun in steady hands and words given to make sure it was perfect for the scene.
Target emerges. The Toy Soldier loads its gun, aims carefully. A single cracking shot and the target’s head explodes. Pretty pink powder sifting down through the air, such a good special effect for the game. Tomorrow there will be a new target, the same Toy Soldier, taken out and used again and again because it is the favorite.
Return to the toy box and the man-thing returns. Agitated, angry, caged and bound and helpless. It knows what it has done. It hates what it has done. Feral and snarling with rage, face twisted beyond humanity, the picture of fury. Attacks anyone who comes close, wild and untamed but with privilege.
It’s freedom to be wild, to slip free from puppet strings and conditioned behavior to snap and snarl at the cage, both literally and metaphorically. It loves blood as much as it loves silence. Left to itself, occasional garbage to eat, or something less moldy as a rare treat.
It will go when it is called again.
Four.
Four.
Four.
Three more targets, set up against the Toy Soldier on a chess board. People the man-thing balks at killing. Children. Smiling woman. About twice his age. Recognition on her face when she sees the Toy Soldier, morphs quickly to horror, then fear, and sad acceptance.
He returns the man-thing, feral and covered in blood.
She looked at him. Looked at him with her eyes. Those swimmering blue orbs in her head. Looked and cried and looked and cried but it was meaningless, infuriating. Annoying. The Toy Soldier cast aside, forgotten, as he dug his fingers into her throat and squeezed until he could reach in and tear her voice box out. No more noises. Noises that weren’t his name.
Kids were next, man about his age. Same recognition, fear, acceptance, love. Understanding. Hate it he hated it. This man looked too.
His head bashed open on a rock. Any traces of data scrubbed by the Toy Soldier before returning to wild man-beast again. Left picking over corpses and chewing old bloodied clothes until there was no taste left within them.
______
“The MacTavish family is dead.”
“What?” Ghost, looking up from the computer he’d been hunched over, stared at Price with doleful eyes.
“Just last night. Killed in the home.”
“Robbers?”
“No. Nothing was missing.”
“So then…?”
“Someone has a grudge against them, Ghost. Any clue who that might be?”
Ghost shrugged, flat. “Don’t see how anyone could. Not after…”
Price turned to leave. “Let me know if you find anything, hm?”
Ghost didn’t respond. He was back at the computer, reading through articles and scanning message windows for any signs of an update.
______
Two months ago, John “Soap” MacTavish was declared MIA. Probably KIA, after there had been no signs of him. No threats, warnings, bribes, nothing. But no body either, just a strangled cry on a mission before he was gone.
The Soap-shaped hole in the 141 matched the hole in Ghost’s heart. Soap’s family was devastated. Ghost spent all his free time and then some scouring the web, digging up old sources, anything he could use to find what happened to Soap, where he might’ve ended up.
Despite all evidence, Ghost hadn’t truly accepted that Soap was gone. Not unless he saw concrete proof. Even after a week with no leads. Week turned to month turned to two and then the murder.
It looked more like a wild animal had got into the house than anything done by a person. Blood worked its way up the walls in vicious streaks, dishes lay smashed on the floor, and the bodies… better not to think of them.
Safe to say it would be a closed-casket funeral. There was debate on whether or not to include Soap. Thrown in with the rest of his family to rot in the ground, even if Soap’s body wasn’t there. He would, in all practical sense of the word, be dead. Just like Simon Riley. Yet Soap may actually be gone, no way of knowing if he had survived when not hide nor hair of him was seen.
______
Soap was not buried with his family. He was buried about a month before that, and two weeks ago, and just the other day.
Soap wasn’t much of a word to him, just the familiar yet forgotten edge of something that teased at the edges of his brain during his more lucid moments. The rest of the time he was Four. It was Four. The feral remnants of what had once been a man.
Sometimes it became the Toy Soldier, puppet attached to strings made to play fun games. Perfectly following the rules, obedient and easily controlled. When it was gone Four missed its presence, missed the comfort of orders and knowing its use. Man-thing Four was wild and unchecked and insane. Man-thing Four needed to be fixed but couldn’t fix itself. Man-thing Four wanted to leave and wanted to stay. It was all so confusing.
Shutting down again it fell into a half-sleep. Dreams flicked through its mind and maybe out into the open air for everyone to see.
“Soap!”
Hit over the head with something, trying to fight back, rage of adrenaline tempered with a needle to the neck.
“J⸻! How copy!” Name buzzed out, unclear, the harsh British voice like something from another life. So achingly familiar but entirely alien. Who was he?
Being dragged somewhere and falling unconscious. Waking up and then the pain started. Haunted by brown eyes behind a skull, but it wasn’t something to be afraid of, no— it wanted the skull, those eyes behind it, wanted with a need so vicious it was nearly physical.
Strange that it couldn’t remember who the man was, or what importance he’d had. It couldn’t remember any of its past but he felt like a lifeline to the person Four had been, once. Someone whose name started with J, or maybe it was Soap, not sure. Too many unknowns and not enough brain space, dammit—
It woke to the door opening, a familiar sound, flinching back from the approaching footsteps, eyes wide and feral. Too much brain fog to find the memories, searching and so close but an invisible wall taller than a cyclone blocked them off.
Brought back to the present by a spoken command, harsh words that meant nothing followed by the door creaking open. Snap and point, the man-thing left its cage, trailed after the handler like a dog, maybe it was a dog walking behind, head bent looking down, focusing on the cold of the cement floor seeping up into its legs.
Taken to a familiar room, told to get in the chair. Wanting to run but powerless to resist. Straps tightened, door shut, it began. The hated process, but Four would love it eventually. That would mean being cleansed, being whole, being less of a beast again. Feral no more, this room was the cure, only here could it be found.
Spirals started up again and voices conflicted, harsh and grating in its ears. Too much every time, eyes stuck open as walls turned to dust around it, left in the chair as madness twisted in front of its eyes, every memory turning liquid and being pushed around.
Brown eyes the same constant, as always, boring down into Four from above. Some sort of angel, or devil, divine punishment either way. Always there, always those eyes, judging and watching and waiting, never giving it a rest. It always felt watched, skull that had been comfort in a dream turning to the same oppressive force it always was.
Pain of the restraints holding its head in place kept it from drifting away entirely. Cold inhabited the room like a living thing, harsh hands tracing their way up its body until it wasn’t only shivering from the visions. So much input and no escape. Living and dying under brown eyes, its constant companion.
Eventually Four was let up, taken out, stumbling on numb legs, back to the cage. Tossed in, hit the floor with a crack, head spinning too hard for any thoughts, room spinning too.
______
Ghost kept searching. He knew the dark web. Knew videos ended up there. But would Soap’s captors risk revealing him as alive?
