Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the entirety of your existence you’d always had a knack for provoking people — the system — and rules. What started as a small act of defiance before you turned twenty had become the very bane of your existence. You were extremely good at reading patterns, analyzing them and decoding them. You weren’t perfect, but nine times out of ten you were right about what you said.

You’d started a small rebellion group — at least that’s what the papers called it. With a love of travel and a hatred for injustice, it wasn’t unexpected that you were able to move around the world and piss off important people. At first it was just local troublemakers — that soon changed. As the years passed you became almost the face of a public political movement, talking about injustices, laws and crimes.

You were banned from certain countries, helped spark revolutions in some (ones you even joined), and now — almost ten years after leaving high school without a college degree — you were deep in the American government ‘industry,’ as you liked to call it.

Albeit, you’d probably chosen the wrong ‘army’ to fuck with. After endless research you’d decided, “Why not fuck with the politics and American rules?”

That was probably one of your biggest mistakes, because now you were being hunted by the FBI, Homeland Security, Interpol and the CIA. You’d had to go into hiding, and for a while you were doing pretty well. At least you thought you were.

The issue was simple. World War Three was in the beginning stages — plans being moved in secret by people in power — and you had the audacity to make that information public. No one was happy. Now you had a price on your head.

You ran your hands down your face, exhaled hard, and pressed the green button on your phone.

“Seriously, what did you have in mind when you made that speech?” your best friend, Kira asked on the other end of the line. “I’m with you on this, but we should’ve planned accordingly.” She sounded exasperated. You couldn’t blame her — she had a point. Although she wasn’t at risk of being arrested, she cared about you.

“Starting to agree with you,” you said. “But what I said had to be said.” You looked at a spot on the wooden table in front of you.

“The video has been deleted from your account, but there are others — supporters and non-supporters — sharing it.” She paused before continuing. “Most think it’s a hoax, so let’s keep it that way until we figure out how to stop the cavalry from getting to you.”

You closed your eyes and breathed deep. Annoyed was an understatement.

“Fuck that. I’m going to get arrested either way. I have a long rap sheet. They’re going to come for me no matter what — might as well prove to people that what I’m saying is true.”

Your friend said your name, softer this time.

“Please tell me you’re not thinking about breaking into your old place,” she said, exasperation returning. “They probably have security teams watching that shit like hawks. They’ll arrest you on the spot. If not worse—”

She meant getting shot.

“They’re going to find me anyway, no matter where I go. Might as well let people know. This is exactly what we stand for,” you said, trying to make her see the reason behind your plan.

“This is madness, you know that, right?” she asked after a long pause. “What do you need me to do?” she added, taking a breath.

“Make sure everyone knows about it. I’m going to make copies and push it to every IP address we have; they’ll go through each and every one of them. Use a public store to distribute it to everyone, including the media.” You closed your eyes for a moment. “You and everyone else stand down, no contact with me or anything that could lead back to my name — you got it? If they catch me, I’ll be the only one going down. We need to stop this war. If not… at least let people know what’s coming.”

Chapter Text

It was easier said than done. After hacking the security cameras near your apartment, you clocked the undercover CIA agents and, a few streets down, the black government SUVs. Approaching your apartment in Pitesti, Romania, was going to be harder than you thought.

Being on the run for years had taught you a thing or two about not drawing attention. First rule: never dress all in black. People look at you sideways if you do. Neutral colors help you blend. Second rule: if you have long hair, change it. Straight? Curl it. Easy disguise—sometimes a pair of socks will do. Your face is what they’ll try to catch on CCTV first, so dark-tinted sunglasses and a cap are lifesavers. Dressing appropriately is what counts most.

You didn’t know Romanian, but you were fluent in Romance languages, so blending in wasn’t impossible.

You stirred the noodles in a pot while scribbling in a small, battered notebook. You used it to work through the puzzles lodged in your head; this one was itching at you. You knew how to get into the apartment — that part was easy. The problem was whether anyone else was inside. You had no way of knowing unless you risked it, and with the amount of incriminating material on you and on the coded hardware, your life was on the line, like Kira had ‘suggested,’ to put it lightly.

You took the pan off the stove, sat at the tiny kitchen table, grabbed a fork, and ate straight from the pot. You’d been staying here two weeks, out on the outskirts. After you finished, you walked toward the cot pushed against the far corner, set the phone in front of you, and hit record — spilling everything you knew about what was coming, how you found out, and the exact government agencies after you.

As always, you saved the video to multiple backup accounts. The dark night sky outside gave you a few hours of comfort. Enough for now.

You woke with early light sliding through the small window, took a quick shower, and made shitty coffee. With a cigarette between your teeth, you marked possible routes on a map. Two hours later you’d checked the laptop for patrol patterns and possible cut-off routes — anything that could stop you from crossing the border. Then you packed what you could fit into a duffel and a backpack, closed the apartment door, and slid the key under the welcome mat. The vehicle getaway was in the parking garage beneath the building.

The bike had seen better days. The black matte paint was peeling from the sun; there was rust in places, but it was the fastest thing you could get. It wasn’t cheap, but it was less hassle than a car. You mounted it easily, let it warm up, tied your hair back, pulled a black balaclava over your face, then your helmet. The BMW S1000RR roared to life as you twisted the throttle. You sped out of the lot into busy streets, weaving through traffic.

You spent most of the day on the road as planned, stopping only when necessary. Lucky for you, no border patrol asked you to remove your helmet to match your eyes to your ID photo. You passed the border you’d chosen because your intel said agents there often looked the other way — due to increased drug flow. If you got caught, you planned to bribe your way out.

Yeah, even you — the one who preached about corruption — were about to fall into it. The world is ugly. Desperation makes people uglier. You weren’t there yet, but you felt it closing.

Slightly panicked would be the word.

It was close to eight p.m. when you arrived. Streets were dark and people hurried home for dinner. You parked a few streets away from the building, stashed your backpacks in an empty trash can, and walked to your front door with relaxed shoulders and lazy posture. You could feel eyes on you, but not threatening—yet.

You called the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor, and sprinted up the stairs instead. Taking the long walk to the fifth floor, you tried to be as silent as possible. You gripped the railing for balance; walking was never your thing, and a massive flight of stairs was worse. Anxiety clawed at your throat. Not knowing what waited behind the door made you stop. Your hand hovered, tears threatening to spill.

“Let’s do this,” you said, as if speaking it aloud would give you more courage.

You opened the door into a dark hallway; the only light came from beneath neighbors’ doors. You tiptoed to your door; the number 54 stared at you tauntingly. The key turned. The apartment was empty. Relief flooded you.

You closed the door with a soft click and flipped on the bathroom light — the only room that couldn’t be seen from the hallway, even with the door open. You dropped to your knees, moved the sink aside, and used the small knife in your jeans to cut through the drywall you’d installed to hide the vault.

You pulled files from the hidden compartment, photographed every page and item with your phone, and stuffed them into a dusty backpack. Then glass shattered outside the bathroom.

Your heart jack-rabbited. You shoved everything back into the vault and texted Kira.

Akimbo Norths

It was an anagram for “bathroom sink” — something she could decode in minutes. You closed and locked the sink doors, gripping them as sweat dampened your palms. Your heartbeat thundered, and your breath came shallow and quick. Whoever was outside would find you if they checked the compartment under the sink — unless they were stupid enough not to.

Things started breaking. Footsteps trampled the apartment. You smelled gas as they sprayed the rooms. Explosions rattled the building; you covered your mouth as the sink’s wood shook. The distinct pop of bullets replaced the blasts; the whole place sounded like jets overhead.

“Clear!” people shouted. Heavy thumps — bodies hitting floors. Then a terrifying silence. Whoever was on the other side of the bathroom door moved like a cheetah: deadly, silent.

From the tiny cracks in the cupboard you tried to see. All you saw were white tiles and a yellow wall before the lights cut.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Even sheltered by wood and granite, you felt eyes on you.

This was it.

You were either getting captured or killed.

The doors you were gripping were ripped off their hinges and thrown open. Red laser dots stabbed your vision.

“Got the package, sir,” a man said as hands grabbed your ankle and dragged you out. Lights snapped on and vests came into view. INTERPOL, white letters mocking you from your position on the floor. “She has nothing on her, sir… Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

When he said the last words, you knew he would fire. As a last, stupid, heroic move, you kicked him hard where it hurt. He doubled over and you barreled past the other agent blocking the doorway, shoulder-checking him to the floor, then ducking out the front.

You ran as gunfire stitched the air. Running and being shot at down a stairwell did not make you graceful; you missed steps and tumbled a few times. Hips, legs, and ribs would be bruised, but bruises were better than a coffin.

On the first floor you cut across and took another stairwell toward the garages. You knew the Interpol team was already on the street waiting for you.

Your legs burned. A sting along your shoulder said a bullet had grazed you, but you didn’t stop until you saw the garage door.

“C’mon, bitch, open!” you cursed, yanking at the stubborn handle that wouldn’t budge. You hit the manual gate button with your foot, ducked down, and rolled onto the asphalt, sprinting for the street. People scattered. You grabbed your belongings from the trash can and scrambled to the bike without letting it warm up.

As soon as the tires hit the road, you flew off. Your body took the full impact: breath knocked out of you, pain radiating from your right side. Your head throbbed and vision wobbled.

More gunfire. The bike shredded by bullets. With the last of your strength you turned and tried to crawl away. Instead your eyes locked on a pair of boots inches from your face.

“Y/n, ye don’t die easy, huh, lass? Saw you fly off yer bike — thought you’d pancake.” The voice was thick with a Scottish accent; the man in front of you wore a smug expression.

You opened your mouth to reply and instead a coughing fit seized you. Tears streamed as a sharp pain jabbed your right side.

“Easy there, lass.” He knelt and, surprisingly gentle, shoved you onto your back. “Need medical out here. Don’t think she’ll make it if I move her.”

You clawed at your throat. Air felt thin.

“Oi, you all right?” He slid a knife from a shoulder holster and cut through your jacket. “I’m Soap. Thought you’d like to know that as I rip off your clothes.” He tried to joke. In your frightened state it broke something in you and you laughed — the movement made your pain worse.

His pale blue eyes tracked motion; hurried footsteps closed in.

“Just put her in the back of the truck. We’ve got more closing on us,” another man said, hat shadowing his face in the night.

“Sorry, lass.” Soap secured his weapon and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you up. The movement sent a fresh scream out of you as whatever was wrong with your ribs protested.

You coughed; a metallic taste flooded your mouth and black spots began to crowd your vision.

“Hey now.” A gloved hand nudged your cheek as you were lowered onto a hard surface. “Gaz, stay with her. Soap, you’re with me.”

Chapter Text

The world was tilting when you came to your senses, a persistent ache in the back of your skull making even your stomach feel like it was sinking into an abyss. Your neck was numb and buzzing, and when you lifted your head, you quickly regretted the motion—it sent waves of nausea climbing up your esophagus.

A small whimper slipped from your parted, dry lips as you began to assess how bad you were feeling—pieces of what happened returning bit by bit. The escape from your apartment. The run toward your bike. And finally—the truck slamming into you, sending you flying to the ground with a loud crack that still echoed in the back of your mind.

You felt it then. Your ribs screamed, sharp and stinging like lemon juice poured over a fresh paper cut. You were almost sure your ankle was sprained, and your arm—if not fully busted—was close enough. You could barely move your fingers, constricted and heavy.

“Finally awake.” The voice sounded drowsy. Or maybe you were the one drowsy. You forced your eyelids open, only to find yourself chained to a black metal chair—wrists cuffed, ankles bound, a long chain connecting the two.

“Thought you’d be sleeping longer. Eighteen hours is a pretty long nap.”

Finally, you lifted your head high enough to see the person’s face instead of just their brown boots. You stayed silent, not trusting your stomach to keep from revolting.

The man had dark brown hair, dark blue eyes, and a scowl carved deep into his features. Civilian clothes—dark jeans, a light blue shirt—but the tactical vest overtop bore a patch you recognized instantly: the American flag.

You glanced around as best as you could. Metal walls. Dim light. A single blinding spotlight aimed directly at you. A shipping container, most likely.

“You had some injuries. We patched you up,” he said, circling your chair like a vulture. “Broken ribs. Sprained ankle. Dislocated shoulder. Concussion.” He listed your injuries like items on a restaurant menu.

You stayed quiet, your eyes tracking his every move.

“The Architect—that’s what they call you, right?” he asked, stopping in front of you.

You just stared.

“Not much of a talker now, huh?” He chuckled at his own words.

Still, you said nothing. Instead, you tilted your head, cracking the stiff joints in your neck.

“I’ve done this before, girl. I’m not scared of you. You’re done for. Your days of freedom are over. But you can still save yourself—”

You cut him off with a bitter laugh.

“What? You’re going to tell me if I give you this information or that information, you’ll go easy on me? That it?” you said, rattling your chains dramatically.

“That’s right.” He folded his arms.

“For someone who claims to be good at interrogations, you’re not doing a great job. Let me guess—the next thing you’ll say is I can even request my own Christmas presents?” you snorted.

“Don’t be a smart ass,” he snapped, jabbing a finger at you. “You want to joke around? Let’s see what happens when those painkillers wear off, when you start feeling every bone crack you’ve got. Your shoulder. Your ankle. Let’s see then.”

“You think that’s going to make me talk?” you asked, your face tight with pain you refused to acknowledge.

“I know it will. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” He turned his back and left, locking the door behind him.

You kept your mind busy—counting cracks, dents, paint chips, links in the chain—anything to ignore the fact the pain was settling deep into your bones. You had high tolerance, but nothing could mask what it felt like to be ragdolled across pavement.

An hour later, sweat beaded your temples. Your vision blurred. You couldn’t decide which hurt worse: your ribs or your shoulder.

The door creaked open. The American returned—but this time, with someone else.

The second man’s presence filled the room before he spoke. He wore full military kit, patches sharp against his vest. The British flag. His beard was thick and deliberate, his eyes sharper still. He carried authority like a shadow.

“How are you feeling?” the American asked.

You squinted, noticing his vest was different now: more patches, more weight. One patch in particular stood out—B-23, above a skull emblem inside a triangle.

“Why, you want to tell me how you can help me if I give you names?” you asked, teeth gritted.

“Something like that,” he said, glancing at his partner. The Brit gave a subtle nod. “This is Captain Price. You’ve met him before.”

You frowned. You’d remembered if you’d seen that face before.

“You might not remember—you passed out on my sergeant.” He smirked. “We pulled you out of the crash.”

“Hmm.” You hummed, unimpressed. “So what now? Am I supposed to thank you for saving my life?”

“Not quite.” Price finally spoke, voice calm but steel-lined. “We just want to know where the files are, lass. That’s all.”