He had to be alive. There was no other option.
Of course there were still missions to be run, but any other time was spent investigating all possible leads, even now, four months later. Everyone else had given up hope, but Ghost clung to the idea of Soap like it was a life raft. It probably was, at this point. Soap was all Ghost had left, the only sad bit of humanity he was allowed to have.
So Soap couldn’t be gone. Ghost would walk through fire to find him. But there had to be a sign. There had to be something.
______
Left in a cage outside for days. Weeks, maybe. No food, no input, it was blind. Whining at passerby footsteps in the hopes of being given some attention. Some freedom. Some… Something. Anything! Four was good, it did what it was told.
Punishment for no reason. Or maybe its very being was reason enough. Why bother being good? Snapping at every slight contact or hint of a person, teeth bared, sharp nails ready to tear into flesh if given the chance. They should’ve put a muzzle on.
Harsh laughs crowed from the mouths of invisible onlookers. Four couldn’t take off the blindfold even if it wanted to. Unable to make a single noise, even when the cold ached so deep it thought its fingers would fall off. Even after how long with no water or food, it persisted.
It wasn’t allowed to sleep, no. Awake day after night after day, despite the countless hours that had passed the familiar exhaustion did not spread over its body, forcing it into rest. Instead, after the nth hour of boredness, it wished for sleep.
Rain came through the cage once. Head tilted back, reveling in it, mouth open to catch as much as possible. Cruel laughter in its ears but the ecstasy was greater than nonexistent feelings of shame. Animals had no shame, no morals. Neither did Four, just another dog.
Occasionally given food, usually something rotten but not enough to kill it, just make it sick. Never allowed to see, never allowed to speak, only taking what they give and clinging barely to life and strength, waiting until the next order, command, mission, when it becomes useful again. A way to atone for its pitiful existence, its weakness.
Hearing pounding music go churning through its ears and into its brain, the same four notes over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and
______
When Ghost gets the call, he’s not sure what to expect.
It’s a number from one of his old contacts, one he thought was dead by now. Clearly the bastard had just gone deeper undercover into the network of dark criminality that it was his job to learn and understand.
“Roach,” he says stiffly.
“Ghost,” comes the reply, sounding exhausted.
“Do you have something?”
“Yeah. You’re not gonna like it, though.”
“Is he—” Desperation.
“He’s alive! Sorry for the scare, he’s alive. But the people who have him…”
“What?”
“Ghost, even if you find him, he’s not going to recognize you. These guys… We’ve found people from them before, it’s like they don’t remember anything of their old life.”
“What happened to them?”
“Dead, every last one.”
“How?”
“Killed themselves as soon as there was a chance of being taken back. Some kind of command that triggers it, if reports are telling the truth.”
“I can get him back.”
Roach sucks in a breath, crackly through the phone. “Tread carefully, Ghost. They’re nothing to mess with.”
“You could help me out, you know. Break out the old gear.”
“I might. I’ve got a break coming up in three days, going off to visit family. I could spend a day or two.”
Ghost chuckles at that. Even grunts in criminal enterprises get leave. Though Roach is far from a grunt at this point, having worked his way far up in the organization. It’s a useful place for a guy like him, because he can then give intel to guys like Ghost. And Roach is very good at his job. He hasn’t been caught as a mole; it’s unlikely that he ever will.
“See you in three days, then.”
“I’ll give you the location later.”
Their conversation was ambiguous enough to avoid being marked as something strange to the people tapped into the phone lines. Roach will send Ghost the location through an old messaging system of theirs, something that can’t be hacked into. They’ll meet, gear up in plain black outfits, Ghost forgoing the skull mask, and then they’ll find Johnny.
______
Four wakes. Taste of plastic against its lips, hands holding its face gently. Calmly. Like it’s something to be cared about, not just something to be hated. Voice murmuring calm soothing things into its ear, so nice and peaceful and easy to drift off.
All floaty and sleepy, Four is barely aware of being moved. It’s like drugs, maybe, or perhaps Four is just that stupid. Brain hazy, body limp, eyelids fluttering every now and then. Brief flashes of light come through, alternating with dark, so warm and relaxing and safe.
Doesn’t even recognize getting put into restraints until arms are tied behind its back and legs are bunched up. Shoved into a wooden box and the lid closed, a few small holes for air but no other indication that Four is not just packaged goods. Couldn’t speak even if it wanted to, living in the space between reality and dreams.
Gunshots faintly carried but no other indication of a conflict.
The crate shifts, moved somewhere. Dumped to the floor but the impact is barely felt. Air quickly going hazy, darkness enclosing it, not so different from sleep, or maybe death. It never dreams, what’s the difference?
______
“Fuck!” Ghost curses, slamming his fist into a wall.
Roach approaches from behind, carrying a stack of documents with him.
“We can still catch him,” he says.
“How?” Ghost snarls, pacing in agitation. “We don’t even know where they went.”
Roach smirks under the mask; Ghost can tell. “Yes we do.” He hands Ghost the papers, which show a bunch of useless jargon that Ghost can’t read. It’s code, but Roach has always been an excellent codebreaker.
“They’re going to a ghost location. Wherever they store the subjects before shipping them out to other facilities… or buyers.”
Ghost growls in disgust. “Do we know why he’s there?”
“Seems like he’s been moved with a few others that were here. As soon as they got word of us, they left. Used the remaining men as a diversion.” He was more than grateful that they’d gotten the chance to kill most of the people there. A few had escaped with the truck, but they had no way of knowing who — or what — Ghost and Roach were after.
Better to move quickly, before reinforcements had a chance to make it to Soap’s new location.
Before they left, Ghost picked up a taser and a tranquilizer gun. At the look Roach shot him, he found a second of each and handed them over.
“Don’t want to hurt the subjects, right?” Roach asked. Ghost nodded. Those people were innocent, or at least more innocent than the ones who made them. Roach had given him information on the group they were dealing with. Kidnapped people, broke them, and remade them into mindless killing machines, entirely pliant to the will of their masters.
The same thing had almost happened to Ghost.
It had happened to his oldest teammates.
Seeing Johnny in such a state… would not be pleasant.
Ghost didn’t know if he’d been made to murder yet, or if he was still in the stages of programming. Didn’t know how much of his Johnny was left, and how much had been replaced with thoughtless animalistic fear. A small part of him didn’t want to find out. He ignored it. He needed to know.
“Let’s go,” he said, turning to leave the building. Roach followed, pulling a detonator from his vest as he did. Once they were a safe distance away, he clicked the button, and they both turned to watch with vicious satisfaction as the compound went up in flames.
______
“Hey, wake up.” Someone was poking it, insistent fingers needling away at the soft blanket of sleep. “Come on, wake up.”
Four blinks awake, seeing a small child. They’re as thin as it is, hunger making every rib visible, but muscle still stands out on their arms, just like Four. The child’s face is bruised and dirty, a few infected-looking scratches and scrapes splashed across the skin of their face, arms, and torso. They’re young, can’t be more than twelve years old, but their eyes have the look of someone who’s seen far too much for such a short life.
“What’s your name?” they ask in a scratchy whisper.
Four groans quietly and sits up, taking in the new surroundings. No cage this time, but a windowless stone room instead, with blank off-white walls scratched and paint-chipped in places, plain gray carpet, and a solid wooden door, the type seen in schools, on the far wall. There’s no handle on this end.
“F-Four,” it stutters out, even the single syllable an effort after such a long time spent in silence.
“Just Four?”
It nods.
“Are you new here?”
“I think so. What’s your name?”
“Me? I’m Five of Clubs.”
The name isn’t worth remarking on. It’s heard stranger ones.
The child shifts, moving to stand. The room is dark but it can make out the restraints around their small wrists, two manacles currently clipped to nothing, and a collar around their neck. Its hands move up to find the same thing, a new addition, and the manacles are there too, along with two around its ankles.
Four studies its companion a little closer.
They’re bare-chested, wearing only a pair of shorts of indeterminate material. Bruises, scars, and lacerations in various states of healing (or infection) mark their dark skin, unkempt black hair half-obscures their hazel eyes, and their nose has clearly been broken and didn’t heal right.
Some long-buried part of Four recoils in hatred and disgust at the people who had given a kid so many scars. The rest of it can’t bring itself to care, between the distant alarm bells clanging in its head and the shock at the new surroundings and the mild fear at not being caged because what if it attacked again—
Pushing down thoughts of rage and violence and teeth tearing into flesh and ripping up skin and sending sprays of blood over the walls and—
Shoved back into the corner quickly, head in hands, breath fast, knees up, hiding from the child, hoping they wouldn’t touch it for fear it would snap. They wisely backed away, to the other corner, watching silently, head tilted, curious. No words were spoken, none needed to be said.
The door opened eventually and in drifted a scream, followed by an imposing man with a gun at his hip and chains in his hands.
“Up,” he says, no room for argument. They both stand.
Chains attached to manacles with solid-looking locks, tying its hands together and pulling them in front, used as a leash. The child following with the same treatment. They walk out of the room into a hallway, still no windows, blank boring walls that are half cinder-block, carpeted floor stained in places, simple lighting from dully buzzing bulbs above.
Tugged along, weakened with hunger and thirst but it doesn’t dare stop. Eventually they emerge, wider area now, more people and more things like it and them. Subhuman.
Shoved to the floor and left there as the doors close. A movie starts to play on a screen. Alice in Wonderland. Group is half adults, half children, some a place in between. Each scene they get up and act: falling down and there are screams of shock, crying and tears fill the room, flooding and words spill from mouths like water.
White rabbit and everyone looks around finding nothing. Tea party and they all go mad. Hands tear at hair and the tang of blood fills the air, every thing fighting for itself. Race around the room and they all run until they collapse. Cheshire cat grins and they’re all going crazy again.
“Where are you? Where are you? Come out, talk to me!”
Brown eyes appear again and stare as destruction rages, smashing everything in the room to bits against the high cry of, “Serpent! Serpent!”
It collapses up against a nearby wall, chest heaving. Some strange force has possessed it, turning it to a gabbling freak like all the rest of them. It finds itself wishing for the hated chair. At least then something is being done to fix it.
The rest of the movie passes in peace. It maybe moves, maybe screams, maybe cries. Maybe exists.
______
“You did what?!”
“Calm down, it’s not like they reported you.”
“But—”
“We both know we need the help.”
“What if they—”
“Price already agreed to leave him to you. No one else is gonna interfere.”
There’s a pause. Ghost huffs, a little annoyed, and a little touched that Roach would risk his cover for something like this. “How long until they get here?”
Roach checks his phone. “I’d say about… three minutes, or so.”
“And then what?”
“They’re already geared up. You’re ready, I’m ready — they get here, we go.”
Ghost nods. “Understood.”
______
It is taken from the room along with several others. Chains clanking, it feels a bubble of murderous rage rising slowly. Everything about this place itches its brain in exactly the wrong way. Growling lowly at the other man-things, eyes darting around until there’s a snap and a word and then The Toy Soldier is back.
Some of the others assume a similar position. The rest just look scared. The Toy Soldier cannot smile, but feels a little satisfaction at their fear. Bad, bad. It shouldn’t feel. Toys don’t feel.
They walk on before being put in another room. Weapons are brought, knives and guns and the like. A few commands and a snap ensures they won’t be using them until they’re told, and not on anyone except those marked as a Target.
The Toy Soldier stands straight, guns secured to holsters of its newly-given gear. A knife in its belt and extra rounds too, all ready for a fight. It hasn’t been told the Target yet.
Some of the others stand in similar positions, while the rest are more relaxed. One paces on all fours, snarling, knife in hand. Barely restrained. The Toy Soldier shudders on the inside. It looks like that. On the inside.
The Target list is given. It’s not so much a list of Targets as a list of Not-Targets. Anyone else was good to shoot or stab. This was out of protocol, but The Toy Soldier did not question orders.
Explosion noises from outside and panicked shouting. The handler leaving them, chains removed, ready to kill. Door left open and they’re shoved out, pointed towards the smoke and shouts, and then nothing, only the fight.
______
When they breach the compound, Ghost dedicates the explosion to Soap. He’ll have his demolition expert back to blow things up for him. He will. There’s no alternative.
He doesn’t expect to be jumped by a feral child.
The kid can’t be more than 12, shocking light-green eyes boring into him from beneath a tangled mop of shoulder-length black hair. They don’t even have a weapon, just bare hands ripping at every piece of gear they can get to.
It’s a good thing Roach told Price to equip everyone with tranquilizers in addition to their regular guns.
Someone shoots and the kid goes limp. Ghost catches them, lowers them to the ground, and a few guys come over to take them out to the waiting vehicles.
“Christ,” Price remarks, watching as they carry the kid away.
“Christ,” Roach agrees, hefting his gun. “Let’s get the rest of them out.”
“I want these bastards dead,” Ghost growls to the men, around forty of them. They’re Marines, Soap’s old crew from the look of things. “Any papers you find, keep them. I want the fucker in charge; we don’t need anyone else. And no shooting the subjects unless it’s with tranq. I don’t care if they attack you.”
Nods all around and they head farther in.
______
The Toy Soldier sees the enemy and readies its gun. Raise, aim, fire, dodge, repeat. Reload. Step step step. Measured and quick. Breaths calm, movements precise, every action calculated to battlefield perfection.