You laughed—a jagged sound that tore through your ribs.

“Oh, so now you can laugh?” the American—Graves—snapped, stepping toward you. Price caught him by the shoulder.

“Now, Graves. No need for that.”

Finally, a name to the face.

“C’mon lass,” Price tried again. “We’re all you’ve got. Tell us where they are, and we can all go our separate ways.”

“Over my dead body,” you spat. “Do whatever you want. I’m not giving you anything.”

The two exchanged looks, then turned to leave. Price paused at the door, casting one last glance at you.

“I’ll send someone to look over your wounds.” Then he was gone.

Silence pressed in, heavy. No birds, no wind, no muffled footsteps outside. Just the ache in your bones.

Until the door opened again.

This time, two figures entered. A woman in her forties, calm and efficient. And him. The Scot.

“Aye, if it isn’t sorcha—up and about,” Soap said, that thick accent curling over the words.

“Can’t say much for ‘up and about,’” you muttered, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

The woman set to work. “Any dizziness, nausea, memory loss?” she asked.

“All of the above,” you answered. “Are these coming off?” you asked Soap, nodding at your restraints.

“Nae, can’t do, sorcha,” he said, serious face, eyes shining under the harsh light. You catalogued that his eyes were—unfairly—pretty.

“Worth a try.” You shrugged, instantly regretting it as pain shot up your neck.

“Let’s check that shoulder,” the medic said, calm and professional. “Not that you need to know, but I’m Melina.”

You gave your name in return.

“Any chance I can at least stand?” you asked, half-exasperated, half-desperate.

“That we can do,” Soap said, moving closer.

“Not yet,” Melina interrupted. “We still need to check her ankle. Soap, help me with the shirt.”

You froze, tension spiking.

“Wait. Stop. I can do it myself. You don’t need to—”

“You’re cuffed. We’re just moving fabric, not touching you.” Her tone was even, but your nerves stayed lit.

Soap seemed to sense it. He stayed in your line of sight, lifting the fabric carefully, exposing your arm and shoulder without compromising the rest of you.

“Ligaments stretched. Likely a small tear,” Melina said clinically. “Don’t move your arm if you can help it.”

“Lucky for me, I’m handcuffed,” you deadpanned.

Soap lowered the shirt back gently, movements slow and deliberate. His gloves didn’t stop the gesture from feeling oddly considerate.

Melina circled, lifting the shirt at your ribs. You sucked in a sharp breath at the bruises—deep purple, nearly black.

“That looks serious,” Soap muttered.

“They’re not broken,” Melina said, “but breathe carefully. One wrong move could puncture a lung.”

You smirked despite the pain. “Perfect. Sitting here all pretty for you, Soap. You guys take requests? Could do with some water.”

He huffed a laugh, leaning closer.

“You’re not running anywhere, sorcha.”

Melina checked your ankle next, unwrapping the gauze. “It’s still fresh, but you should be able to walk in a few days.”

“Give me a few days,” you said, locking eyes with Soap.

Melina pressed pills into your palm, offering a water bottle.

“What’s this?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Painkillers. You need them. Infection’s a risk.”

You smirked again, not mentioning Graves’ earlier threats.

“Ten-minute bathroom break after you eat. Make it count,” Soap said, leading Melina out the same way they came.

Chapter Text

You weren’t expecting a banquet. Starving for almost two days, and before that surviving on ramen noodles and mămăligă, you were actually content to eat something other than instant starch. The soldier who delivered the food kept watch by the door while you struggled with the tray, shoveling mashed potatoes and well-seasoned boiled chicken into your mouth. You drank two whole bottles of water and then were helped out of your small box, almost dragged to the bathroom that sat just across the container.

Unfortunately, everything outside was dark—no wind to bring ocean mist or desert air. You were left with nothing but gun oil and gasoline in the air; the sky was so black you couldn’t even see the North Star. The bathroom itself was bare: a toilet, a sink, and a big space for a shower with no curtain and none of the comforts of a normal bathroom.

So—you were fucked. With no help from outside and no contact, you didn’t really know what was happening. What you did know was that you’d been arrested and were now being held at a military base with both American and British forces. They didn’t have the files, and as far as you could tell you were the only one caught. Meaning Kira was probably safe. You just hoped she’d gotten your message and was being careful.

You must have dozed off at some point—the food, the medicine, the concussion, and the silence inside the container did what they wanted. Sitting on a chair for so long was uncomfortable; napping in one with so many injuries was worse. You woke with a loud bang—so loud it threw your body straight into the fight-or-flight reflex you despised.

Your pupils widened and your skin went pale. Your heart raced and your breathing spiked. Melina’s advice about being careful with your breathing, flew out the window.

“Get up.” Graves approached. His face was serious this time—no cockiness—just the demand.

“Why?” Anxiety pooled so close to the surface you could taste it.

“We’re going to have a chat.” His lips quirked. “We’re moving you so you’re cozy.”

You wanted to answer, Cozy my ass, but that wouldn’t help. You did what he told you, putting barely any weight on your ankle. He grabbed your arm and almost lifted you off the floor, dragging you out.

“Can you wait up? I’m fucking chained here,” you muttered.

“You’re lucky you’re not in a cage right now,” he said, before hauling you like a ragdoll. Your bare feet scraped along the floor, making your skin crawl. Even the clothes on your body, your hair, and your injuries made you itch in a way that had nothing to do with hygiene. You’d lived with this feeling all your life, but it was never easy to control it, the overflowing sensations of too many textures at the same time.

Graves walked toward a building you hadn’t seen before. Two soldiers—sergeants, maybe—guarded the double doors. Armed vehicles waited nearby; jets hunched at the hangar. From Graves near-sprint, you couldn’t tell what was what, but you filed everything into the back of your mind.

Inside, the floor was freezing; goosebumps rose on your warm skin. The hallway was mostly dark except for a few overhead lights. All doors were closed except one: a set of double doors on the right, near the end of the hall. That’s where he dragged you.

Your eyes went to the clock on the wall: a little past four in the morning. A long metal table dominated the room, a laptop sat open, and a file thicker than your hand was spread out. Captain Price, Soap, and six others waited inside.

Captain Price’s eyes locked onto yours and didn’t break contact until Graves shoved you into the single chair opposite the table. Four men in all-black tactical gear moved to the doors and shut them. Your heart clenched for all the wrong reasons.

“Slept well?” Captain Price asked. For a minute you were confused—then realized they must have had security cameras on your container. You didn’t answer; instead you scanned the room and the men inside.

Graves stood beside Price. Soap was against the wall in the back, another soldier near him—same patch as Soap, darker skin, buzz cut. What made you freeze, though, was the figure in the corner: wrapped in shadow, a skull mask hiding his face. You could barely see his eyes, but you felt them like a weight. He intimidated you more than anyone in the room.

You broke eye contact first. Price typed something, glancing at the screen between casual looks at you. Graves was smiling like he owned the day, and the smugness pissed you off. You knew better than to act on it—one twitch from any of these men and you were done. One punch from Soap or Price and you’d be out for a week. You didn’t even want to think about the others.

“Good to see you, John.” A woman’s voice came through the laptop speakers. Your ears perked up. How many more people were needed for this “chat”?

“Likewise, Kate,” Captain Price said—his features loosening for a fraction of a second as he regarded her. Another chime announced someone else joining the call.

“John, talk to me.” A gravelly male voice, older, direct.