Others race by, snarling, feral, knives in hands. Sink into flesh, screams echo. It remains controlled.
Aim. Fire. A miss. Armed men storming in, faces set, determined. Its own face concealed behind a helmet. They all wore one, everyone in that room. They were Not-Targets. Handlers, Not-Targets.
Skull with brown eyes? Target.
Achingly familiar to it, or at least to the man-thing, to Four. Whining and thrashing and begging to be let out, if only to tear at the skull and those eyes until they couldn’t watch it anymore.
Man wearing a bucket hat? Target. He took down a Not-Target with practised ease, shooting for the neck. No blood, but the Not-Target slumped to the floor. Sedatives then, of some kind.
Turn around, get to cover, reload. Pop up, aim, fire.
All too easy yet impossible. More and more pour in. Pushed back, protecting handlers. Cornered in a single room, The Toy Soldier and a group of Not-Targets, some helmeted and strong, some plain clothed and soft. Handlers.
Shell cracks open as the room breaks, swarmed with Targets like angry wasps. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. None fall. Getting sloppy, so tired and weakened but still fighting. Has to fight. Has to survive. Clings to memories of almost dying to fellow Soldiers.
______
Ghost hadn’t found him with any of the ones they’d taken down already. They were de-helmeted as soon as they went down, but no Johnny. Just men and women he’d never seen before. Some of them were children.
A few had tried to kill themselves upon being cornered. They’d prevented most suicides so far. Now they’re down to the last room, down about twenty men from once they’d first started.
Roach blows the door off its hinges and they rush in, only to stop suddenly at the sight before them. Ten subjects, all with guns pointed at their own heads or knives held to their own throats.
“Stop right there,” gasps one of the lead bastards, nervous but grinning at the power he holds. “Or they die.”
A few of Ghost’s men make it into the room, not nearly enough to save everyone. Ghost stops, motioning for them to do the same.
“Good,” the man says, sounding a little more confident. “Now, put down your weapons.”
Ghost huffs in anger. From his peripheral he can see one of the air vents slowly unscrewing.
“Can’t we talk about this?” he asks, not really a question.
“Put them down!” the man screeches, angry. “Now!”
Ghost hesitates. A mistake. The man snaps and one of the prisoners drives the knife into their own throat, falling gracelessly with a gurgle and a spray of blood.
Ghost quickly lowers his gun to the floor. The air vent is almost loose…
______
The Toy Soldier wavers, freezes, explodes at the voice. That Manchester accent, deep timbre, rough growl — so familiar. It feels safe. The basest of instinct within it leaps up at the sound of that voice, but, as is custom, The Toy Soldier crushes it down.
It has one job right now and that is to die. If the snap came, the next man — a mere three places down the line — would die, and then the next, and the next, until it was The Toy Soldier’s turn.
The skull put the gun down slowly, slowly, slowly. It hit the floor with a clack. The other Targets did the same. Ever so slowly.
A sudden gunshot, then another and a third. Two of the men behind it drop dead. It does not move, has not been ordered to do so — a scream of agony and the main Not-Target drops, bleeding from the arm. Couldn’t even make a sound aside from screams. Four considers it pathetic. He couldn’t take a bullet?
Again The Toy Soldier pushes down any feelings other than obedience. The Targets all pick up their guns again, another one slithers down from an air vent and holds a gun to the only living Non-Target left, aside from its battle companions.
“Knock him out,” Skull grumbles, and metal on flesh sounds behind it.
Still they wait. No reaction even when approached. Until someone tries to touch, to drag the gun away from a Not-Target’s head. It goes off with a bang, they’re dead.
“Do we just—”
“Quiet,” Skull snaps. “I’m thinking. Roach?”
Another Target walked around them, muttered something in Skull’s ear. He nods; the two raise guns and fire. Other men behind them do the same. So they were dying, then.
The Toy Soldier feels an impact to its thigh, sees not a bullet but a dart. Limbs suddenly heavy, dropping down against its will. Falling, caught by Skull.
______
Ghost pulls the helmet off the subject who fell on him, breath catching at the sight. It’s unmistakably Johnny. His mohawk is so grown out it looks more like a mullet, his face is bruised and eyes sunk deep into the sockets, but it’s him. Mostly uninjured, or so it seems.
Despite best efforts, some of the subjects were killed. Either by their own hand, or by accident. The two remaining leaders are tied up and stuffed into the back of a truck at gunpoint, while the thirty-odd survivors they saved are instead taken in by a veritable fleet of ambulances and vans, some of them in critical condition.
They’d be flown out to a military hospital large enough to hold them all so they could hopefully recover. Ghost wasn’t sure if some of them could. The things he’d seen in those rooms…
Suffice it to say that some of it made Roba’s tortures look like child’s play.
The fact that half the rescued prisoners are children turns Ghost’s stomach.
Of course he goes in the truck with Soap along with Price. Gaz, Roach, and a few others are staying behind to sift through papers and files, trying to find more information on the organization.
From the driver’s seat, Price turned to Ghost, cradling Johnny in his arms in the backseat. “You’re welcome to take as much leave as you need for this, Ghost. Or retire, I don’t mind either way. You both need to recover.”
Ghost stared, confused. He’s fine. It’s Johnny who will need time. He opens his mouth to say as much and is cut off.
“Don’t give me any crap about how you’re doing fine, Simon. You ran yourself into the ground trying to find him. And I know all this can’t’ve been easy for you.”
Ghost slowly closes his mouth, finding he has nothing to say. Price, the devil, always knows what to say to disarm him. And he’s right, of course he is, but it hurts Ghost to admit it. He’s only ever been vulnerable with Johnny.
He nods anyway. “Thank you, sir.”
______
Four wakes to somewhere soft. It’s bright, too bright, and it closes its eyes again. Not a sound escapes its lips. How did it get here?
Thinking back, it remembers being moved… was this the new location? No, there had been more after that. There was someone named Five of Clubs, it remembered that much. And a movie, the memory tainted with the smell of blood.
After that… What had been after that?
Gearing up, fighting, cornered in the last room… cornered by who?
Target and Not-Target, right. Helmet over its head; that was gone now. Thinking more it remembered the gunshot. Handlers were down, weren’t they? Killed? It seemed impossible. The more it thought the more sure it was.
And then what?
Being shot but not by a bullet, haze of sedatives taking over. But who had shot it?
The skull.
It sat bolt upright, or tried. Eyes were open no matter how bright it was. A warm white room, not dirty, no paint chips or screams or people. Light streaming in through the window, hitting its eyes. Too bright.
Unsure of the boundaries but entirely sure it wasn’t where it had been. No rules here, no cage. That meant it could do what it liked.