Price turned the screen toward you, the light catching your face. Two faces filled the feed: a woman with blonde hair and soft features—late forties, maybe—and a bald man in a decorated uniform who looked very high up.

They both said your full name and the formality snapped you back.

“I’m Chief Kate Laswell, and this is Colonel Hershel Shepherd. We’re overseeing your case,” the woman said.

You kept your eyes on the screen, not nodding or acknowledging them. Graves stepped into view, leaning so his face filled the laptop frame.

“She’s a little shy, nothing we can’t fix,” he said, smiling tight. You rolled your eyes.

“What’s this about?” you asked the screen.

“The files in your possession. We want to know where they are,” Shepherd said—straight to the point, his expression set.

“What do I get in return?” you asked, a grin tugging at your lips.

“Don’t be coy. You know your position. There’s no escaping—you’ll go to trial for starting a terrorist organization, Miss. Your best option is to cooperate. My colleague won’t add to your file if you comply,” the colonel said. Your grin only grew.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I asked that as if I cared. Let me put it simply: no one in this room will have any contact or information on the whereabouts of the files that may or may not be in my possession. The information isn’t for your hands. It’s for the people of the world.”

“The information you have could put millions in danger,” Laswell countered. “Your first statement put thousands into high alert. Think carefully—you still have a chance to remedy what you started.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at her words.

“Do these soldiers even know what kind of information I have? Or are they paid to kill and not ask questions, Chief Laswell? Colonel Shepherd?” you asked honestly.

“That is irrelevant,” Price said, as if he didn’t know what he faced.

“No, it’s not. That’s your job, right? Successful missions, regardless of targets or casualties. You go into a city and you kill. For what—power? Territory? They tell you it’s because the other side are terrorists. It’s acceptable when you think you’re on the right side of history, isn’t it?” Your words were venomous; they were meant to cut.

“You are known as The Architect, am I correct?” Laswell broke the silence. You kept your face slack, careful not to move more than you needed. She pulled up a photo: a graffiti’d wall with the logo that had begun to go viral about ten years ago—a simple red circle with a broken cross in the center.

“You created the Red Sigil,” she said. “You invaded countries, you fought terrorist groups and full governments, you took your message to the streets. You have followers everywhere.”

You stopped yourself from shrugging—any small movement might make your injuries worse.

“Keep going. I’m sure you’ll get to your point,” you said, lifting your chin.

“You also have enemies. Three years ago—Urzikstan. Your symbol was painted on walls, Al-Qatala had a hit on you. In Russia, some Spetsnaz soldiers patrolled the streets searching for you or your followers. In South Africa, mobs rose after your speech aired on the local radio. And you? You don’t have the funds to finance such operations, visit countries and fund so many operations.” Laswell’s voice made the accusation mingle in the air.

They all looked at each other, waiting to see if you had a benefactor funding this chaos.

“You came from a poor working class, the youngest sibling who struggled at school. No friends. Mediocre grades. Therapy as a child—” Colonel Shepherd continued, dripping condescension. You could handle threats and beating, but your family was off-limits. That hurt deeper than any bruise.

“We are done here,” you said, trying to stand and go back to the container. Graves held you in place, pressing on the deliberately dislocated shoulder.

“We are done when I say we are done,” Shepherd snapped, his voice cutting the room. You fought to keep your face neutral, to not cry out as Graves’ hand dug into the wound, but somehow you stayed defiant.

“Then let me say this in terms you might understand. ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.’” You spoke the line you’d clung to since school.

“Martin Luther King Jr.?” Shepherd scoffed.

“The Red Sigil fights so no injustices are made, anywhere,” you said. “You talk about my past as if I didn’t fight to be where I am. We are not a criminal organization. We are not terrorists. We put people’s lives and values first—unlike the United States government.” You chuckled. “CIA has caused most, if not all, the wars in the Middle East, hasn’t it, Chief Laswell?”

“How do you know the CIA is involved?” Captain Price asked—he’d been quiet until now. You could feel every eye in the room assess you for flaws.

“Only the CIA would stick its nose into a case like this. Homeland Security already had their asses handed to them when they tried to take me—” you explained, but Graves cut you off.

“That wasn’t HS that ran you over or that was near your apartment,” he said. Your neck snapped toward him so fast you were sure you’d given yourself whiplash.

“What do you mean? They had vests marked ‘Homeland Security’—”

“HS doesn’t go into the field like that, sorcha. They send teams,” Soap said, confirming Graves.

“If not Homeland Security, then who?” you asked the room; they had access to things you didn’t.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. That’s why we need to know where those files are. If someone else finds them first, you could have sparked something that puts millions at risk.”

Your blood ran cold.

Kira.

She was supposed to pick up the files when it was safe. If she—

The masked soldier from the corner stepped forward. Your eyes snapped to him. In the pit of your stomach you knew—he knew.

“What is it?” His voice was muffled, but you recognized the accent, the gruffness, the cold whiskey eyes.

You had two choices: tell them about Kira, or lose her. You couldn’t live with yourself if she bled because you stayed silent. It could be a ploy to make you reveal the location, but if it wasn’t—

You breathed shakily, ribs stabbing as you fought tears. “I swear—if this is a trick, I will find a way to have my way with all of you,” you threatened, but the voice was raw, not really intimidating. “Kira Aldana—she knows where they are. She’s supposed to pick them up when it’s safe.”

“Captain Price, prepare your team for the extraction of Kira Aldana. Identify who else is after those files before we get to them,” Chief Laswell ordered. “You’ll be moved to a new holding cell until further notice. Sergeant MacTavish, escort them out.”

Soap carefully lifted you from the chair and guided you toward the door. The masked man’s eyes burned into your back as you left. Even walking away, you felt him like a ghost.

“Hard tae tell ye’re a terrorist with the way ye speak, sorcha,” he said, chuckling.

“That’s a loose term. People label what they don’t understand with scary names,” you answered, voice low and tired.

“Aye, but ye don’t hold a gun. Ye say words and people follow. That’s dangerous.” He opened a door for you.

“You would know about following words, wouldn’t you, Sergeant Soap?” you asked, studying him. His chin had a scar like lightning that you figured he got fighting at some war.

“Ay, sorcha.” He led you to a small bed in the corner, took a key from his pocket, and knelt to unlock the handcuffs at your feet. He remained there, unlocking your wrists. His gloved hands picked up the chains and let them dangle loosely.

“What does that mean, ‘sorcha’?” you asked, intrigued. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it—you’d heard him call you ‘lass’ before, when he kind of rescued you.

“Means ‘bright,’” he shrugged, stepping toward the door.

“You think I’m bright?” you said, tilting so you could see him better.

His blue eyes flicked to a small detail on your face before he nodded. His expression went serious.

“Something like that.” He closed the door. The lock turned and the light inside dimmed.

Chapter Text

“Quit it, Sergeant.”

The low rasp of Simon Riley’s voice made John MacTavish jump half an inch on the bench.

“Quit what, Lt.?” Soap grinned, though his head had been a mile away.

“You’re thinking about the Architect.” Ghost didn’t phrase it as a question. He knew Johnny too well—after years together and nearly a year as lovers, he could read him like a map.

Soap gave a short chuckle. “Funny job, innit?” No playful lilt in his tone this time. His blue eyes stayed fixed on nothing, his food untouched.

“Complicated,” Ghost grunted, sitting across from him. He rarely sat down at the cafetiria since he had his meals in his room, but tonight wasn’t one of his silent nights.