Struggling to stand from the bed, making its weary way to the window. Wanted to close it but instead stared out. Wires connect it still to the bed, trailing things taped to arm and hand and beneath the blue hospital gown.
This is a hospital then. It remembers what a hospital is, at least in concept.
It seems to recall having been in one several times before, but like everything before its reimagining, that too is a blur.
The view outside the window is glorious. It can see green fields dropping off to the sea, a crashing beauty it had almost forgotten. Something like a smile spreads across its face. It’s beautiful.
So entranced it is by the sea that it hardly notices the door open. There’s a noise of surprise and then someone is saying words. He turns around a little too quickly, suddenly feeling dizzy. There’s a staggered step before its legs give out, sending it to the floor.
______
Ghost rushes into the room as soon as they let him. Johnny is asleep on the bed, looking peaceful and painfully small. His hair is brushed back from his face and spreads on the pillow beneath him, clean now but far too long. His face is more hollow than it had been, either from starvation or stress. Ghost isn’t sure.
He’s no longer in critical condition. Given how he’d been fighting, Ghost had thought he was fine. Clearly this wasn’t the case. Starvation, dehydration, internal bleeding, infections, mild concussion, several untreated fractures, food poisoning, exhaustion, and to top it all off, something was wrong with his eyes. Something about photosensitivity. It wasn’t permanent, they said, but it would take around a month to recover from fully.
Pulling up one of the plastic chairs from where it rested against the wall, Ghost situates himself by Johnny’s side, determined to wait there until he wakes up. He wants to touch the other man, drag a hand through his hair until he wakes up, or even do something as simple as hold his hand, but such a task seems impossible. There’s a barrier there. Ghost doesn’t dare break it.
He drifts off to sleep thinking of Johnny, head dropping to the sheets accidentally.
______
Four wakes up again to an unfamiliar pressure by its legs. Cracking an eye open and finding the room much dimmer than it had been (fortunately), it looked down and saw the skull.
A sudden surge of emotions send the heartbeat monitor going a lot faster. The skull’s eyes are shut (mercy, mercy) and he looks so human, slumped down onto its bed. He’s wearing a simple black hoodie, hands covered by skull-print gloves and folded under his head in a mockery of a pillow.
Four reaches out with wondering hands, stopping just on the verge of touching him. Its eyes dart to the door, making sure no one is there. The door is shut, no sounds come from outside. Surely it would be okay.
Its hand comes into gentle contact with the skull, tracing the edges of the eye holes wonderingly. It wants to see the eyes. It dreads seeing the eyes. Why this man is so familiar, it doesn’t know. The memory tickles at the edge of its mind just like its name. It starts with J.
Four can hold onto that information now. It’s with someone safe, the rule-keepers are dead. It can be as wild as it wants.
No visible threat means no need to fight. It doubts it could stand again. The all-too-familiar feeling of a drugged haze drips along its consciousness, slow and not very potent but still present.
Leaning back to the pillow and retracting its hands, Four slips off to the space it goes when there’s nothing to be done. It’s trance-like. Not quite awake, not quite asleep. Half-formed thoughts drift and flicker through, coming and going without being remarked on.
Memories that would in any context be counted as unpleasant make their way past. It watches but doesn’t react. It happened. There’s nothing it can do about the fact. It feels numb to them in any case.
It’s jerked suddenly from the trance by a shifting from the skull. His eyes are still shut, screwed tighter than normal, shifting back and forth in the throes of one having a nightmare.
A soft whimper makes it past his lips, hovering in the air like a confession. Four isn’t sure what to do. The motion becomes more agitated, whimpers morphing into soft cries that turn into full-on shouts.
Four can’t watch anymore. Extending a hand, he touches the man’s shoulder, giving him a soft shake. The action does nothing so he shakes the skull again, a little harder this time.
The man’s eyes snap open and he bolts upright with a cry of, “No!”
His eyes dart around the room wildly, see Four’s hands in front of him. Latches onto Four’s wrists with a violent grip, stopping him from moving.
The feeling triggers… something. It isn’t sure. Feels panic, fear. Hands held out in front, can only mean bad things are happening. Either about to be handcuffed or held while — memory cuts across, new, burning — hands on it, unwanted, a way to break it. Violating it. Another way to ensure compliance. Or a reward. Depending.
Panics and shuts down. Going limp, pliant, they like it better that way.
Unaware of the surroundings behind the feeling of hands. Only two but it’s waiting for more. Body tense even as the contact drops. Its own arms dropping limp to the sheets.
“Shit,” the skull breathes, moves so fabric shifts. “Shit,” he says again. Four doesn’t open its eyes. Doesn’t want to see.
Hands on it again, tenses involuntarily before forcing itself to relax. Hurts less that way.
“Hey—” Hands drift up to cup its face, squeezing softly, so caring— “Hey, come back. I know you’re awake, just— Please—”
Its eyes remain firmly shut, lids too heavy to open at this point. If Four opens its eyes that means this ends. Whatever this is. Kindness. Softness. Genuine concern. All over. It can’t help but think it’ll be back there. Hurting.
Too many conflicting emotions. Hates the place but wants to go back. Can’t even complete the simple request to open its eyes. Broken, needs to be fixed, to atone for its failure of an existence.
“Johnny—”
The name unlocks a tear of memories.
Flash through its head, too much to process. Johnny. Its name. Old name. His name? Its name.
Soldier. Fighting. Las Almas. The 141.
Price. Gaz. Ghost .
Skull mask and brown eyes and dirty blond hair.
Love. Loving. Loved Ghost. Still does. Always will.
Running missions. Capture. Start of the torture. Before it was Four. When it was still Johnny. Not good enough to be him anymore.
Graves. Shepherd. Betrayal. Hurting. Revenge.
Makarov, whisper of a name.
Hassan, Chicago. Missiles. The window. Saved again by Ghost. Savior, light, the sun, God Himself.
Family. Parents. Mom, dad, sister, brother. Family gatherings.
It killed them. The first kill. Blood slashed against walls and recognition and the weight of a blade in its hand and the feeling of blood gushing over its hands with the irony smell and the excited rage of stab stab stab matched with tears and prayers and wails of its old name that it couldn’t hear and—
Too much. Too much. Eyes open, unseeing, tears flowing freely. It gasps, feels sick, dry-heaves. Again. Again. Hurts so much, wrapped up in solid arms, digging nails into fabric, wanting to rip tear pull back its own skin until it can wash all the sin out.
Shoves the skull away. Bye to Ghost. Can’t have him knowing. Four is the good one. Supposed to be there for Ghost. Can’t even be there for itself. Failure.
Nails to its own arms, dig in, tear down, blood wells. Not enough. Not enough atonement. Not enough debt paid. Does it again, hands grabbed by Ghost.