Soap frowned, lips pressing thin. “Don’t.”

“Johnny.” Ghost’s amber eyes locked onto his, almost pleading, but never soft.

“Colonel and Chief asked us to handle this. Look what they’re doing instead…” Soap muttered, his voice low.

“They’re terrorists. It’s what we do. They’re a threat.” Ghost’s tone was flat steel.

Soap huffed. “Ye don’t believe that, Lt.”

Before Ghost could reply, Kyle Garrick slid onto the bench beside Soap with a raised brow.

“What’s this then? You both look like you’ve swallowed nails.”

Ghost stayed silent, letting his stare do the talking.

Soap turned eagerly. “What d’you make of the Architect, Gaz?”

“Not much to make,” Kyle shrugged, tearing bread. “Apart from them bein’ mental.”

“Don’t wind me up,” Soap pressed, eyeing him.

Gaz glanced between them, then sobered. “Sketchy, I’ll give you that. Enemies all over, don’t use weapons, and somehow we’re the ones sent after ’em.”

“See?” Soap jabbed a finger at Ghost. “Why have us and Graves’ lot chasing one lass?”

“Because she’s a threat.” Ghost’s reply was curt, but his jaw was tight. He wanted this conversation over before it sank deeper.

“To who? Last I checked, she starts riots and protests. That’s it. Why not take down the Red Sigil as a whole? Why just the Architect?” Gaz leaned closer, lowering his voice. The three of them passing as a group of teenagers at the highscool cafeteria.

“If you say ‘orders are orders,’ I’ll chuck this pudding at ye,” Soap threatened, glaring at Ghost.

Ghost’s eyes narrowed. “Wars don’t start themselves, Johnny.”

Soap snorted. “That girl? She can barely lift a tire. Hardly world-ending.”

“She’s dangerous enough. Urzikstan, Russia—need me to read her file aloud?” Ghost’s head tilted, a dare in his voice.

Both Soap and Gaz went quiet at that.

“Still too many guns for one woman,” Soap muttered at last, stabbing at his food.

“We’re not the only ones hunting her. You saw the state she was in when you picked her up. We need her alive—and we need the files.” Ghost’s tone left little room for argument.

Soap leaned back, unsatisfied. “Fine. But what d’ye reckon’s in those files, then?”

Gaz hummed, chewing slowly. “Could be weapons. Plans. Maybe someone’s funding the Sigil, maybe she's finally upping their game.”

Ghost’s glare cut the thought off. “We’re not meant to know. And that’s the end of it.”

Soap ignored the warning, eyes still narrowed.

By five a.m., 141 were geared up. The mission was simple enough, extract Kira Aldana in Andorra before anyone else got to her. Ghost strapped his gear tight, eyes tracking Soap, who looked half out of his body.

“Sergeant.” Ghost bumped his shoulder.

“Aye, Lt. I’m ready,” Soap said quickly, shaking himself back.

“You sure?” Ghost’s stare lingered.

“I’m sure, Simon.” Johnny dropped his voice so only he could hear. “Let’s get this lass.”

They boarded the waiting helicopter. Price laid the facts out short and sharp: Kira Aldana, thirty-six, staying at a hostel. Photo for identification. In and out, clean.

Soap’s mind wouldn’t let go. He clicked on his comms. “Captain… why isn’t Graves’ team with us?”

Ghost’s glare was instant, a warning burn across the aisle. Soap ignored it.

“Stayed back to question the Architect,” Price answered. “Besides, Aldana’s off-books. Easier if we handle it, civilians see the lot of us storming into town words will get around.”

Soap bit the inside of his cheek, uneasy. Ghost was about to shut him down when Price’s voice cut in: “Two minutes to target.”

They landed fast, a car already waiting at the helipad.

“Soap, with me. Ghost, you’re with Gaz,” Price ordered as they piled in.

Johnny’s pulse jumped. He wasn’t nervous by nature—but separating from Simon always pulled at his gut. Price didn’t split pairs unless he had reason, or he wanted to talk to him. Still, no one protested. They split as soon as they parked the car, Soap sticking tight on Price’s heels as they walked the streets. Cafés and restaurants opened, the air thick with coffee and warm bread.

“You’re quiet,” Price said bluntly, scanning the street. “Spit it out.”

Soap hesitated, then cursed inwardly. “Doesn’t sit right, Captain. This mission. The lass doesn’t fit the bill. Not for us, not for Shadow Company.”

Price gave a slow nod, eyes on the crowd. “Agreed. But Laswell asked a favor. CIA’s been circling the Sigil for years.”

Soap’s head snapped to him.

Price caught the look. “Don’t act surprised. She knows it smells wrong. But her hands are tied. Ours too.”

“…Aye.” Soap finally nodded, though the unease chewed deeper. Maybe it was time to put the questions to rest. A few hours and it would all be over. The Architect would vanish behind prison walls, her files seized, and 141 would be dropped into the next mess the world offered them.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

Getting to you, was a mess. They were assigned the case not even a week before, every trail you left behind you always made sure to cover it up so well, everyone including the Task Force was following their own tails every day. It was only when you filled up your bike at a Romanian gas station did the team finally had a lead. They could have had intercepted you on your way to your apartment, but instead they chose the safest option. Wait for you to have the files so your extraction could be easy, they wouldn't have to interrogate you for them.

The game of cat and mouse would end quickly, but that's not what happened.

By the time they're feet touched the Romanian streets, explosions and shots were being fired streets down from them--going into your apartment's direction. They acted with precision, each member of the Task Force 141 going their seperate ways, but the mission still the same. Easier said that done, because the moment you got on top of the bike and Soap saw a glimpse of your silhouete, you were flying from your vehicle and hitting the ground. The fall was nasty, Soap almost didn't believe you were alive, let alone conscious. So when he approached, with Captain Price barking orders into the comms to everyone, it was safe to say. This mission was going to be anything but easy.

Now Kira Aldana was something else.

She was your right arm in all of this, althought the age difference. Your friendship seemed to be a strong one, built on trust and conspiracy. Kira Aldana is a free lancer journalist, and for the little information the CIA was able to get, you two met in Tunisia. Kira was photographing a politics rally when your group, The Red Sigil, showed up.

And after two months of following you around and the cause, you finally met with her. It wasn't easy, at the time you wanted nothing to do with cameras or the press, at protests you wore all black and a black and a white Keffiyeh (Kuffiyah), wrapped around your head and face, with only your eyes being shown. Kira instantly got intriguied by the passion and resilience in your eyes, asked to take a picture of you and The Red Sigil. And since then, that picture has been posted and seen across the globe. It was only when you were captured by a small group of Russian troops in Urzakistan, that your indentity was revealed. It didn't stop you from wearing the Keffiyeh, you either wore in around your face or just around your shoulders.

Your passion for freedom of speech, justice and overthrowing goverments that took advantage of their people, wasnt the only thing that caugh Kira and people overall. It was also your facts and patterns recognition. You were ten steps ahead of goverments and even terrorist groups from attacking civilians. You could see things no one could, and with that, came people in power that related to that and also helped you with information. Kira was thriving, always with camera in her hand, uploading mostly everything to the website.--that kept being removed. The media then began to pay for any information people and even the Red Sigil might have. Donations began, and soon, all of you were protesting and helping people. Children gained schoolerships, schools were reformed with your help and the Red Sigil. You just didn't pay for the construction, you were in it. Learning how to paint walls, how to use drills. Building and rebuilding houses for families, furniture, sewing clothes for babies.

It was more than just a group of misfits or 'terrorists' as the goverments began to call you.

But with the fame, came the enimies.

You were always straight to the point. Protect your own from everything, learn the laws and learn the easier patterns. You taught Kira everything you knew, especially how to stay hidden and away from danger. And Kira follwoed that to a T. Until your message, almost three days ago.

She didn't meant to, in fact, she didn't even knew she did it. But she got sloppy, checking the media for news of you on a non-private firewall. The CIA easily found her location. She felt like she was running out of time--and she was. With you now arrested or dead, she was the one who was left with the location of the files and backups. The fear--the one that you tried to prepare her mentally for, had its claws inside her chest. She didn't know what to do without you, so she remained in Andorra one more day.

Ghost called in then, seeing your best friend pacing inside the hostel room all alone as she muttered to herself.

'' Bravo 0-7, i got eyes on the asset '' Ghost took stand by the roof, as he looked through his binoculars. His eyes not leaving Kira as he waited for Price's orders.

'' Bravo 6, two minutes. Keep an eye on asset, Bravo 6-2, status ? '' Price called Gaz, as he and Soap arrived at the entrance of the Hostel.

'' Bravo 6-2, in position ''

Ghost then looked at the backdoor of the Hostel and saw the seargent taking position, as Price and Soap walked to the entrance.

'' Bravo 6-1 in position, let's crack it open '' Soap answred, as he slid his sunglasses on as some form of disguise at the front door.

Ghost smirked under his balaclava upon watching his boyfriend's antics on the street.

'' Asset on second floor, third window '' Ghost gave Price the location of Kira, as he snapped back to the task at hand.

'' Bravo 6 going live '' Price's tone was short and straight to the point, as he opened the door for the inside of the hostel. This was the part where adrenaline buzzed inside everyone's veins, just ready to kick start. Most--Soap mostly-- had a great kick in the waiting time, his body couldn't stay still for long. His blue eyes took notice of everything around him, and as he looked around and saw the small glint of the glass on Ghost's binocolaus--something that only someone who knew where to look could see, Soap slid his sunglasses down an inch and winked in Ghost's direction. A playfull but cheeky grin on his face as he did so. Just as the moment began, it ended quickly.

Ghost blushed slightly under his balaclava, as he turned to the window again. With also keeping an eye on Gaz who was leaning against the wall of the backdoor building completly relaxed as the wind flew by, it seemed like he was breathing easily today. Not really much pressure on his shoulders, just the faint twitch of adrenaline. As for Ghost, his eyes were narrowed, body coiled and tense as he awaited like a predator. That's when he saw Price entering the room, startling Kira who took two steps behind her and looked at her exits. Noone but the windows that were on the second floor--a death sentence most likely for her if she decided to take the risk. Ghost saw Price's lips moving, his arms extended to Kira to show her he wasn't going to harm her. While Kira's head snapped from one direction to the other, it sounded like she was shouting something, something that apparently had Price stopping his speech and steps.

If it was someone else, they wouldn't have notice how Price hesitated for a whole two seconds. But Ghost noticed and he was itching to know what that was about.

Whatever words were shared inside that room, the mission still stood. Kira grabbed her bag, and Price protectively held her arm as they exited the room.

'' Bravo 6, asset secured. Moving to exfil ''

'' Bravo 0-7, perimeter clear. You're green to advance '' Ghost said into the comms, as he surveyed the perimeter.

'' Copy, back's clear. ''

Not even four minutes later, and Price was exiting the backdoor with Kira. Gaz taking the left side, as they escorted her towards the car. Ghost stood up, and walked towards the stairs on the side of the building, with quick precision and fast silent movements. He advanced to the next roof, and so on until Price, Gaz and Kira arrived at the car. Soap took another route, jogging along the streets and backalleys to make sure everything was safe to move. Gaz drove as Price stood in the backseat with Kira, Soap entering the backseat a few blocks later, and last. Ghost entering the passenger seat of the car.

Ghost was dying to know what went inside that room, and as he looked at the rearview mirror, his eyes found blue ones. Soap was already looking at him, a grin on his face. Just the hours before Ghost was rephrimanding his boyfriend for thinking about this mission 'too much'. And now, as a joke or karma, he was the one thinking that maybe..his boyfriend might not be wrong after all.

Price didn't hesitate, never. And for him to do--even for just a fraction of a second. Something must have had happen. And whatever it was, Ghost was going to find out.

Chapter Text

The first thing you felt when you woke up was the freezing gush of wind coming from the outside of the open holding cell door. Instantly, your body jerked from its flat position, your injuries protesting by the sudden movements. Graves stood tall at the entrance, flanked by two of his soldiers behind, as he held a tray with food, breakfast for you.

Although you were wearing a cotton tracksuit, the fact that you were still barefoot, and the thin sheet on the bed did nothing to keep the cold away. You dragged a hand down your face, as you held your injured arm towards your chest.

''Good morning,'' Philip Graves said, taking in your awakened face now as an invitation to walk inside the room. One of his soldiers had a folding chair in his hands, which he quickly set up for the commander to sit on. Your eyes took them in, you didn't trust anyone here. But Graves was surely the one that seemed like a wolf in sheep's clothes. ''Close the door,'' he spoke towards the soldier, his eyes never leaving your body as he did so. You remained quiet, observing the man instead.

As soon as the door closed, Graves relaxed on his chair, the tray flat on his lap as he did so. He perfected a smile on his lips to look friendly, maybe, but the cold look in his blue eyes showed you the opposite.

''How are you feelin'?'' he asked, tilting his head to the side, his hands holding the food still. You gave him a suspicious glare, before you decided to entertain him.

''What do you think?'' you asked, mimicking his expression. Graves smiled at you, and offered the tray. You took it carefully, eyeing the food suspiciously. Scrambled eggs, a slice of toast and coffee. ''What's this?'' you asked, looking at him.

''Well… breakfast I suppose. Can't have you starving in here.'' He gave you a smile, as if 'go ahead, it's safe to eat.'

You wanted to protest, not eat. But your stomach hurt from hunger, so you gave in, taking a sip of the coffee that was still hot.

''Good? I'm sure it's nothing like an ol' Starbucks—''

''It's fine.'' You cleared your throat, getting into a better position on the bed, so you could have your back flat against the wall and still be face to face with him. Your legs stretched in front of you, as you broke a piece of the toast. ''What do you want…'' you asked, taking a bite.

''Just… wanted to know how are you feeling. Do you need more painkillers?'' he asked, his tone so nonchalant that you almost forgot you were being held inside a military base.

''You play nurse too? Or is this your way of getting me to talk, maybe you're hoping I spill something… maybe where the documents are?'' you ask now, taking a large sip of your coffee and you stare at Graves with an eyebrow raised, challengingly. He laughed at your words, but you could see his jaw tightening.

''Everything at its time, after all, you're not going nowhere.'' He shrugged. ''First I want to know if you need medical attention, eat your breakfast, and we'll talk. How does that sound?'' he asks, with a smile on his face. He was handsome, in that Southern American way. You couldn't really deny that, but he gave you that energy that he wasn’t to be trusted.

''Oh, I can multitask. Don't worry, ask away,'' you say, finishing with the toast. You saw then, Graves' body tensing slightly at your words. You were rushing him, rushing his plans and he hated it.

''141 left this morning to rescue your… friend,'' he said, simply as a statement. Your heart picked up at his words, suddenly feeling nervous. With no words to add, you simply nodded. ''They're probably going to take a full day to get here…'' he continued.