Mask ripped off and Ghost is staring at it face-to-face. Saying something that Four can’t make out through the ringing in its ears. Too loud and words don’t make sense anymore. Wants so badly to rip free, run from the bed, run without stopping until it can’t anymore and then keep going, because maybe that will be enough—
People clad in white come through the door. It turns to look, eyes wild, shaking. Held still by Ghost. Wails in distress and it’s all too much and Ghost is crying at the sight of it and there are more hands just like it feared. Grab its arms and legs, stop the thrashing, IV is being adjusted. Pupils smaller than should be possible, gasping, panic, panic (mercy, mercy!) and mindless terror fighting against the hold until its body goes limp and slumps back against its will with drug-induced haze. Slipping farther and farther back until everything is gone.
______
Ghost curses, head in his hands. Johnny is asleep again, tied to the bed with leather belts around his wrists and ankles. He’s not going to like that. Ghost doesn’t like it either, but nothing could be worse than seeing Johnny do that to himself again. Ghost doesn’t even know what caused it.
All he knows is the look of sheer horror on Johnny’s face is never going to leave him. The way he shut down after his hands were grabbed sent a bolt of worry through Ghost, so he tried to bring Johnny back. Saying his name… that had been the turning point.
Ghost wonders how long it had been since Johnny last heard that name. Did they refer to him only as Soap? Or maybe MacTavish? John?
He won’t know until Johnny wakes up, won’t be able to find out exactly where he went wrong. He’s going to have to make Johnny talk about it. He needs to know what happened. So does medical. And Ghost assumes Johnny will have an easier time talking to him than a random shrink. At least until Johnny is well enough to even consider therapy.
But right now he needs stability and a place to heal without having to tear himself open every week, or day, maybe. Probably day. Talking helps, once enough time has passed.
Johnny convinced Ghost to go to therapy not long after Las Almas. Once the shitshow in Chicago was over, Ghost booked an appointment immediately.
As always, Johnny was right. He had (foolishly) thought he was over the things from the past, over the abuse from his parents and everything that happened with Roba and the parts of his family he actually cared about.
Yet he found himself (embarrassingly) in tears by the end of the session, though the therapist didn’t judge, just handed him a box of tissues. They’d scheduled the next appointment and Ghost had gone back to base to find Johnny, falling apart in his arms. Johnny just held him, letting him get everything out.
He felt a lot better after.
On the other hand, having to talk about something right after it happened was a lot more difficult. A few sessions later and he was trying to express his worry about losing Johnny, failing him in some way. The two close calls the Scot had in Las Almas and Chicago shook Ghost more than he was willing to admit, yet it took him the better part of an hour to even express this simple notion.
Trauma was strange like that.
He’d gone back and told the same to Johnny, determined to be honest with the other man. He’d only laughed and pulled Simon into a hug. It was what he needed, at the time. Validation of his feelings. It was okay to feel that way. It didn’t scare Johnny, or make him hate Ghost, or any of the unreasonable fears he’d been having.
But Ghost has no idea how to help Johnny here. He couldn’t do anything to help his old teammates (He killed them, but killing Johnny? Indescribable horror; Ghost would sooner kill himself.) and he definitely can’t do anything here because he has no idea what he’s doing. Johnny has always been the one good at this mental health shit. But he needs Simon this time and Simon won’t — can’t — let him down.
So he does the only reasonable thing, which is to call up his therapist, and start asking about what he can do and what he should avoid doing and how to give Johnny space while still being in tune with his needs. He writes down every scrap of information in a newly-acquired notebook. And then he goes online and reads every mental health article that’s from a somewhat reputable source he can find. And then he looks up programming and goes through the very few websites that aren’t government conspiracies or stuff about the Winter Soldier.
It’s disgusting, how casually some people treat the Winter Soldier, the way he was broken. In a way, he’s not so different from Johnny, at least now. Johnny could definitely be a superhero. He’s got the right build for it and, more importantly, he’s good on the inside, always a ray of sunshine.
Or he was. Ghost isn’t sure what he’ll be like now. It doesn’t matter, he’s going to support Johnny no matter what, but the thought of someone so bright being put out makes him regretful.
More so because it’s technically his fault. If he’d just kept a closer eye on Johnny…
But no, it couldn’t be helped. They’d been separated on the mission by design. It was supposed to be simple: easy in, easy out. Ghost couldn’t have known what would happen. At least Johnny is alive. He clings to that fact. He’s safe, alive, and lying in a bed right there next to him.
Everything else they can work out later. He’s just grateful to have Johnny back, in any capacity. It seemed like the brunette recognized him, up until he’d had a panic attack. At least Ghost assumes that’s what happened. It could’ve been a PTSD response, or maybe a trigger put in place by the programming. That could happen.
In the end it didn’t really matter why Johnny had reacted the way he did. Ghost just has to make sure it doesn’t happen again. The simplest solution is to not grab Johnny’s wrists again. Should be simple enough now, though Ghost isn’t sure how he’ll react to waking up in restraints. He can always take them off, of course, but if Johnny tries to hurt himself again…
He leaves for a moment to use the restroom, coming back to find Johnny shifting, eyes still closed but moving a little more in his sleep. Remembering what the doctors said about his eyes, Ghost moves to the window and closes the blinds a little more, moving the room from bright daylight to faintly shadowed lighting.
______
Four wakes again, slowly, more slowly. It’s bright, too bright to open its eyes, but the light slowly dims down again. There are footsteps, a single pair treading lightly over the tile. They settle down at its side. Its eyes blink open to meet Ghost’s. That’s right, it remembers now, remembers Ghost at the very least. Knows the man has another name but that’s still lost.
“Johnny,” he breathes, voice rough as ever. Distantly Four remembers loving that voice. It can’t quite place itself with this Johnny. It’s like looking in a funhouse mirror: Not Quite Right.
That’s how Four feels in general, actually: Not Quite Right. It’s starting to remember more details from the life of Johnny, but some memories are Not Quite Right. The person it used to be doesn’t match neatly with who it is now. Johnny is someone other and yet the same. Its appearance is Not Quite Right, hair too long to be Johnny and too clean to be Four.
Currently its mind is clear, clearer than it has been for a while. It can think in full sentences, words make sense, the bubble of violence and The Toy Soldier are pushed down. Despite being away from the handlers, Four can’t help but wonder when it will next be transformed into some alternate form and forced to do some horrible task. It would only take a few simple words to make it turn.
This calm in-between state is Not Quite Right.
Ghost moves away, brings back a cup of water, holds it up to Four’s lips. Four tries to reach up and grab it, only to find itself unable to move. A frown tugs at its lips when it finds its legs similarly restrained, but it voices no complaint, simply parting its lips to allow Ghost to give it water.