''And where is here exactly?'' you ask now. Since you were taken from Romania, you had no idea of where you were. Especially since you were passed out for eighteen hours due to your injuries. ''It's not like I can leave, you said it yourself.'' You prompt him into talking, telling you anything that could tell you where you were. What country, what town. Hell, anything.

''We're in Germany, at the Ramstein Air Base,'' he answered finally, and you wrote it down into a mental note in the back of your mind.

''Figured. It's cold…'' you say, deciding that maybe if you kept him talking you could get more information. Maybe find out if you would be able to see Kira, you doubted that you could turn the tables in this situation. For what you could gather, Graves knew how to manipulate someone.

''I can bring you a blanket if you need,'' he offered, and that's when you realized what he was trying to do. Get you comfortable enough, to rip that away from you as soon as you refused to give him something in exchange.

''I'll manage,'' you answered curtly, sipping on your coffee slowly as you looked at him.

He tried to maintain eye contact with you for as long as he could, his blue eyes drilling into yours as if that would make you submit to whatever he wanted you to do or say. But you had been through worse. When you were taken by the Russian group of soldiers. It was the first time you truly feared for your life even though it wasn't the first time you had been in danger.

They were novices, that you could tell. And it was always a problem, because people who often wanted to impress higher ones were willing to do anything to accomplish that. If it wasn't for the ULF (Urzakistan Liberation Force) members taking a hold of the small village you were being held against, you were pretty sure that was going to be the end of your life. You went through hours of physical torture, getting whipped with metal chains. Cut with rusty blades, at one point they even chopped a small piece of your hair to try and strip away your identity. You couldn't understand what they were saying, but it was clear they were not happy with you, and if it wasn't for their Superior Commander being out of reach… yeah. Luckily they didn't touch you anywhere else. You were submitted to some touches that weren't welcomed, but you could say you were lucky.

So Graves could try his best.

''Did you make copies of the documents?''

You looked at the commander surprised, you weren't expecting him to be so direct.

''I'm not answering that,'' you say, grinning, which only made him smirk at your own words. He knew you would be a closed book.

''How about this, did you read everything in those documents?'' He tried an easier question for you to answer. Your head tilted to the side, contemplating your answer.

''What if I did?'' you ask, part intrigued, part curious to know his next move.

''I would say you are a very brave person for doing so, darlin'.'' He said simply, as if sugarcoating you would work in his favor. You chuckle at his demeanor. ''What?'' he asks, laughing with you.

''It's amusing to see you try so hard. Not even yesterday you threatened me, today you're complimenting me.'' You shrug, while still being careful with your shoulder and movements.

''I suppose you are not so bad. Besides, I'm just doing my job, sweetheart.'' His accent was more noticeable now, the nickname falling smoothly out of his lips. You hummed in response.

''You're not getting anything from me still,'' you spoke, reaffirming your position. You held power here, maybe not in the situation you were in—locked up, injured from head to toe—but the information you withheld was what everyone was after.

That's when you saw the smile falling from Graves' lips as he looked at the camera in the corner. The red light was off now. And at the sight of it, you noticed how his lips quirked upwards as he leaned forward on the chair.

''Task Force is off playin’ hero. Laswell’s busy. That leaves you and me—and my boys keepin’ you safe.'' His hands twitched as he spoke, and you held your breath at his words. ''You would like to see your friend I'm sure… I can make that happen. You tell me things, and I do things for you.''

You wanted to recoil at the look he gave you, but you remained still.

''I don't need you to do things for me,'' you said with certainty in your voice. It was true. You knew the position you were in, you put yourself in it and knew all of the risks.

''Oh, but that's where you're wrong. You see, the Task Force doesn't hold any power when it comes to trials. They won't be asked to testify, they are meant to remain under the radar. While me, I can help you out with your sentence. A few words and you might even walk free.'' He said, enticing you to talk. Your eyebrows furrowed, and your lips pressed together.

''I made my own bed, I know my fate.''

Just as the words came out of your mouth, his hand shot up to your ankle. The one that was sprained and still swollen. His calloused hand gripped it tightly until he heard you whimper.

''Good, saves me from writing an epitaph. I'm done playing games. Where are the documents?'' he asked with gritted teeth.

''Fuck you,'' you answered, biting your tongue.

''I have enough time to make you talk, you choose if you want to do it pain-free or not.'' He pressed your foot harder, and you snapped. The tray that was still in your lap was suddenly being thrown at his head. The hit was enough to make him stumble to the floor and grunt in pain. You were never an aggressive person until you had to be, and you would probably regret this.

''You little bitch.'' He lifted himself from the ground, and walked towards the door. Two knocks on it and the soldiers that were keeping guard outside gave Graves handcuffs and a similar chain that you had before Soap took it off of you.

Adrenaline pumped into you as you saw it, your bare feet touched the ground as you picked up the tray again. Pieces of the silverware scattered around the floor. You held the tray in your hands, as you watched Graves approach, the metal chain making clinking noises as he did so. His face devoid of a smile.

''Put that down,'' he barked orders. ''Against the wall, now.''

''No,'' you said, eyeing his body language to figure out when he was going to strike. He looked back at the men at the door, before taking a look at you. He kicked the tray off your hands with his boot, so hard that you went tumbling down. His boot then pressed on top of your stomach, one inch to the side and he would crush your broken ribs.

Enough scenarios were going through your head and none of them left you with the outcome of you leaving the base alive and on the run. Not when Kira was on her way here and not when you were no match to these mercenaries.

Graves snapped the cuffs onto your wrists, and instead of doing the same at your own two feet like you were previously, he decided to yank the chain and force you onto your feet. He walked to the other side of the wall where a metal bar was drilled onto the wall and snapped the other cuffs on it.

''Now you can't go nowhere. You just blew your chances out of the window…'' He opened his palm in the direction of one of the soldiers, and a black taser was dropped onto his greasy fingers. Your body tensed at that. ''I can't really put my hands on you, but what I can do is try and make you talk. Shadow Company has that liberty, so, are you going to start or do you want me to give you an incentive?'' he asked, with a greedy smile on his face.

You wanted to shout that what he was about to do was illegal. But hell, you knew that already. Orders are passed around like law, and companies like Graves' did their own. There was no escaping this, but since they couldn't kill you, you still held power. No matter if you were beaten and bruised to a pulp.

''I'll take that as a yes to talking. What do you know?'' He took a step towards you, with the taser in his hand.

''I know that you're not working for the government right now,'' you said, connecting the dots. ''You're an independent company, you do jobs for the government but you also work with other people. Until Captain Price's team was here you were playing by the rules, but now that they are gone, you want to know what I do. And not—'' Your words were cut short as he electrocuted you. Your body jerked to the floor. Knees hitting the tiles as your body felt like it was burning from the inside out.

You tried not to scream as you didn't want to give him any pleasure on the tactics he was using, but it was impossible, especially with the injuries you still had.

''How did that one feel? Sounded like you hit the floor pretty badly,'' he mocked you, as he crouched down to look at your face. ''C'mon sweetheart, tell me what you know and I'll stop.''

You gulped, trying to catch your breath.

''Everything I know will be made public, and no one will be able to stop it.'' You looked right into his eyes as you spoke, you were already expecting him to use the taser on you again, but instead, his free hand shot up to your shoulder and pressed down on it. You cried out, trying to move away from his grip.