When it tries to speak, nothing happens. It’s hardly spoken in the past… however long it’s been. Those brief words exchanged with Five of Clubs had been the longest conversation it had in a while. This more recent bout of complete silence brought about by unconsciousness did nothing to help.
So that’s unfortunate. It tries again, voice crackling before managing to squeak out some semblance of words. “Ghost?”
Ghost’s mask is still gone, revealing his face. There’s a sense of attachment again, of love and affection, but it’s disconnected. Not really faded, but belonging to someone Four is not. It almost hurts more to see the joy in Ghost’s eyes at being recognized.
“How much… do you remember?”
“I don’t know,” it replies quietly, flatly. “Do you mean before, or after?”
Ghost’s lips part in confusion. “Before or after what?”
There’s a long pause. “Before… When I was still Johnny.”
“What do you mean?” Ghost says slowly, eyes searching its face.
It tries to put a hand up to its face, stopped by the restraints. Being tied down is ringing faint alarm bells in its head but they’re not strong enough to warrant any serious reaction just yet. This is nothing new. It knows that much. Four settles for closing its eyes instead.
“I’m not that person anymore. Whoever you knew. Johnny.”
______
Ghost can’t do this. He can’t.
He doesn’t know why he thought he could.
Hiding in the bathroom, feeling the world rush past, ears ringing. He’s going to be sick. Oh god. The phrase echoes again.
“I’m not that person anymore.”
Johnny is gone. If anyone should understand, it should be him, should be the man split between Ghost and Simon Riley, but he never really was. Ghost was just Simon hidden behind a layer of anonymity. Confidence and comfort from no one knowing his face. A reputation built up over years to back him up and nothing else to hold him back. No one knew who he was, no one dared to laugh at him. He could be whoever he wanted, but under it all he was still Simon. He wasn’t two separate things. He’d never not felt like himself.
So then who was Johnny now? Ghost couldn’t bring himself to ask, had simply excused himself and rushed off to the attached bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror, he sighs heavily. God, he looks like a mess. Eyebags for days and rough stubble (which he hates), hair messier than usual and grime from smeared face paint splashed all the way down his face. It looks like mascara. Stupid stuff might’ve been waterproof, but didn’t do anything against salty tears.
It hadn’t been a problem before because he didn't cry. He suspects that’s going to change very soon.
A few more minutes of mentally bracing himself and he reemerges to find Johnny tugging futilely at the restraints, not with the desperation of an animal trapped, but with the dispassion of a scientist trying to see how far he could push a system before it broke.
He’s unmistakably thinner, but still strong, if the way the leather creaks and the plastic bed rail groans are anything to go by. Another tug before he drops his hands down, limp once more, shooting Ghost a look. Ghost is a little taken aback by the emptiness, almost boredom , in his eyes.
“Are you going to untie me?” he asks, in the same flat tone.
“Are you going to hurt yourself again?” Ghost retorts, unexpectedly angered by Johnny’s lack of emotion. He should be feeling things, he should be crying right now, or just… something, to show how upset he is. He has to be upset about what’s been done to him. Right?
“No,” comes the reply, and so Ghost carefully removes the ankle restraints, and the wrist ones.
“I’m trusting you on this,” he says. “If you like being out, don’t hurt yourself, or anyone else. I mean it.”
Johnny nods acknowledgement.
______
Four is a little surprised by how emotive Ghost is. Every microexpression conveys another twisting emotion, and it thinks maybe he wears the mask to keep everyone from knowing what he’s thinking always.
Once the restraints are off, it stretches, lifting its arms up above its head and arching its back until there’s a few satisfying pops. Then it cracks its knuckles, rolls its wrists, moves its head back and forth, and even stretches down to touch its toes. It’s a simple routine it used to use before going on missions. Not as Johnny, but as Four. Missions meant killing but a little stretching never hurt. It inserted a sense of normalcy to its irregular world.
Belatedly, Four wonders what had become of Five of Clubs. They’d seemed like a nice enough kid; it hopes they hadn’t been shot. “Hey,” it asks Ghost, causing the other to look up from his brooding. “What happened to Five of Clubs?”
Ghost stares at it like it’s insane. “Who?”
“Five of— A kid. Black hair, hazel eyes, darker skin. On the younger side.”
Ghost thinks for a moment, trying to recall who’d been saved and who hadn’t. He refuses to lie to Johnny (notJohnny) but it doesn’t take long for him to remember.
“She’s alive,” he reassures. “Currently in another hospital, but she’ll survive.”
“Good,” it murmurs, a knot of tension it didn’t know it had melting away. If she’d died, Four didn’t think it would be bearable. There was no reason for a child to be where it was. It had sinned, terribly so, but kids… kids were innocent.
They lapse into silence again. Four doesn’t mind it but Ghost keeps shifting restlessly, like he has something to say. Four waits for him to say something, not wanting to appear rude by asking, but eventually becomes bored with the charade.
“What?” it asks, not aggressive.
Ghost looks up from where he was picking at his nails, or miming the action on his gloves. He simply stares for a few moments, considering. The quiet stretched, almost too long, until Ghost burst out: “What do you mean you’re not Johnny? Who are you then? Do you even remember me? Or your old life? Or were you just saying that?”
There’s another moment of quiet. It processes the questions slowly, one at a time, turning them over in its head as it stares into space, eyes meeting Ghost’s only in a literal sense.
“I’m just not. Johnny was… I don’t know… human?”
“And you’re not?”
“No.”
Ghost blinks, stunned into silence.
“For who I am… My name is Four, I guess. Or that’s what they called me. I’m a killer. Unstable or perfectly orderly. Depends on the day.” Four says it calmly, nonchalantly. It’s normal, after all. Why shouldn’t it answer honestly?
It doesn’t miss the way Ghost’s face starts to pale, but continues on nonetheless. Lying means punishment, it is no liar. And maybe this will get Ghost to let go of the idea of Johnny. Four doesn’t know if it’s Johnny or not, the two conflicting halves of its identity crashing up against each other. There’s too much to sort through, too much crisis, and that’s only with Four and Johnny, much less Soap and the man-thing and The Toy Soldier. Who knows what others.
So it’s easier to be Four. Better to be Four. Four is rational. Four is reasonable. Four can deal with pain just fine, thank you very much.
Though it remains attached to Ghost, the feeling is pushed away to make room for survival instincts and rules that won’t be used in any space except the one it’s guaranteed never to go back to.
“I remember you, and I remember the 141. Bits and pieces, mostly, but it’s there.”
“Do you… remember your family?”
Four feels a sudden twist and it disconnects from reality. “Oh,” it hears itself say, stuck in a fugue state. Out-of-body experience, or something of the sort. “Yes,” it says, in that same strange voice, mouth moving on its own. “I killed them.”
Things fade to gray quite rapidly after that. Ghost swears and stands, leaves. It sits there, staring into space, unmoving, even after nurses come in and put its limp limbs back into the straps, even after Ghost comes back in with a man it recognizes as Captain Price, even after more drugs are put into its system and it slumps back into the bed like it’s drowning.
______
“Fucking hell,” Ghost croaks, head in his hands, drink set on Price’s desk. His eyes are red from unshed tears and the alcohol, looking more tired and drawn than ever. It’s horrible. “Price, I can’t— Fucking hell.”
He sobs, once, heartbroken. Johnny was his everything. And now Johnny is gone. There’s just this… thing, living in his corpse.
Part of Ghost is disgusted at himself for even thinking that. The rest of him is too hurt to give a damn.
“Did you hear what he said?” he whispers, voice cracking halfway through.
Price nods. There were cameras in the room, of course there were, given the circumstances. Soap had been so awfully casual about it all.
“Oh,” he’d said, voice taking on a strange, almost robotic tone. “Yes. I killed them.”
Then he did nothing but stare off into space until he was knocked out once more, body unresponsive to the touches placed upon it as he was maneuvered back into the restraints.
The other things he’d said had been pretty bad too. “Call me Four,” he’d said, as if Soap never existed.
Research was a load of bullshit, Ghost figured. He’d expected a certain level of… disconnection. Amnesia, maybe, definitely fear of physical contact. Trouble opening up. But not… Not that.
Was that what Washington and Sparks were like?
Ghost shivers, feeling another sob working its way up his throat. He hates feeling this way, hates being weak and pathetic and anything other than the strong façade he puts on in front of others. Crying makes him feel especially gross. Price puts a reassuring arm around his shoulder and he can’t bring himself to shove it off.
Eventually Ghost excuses himself, retreating not to Johnny’s — he refuses to call him Four — hospital room but to his own quarters. Everything is a little dusty from prolonged emptiness. It’s something to do. Something else to focus on.
Ghost ends up deep-cleaning his room, lifting every item to dust, shaking out the sheets, cleaning in the narrow spaces under the bed and behind the desk and dresser. Eventually, too tired to continue, he falls into bed fully clothed.
______
The next time Four wakes up it’s restraints again. It’s getting tired of waking up and being unable to move. For allies, these people aren’t very friendly. Does that make them ex-allies? Or is it too problematic to even be considered as a possible teammate? That thought is a little ridiculous; of course it’s fine. Right now, at least. No one knows the trigger command so… things will be fine. Surely things will be fine.
Things are probably not going to be fine. These people all want Johnny back, and, try as it might, Four can’t find within itself the information it needs to be that person again. Because despite everything, despite the initial desire to escape, Four is as cemented in its current identity as the old Johnny was in his.
So in other words, it’s going to take miles to break it. And it might go back to being Johnny. But it — Four — would cease to exist. And that’s not going to happen. It’s been broken once. Never again.
Four sighs, closing its eyes and resolving itself to a long wait until someone decides to come check on it. While there’s no hope of being released after its last statement, at the very least it can try to convince them that it’s not insane. Four is not insane. There are parts of it that are. But right now? It’s fine.
They don’t seem to understand that.
“Look— Jo—”
“Four,” it glares. “I told you it’s Four.” It has to have that name. Not sure why it’s so attached. Bad things will happen if it’s not Four.
Price sighs. “Okay. Four. ” The name rolls off his tongue like poison.
“Thank you.” It’s relieved. Poison is better than death.
“We can’t let you go right now. Definitely not after yesterday.”
It nods.
“You’re probably not going to come back to the Task Force. Even if you end up recovering physically, mentally… It’d be easier for you to just retire.”
Another nod.
“You’re… really okay with that?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it means—”
“I wouldn’t be like this if not for your Task Force .”
Price seems to crumple in on himself at that. Giving Four a wan smile, he turns to leave. “You’ve a point there, lad,” is his exiting remark, and then Four is left alone again.
If they want Four to be someone else they should at least acknowledge why it is who it is now.
______
“You’re sure about this?”
Ghost nods. “I—”
Price holds up a hand. “No need to explain. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, I hope you know what you’re doing…”
“I’ve made my choice, sir.”
“Alright then. He’s all yours.”
______
A pause.
“You what?”
“I’m taking you home with me. Even if you’re not… Not him.”
“Aren’t you still—?”
“I’ve been due a leave for a while now.”
There’s a silence.
“I thought you hated me,” it says quietly.
“I don’t hate you.” There’s a softness to Ghost’s voice, not quite pity but teetering off the edge of it. “You didn’t ask to be this way.”
Four feels like it could cry.
Someone actually understands. Of course Ghost understands. Four remembers enough about the man to know the degree of separation he keeps from the world. Not as severe as the disconnect between Four and Johnny, but still there.
“But,” Ghost warns, “There are a few conditions.”
Four nods; anything is better than staying here.
“First off, I’m gonna need you to tell me what they did to you. Or at least whatever’s likely to make you snap. The full thing you can save for therapy. And for once you’ve had some more time to process it.”
“Okay.” Seems reasonable enough.
“Second: If I’m doing something you don’t like, talk to me. This isn’t going to work if we’re both not comfortable. And tell me if you want me to get you anything, Price put me in charge of some of your money.”
Four nods. It’s sounding good so far.
“Third, at the end of a year we’re both getting a psych eval. If we’re cleared to go back, you can decide whether or not you want to.”
Four sucks in a breath before letting it out slowly. “That… Yeah. Okay.”
“Good?” Ghost asks, and it sounds like there’s a smile in his voice, though Four can’t tell because of the mask.
“Good,” it confirms.
Helping it up from the bed, Ghost hands Four a pair of sunglasses.
“For your eyes,” he explains. Four quirks a small smile, sliding them on.
It’s handed a long coat next, which is big on its shrunken form. It wants to rebuild itself, to stop being the husk of what it had once been. Maybe this would make it feel more whole. More like a person again.
The two make quite an unusual pair, Four with long, unkempt hair, sunglasses, and a black overcoat hiding the hospital gown; Ghost with the full regalia of his skull mask, skeleton gloves, and an all-black outfit.
______
Ghost can’t believe Johnny — Four — agreed. He was wounded, for Four to think Ghost hated him. Ghost couldn’t hate him. Ghost would never hate him.
As they make the two-hour drive to Ghost’s house, hidden away in a quaint little village, he hopes things will work out. It’s taking a lot from him to even do this — It’s not Johnny, it’s not the man he loves — but he’s going to try. After a long phone call with Roach, Ghost knew he had to try.
So he does. And he’ll keep trying. Hopefully things will work out.