''What names are in the documents?'' he asked, pressing his fingers down on your arm, almost as if yanking it down. You gritted your teeth.

''Important ones, the kind that will have the world protest against.''

''Names, I want names. I'm sure you can remember them.'' He put the taser now closer to your broken ribs, threateningly.

''I'm not telling you anything else. You want to know more? Watch the video I made three weeks ago warning the people, I'm sure you can still find it somewhere,'' you said, kicking him away from you. It only worked for two minutes, before he brought the device against your stomach and charged it. Your body trembled once more at the electricity being passed through, a small coat of sweat dripping down your face now. ''One way or another, my voice will warn the people all over the world. You can't stop that, and no one can stop that.''

''No? What if we put a bullet through Kira? Better yet, let's bring your family here. I'm sure you miss your parents, no? It's been what, nine years since you last saw them?''

''You stay away from my family and from Kira.'' Your voice turned sour, a warning really to Graves.

''Or what? What are you going to do, Architect? You have lost everything, your voice. Your freedom, your power.'' He taunted you.

''I haven't lost who I am. And as long as I'm alive, I will make sure your life will be a living hell if you touch anyone that is close to me.''

As a bittersweet answer, he electrocuted you once again. Aware and awaiting the pain, you laughed to mask it. Your eyes filled with tears, not leaving Graves as his scowl worsened.

''Now, that's not so bad isn't it darling? Seems to me like you're enjoying our little chat?'' He got up, wiping one hand on his cargo pants as he picked up a water bottle from the table. ''Thirsty?''

He walked back towards you as he unscrewed the cap, he held the bottle to your lips. You weren't thirsty although. As you gulped a large amount of water into your mouth, you spit it right out onto Graves' face, laughing at his expression as you did so.

He laughed with you, pressing his hand down on his face to clean the water and spit from his eyes and lips.

''Very funny,'' he whispered, before he turned the water on your body. You gasped in shock, the stinging on your stomach from the prongs of the taser burning slightly as the sweatshirt got soaked. ''Very funny indeed.''

You didn't even have time to think of an answer before the taser made contact with your skin once again. This time, you felt the pressure in his grip and the shock immobilizing you completely. You choked on your own breathing, your stomach felt like someone poured acid on it.

Your body slumped against the ground, weak and twitching.

''See you in a couple of hours.'' Your eyelids grew heavier as you saw Graves' figure retreating towards the door.

Chapter Text

You regained consciousness a few hours later. The clothes you wore were only slightly damp now, and you were back in the cot. You couldn't feel your body for the moment; your eyes roamed around the room, taking in everything that might look different, but it seemed like what Graves did to you was nothing but a bad dream. The only memory of it was your body still twitching from time to time, and the burning feeling on your stomach where the prongs made contact a few times. Your attention snapped to the door as you heard keys and the lock turning — the noise seemed louder than it was supposed to be. For a second, you contemplated pretending to be asleep, but the tall figure that showed up at the entrance made your eyes snap open even more.

It was the masked soldier that was beside Soap when you spoke with Chief Laswell and Colonel Shepherd. His eyes took in your appearance; you couldn't see anything but the cold look he had.

“Let's go.” The gravel in his voice was a bit muffled because of the fabric, and you would be lying if his tone didn’t trigger your fight-or-flight mode. Not that you would go far.

You moved slowly, much slower than Ghost had previously seen just a few hours ago, and before you could blink twice, he was hovering beside the cot.

“What happened?” he asked with no room for argument. You weren’t sure now that you could keep your secrets from spilling out — if instead of Graves, it was Ghost interrogating you. He was a tank of a soldier, and the whole “mask” thing was enough to intimidate you like nothing else before. He must have taken your silence for an answer before he pressed a button on the comm at his vest a second later. “Price, I need you with me.”

You took a few breaths, your breathing ragged and uneven, as you began to feel a wave of anxiety wash through you. One minute later, Captain Price was at the door, looking confused.

“What is it, Ghost?” he asked, entering the room and looking at you with a suspicious look.

“Who did this to you?” Ghost asked, after throwing an obscure look at Price.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your lips trembled. You then noticed that your throat hurt and felt raw.

“You stay with her; I'll get Melina and a new room for her.” Captain Price took a second look around the room before exiting. Ghost remained in his spot, looking sternly at you.

“Graves,” you whispered finally. You were convinced that it wouldn’t matter what and who did whatever to you. You had barely any rights, and no one had any sympathy for terrorists — even if you were far from being one.

“Ghost, let's go.” Price showed up at the entrance, Melina with him, as you saw a small glimpse of her hair beside the Captain.

Ghost crouched down, his gloved hands carefully wrapping around the back of your legs and very gently holding your back instead as he lifted you from the cot effortlessly. You whimpered at the movement, not because he had hurt you in any way — you were actually surprised he was so gentle. He carefully walked with you, propped in his arms, Captain Price, and Melina up front as they walked through corridors and rooms to no end. The floor you were on was empty — no soldiers. No Shadow Company. You were expecting to see Kira in one of the rooms you passed, but they were all empty and dark.

Your body slacked in his arms, tired of being on alert. For some reason, it decided that Captain Price’s team was safer than Graves’. You didn’t want to, but you were so tired your head fell against his chest, your forehead hitting the comm that was strapped onto his vest — the same one Ghost used to call Captain Price. You felt him tense for a second, but he never stopped.

Price opened a set of doors, the light from the outside blinding you. It had been a while since you saw the sun, since you felt the warm or even cold breeze that the wind provided, your sensory system going into overdrive — everything was so loud.

As his long legs passed the threshold, you squinted at your surroundings. You had questions on the tip of your tongue, but you refrained from asking them for now as you preferred to keep quiet. You barely had any energy left and were beginning to feel irritated with everything around you and on you. You could barely breathe without feeling any sort of pain.

A much smaller building showed up in your field of vision, and you almost ignored it before you recognized one of the soldiers — or should you say Sergeant— up front. Soap was leaning on the wall with a notebook in his hands, but as soon as he saw you approach, he quickly stashed the pen and book inside his vest.

“Oy, what happened?” he asked in general, but his eyes locked on Ghost by the way the masked man carrying you hesitated to take a step further.

“Inside,” Captain Price said as he opened the door for Melina, Ghost, and you to enter. You heard the Captain’s and Soap’s footsteps following behind as Melina this time led the way. The room was much smaller, and it seemed to be a dorm instead of a holding cell. But you didn’t protest — Ghost leaned down on the cot and set your body down as carefully as he picked you up, taking a step back to let Melina do what she needed to. Soap and Price closed the door behind them as they stared at you. In any other situation, you would feel extremely uncomfortable, trying to hide from so many eyes on you.

“Fuck…” Soap whispered as Melina lifted the sweatshirt up. You figured they had a view of the new bruise and possible burn marks.

“This…” Melina whispered to herself as she grabbed her medical bag and poured things on the empty side of the cot. “Can someone bring her some water?” she asked, as your eyes focused on her and what she was doing.

Soap was the one who left the room to get you some water. And Captain Price took that opportunity to take a few steps further in your direction, his eyes remaining on your stomach as he examined your injuries.

You closed your eyes, feeling that too many things were happening at the same time — leaving you feeling constricted.

“You’re going to have some faint bruises and burns. The marks will probably fade in a few months. The good news is… It’s the only injury you have that won’t hurt you in a matter of days,” Melina explained, as her surgical-gloved hands touched the sore and burnt spot. “I need to give you some medicine and an injection for the pain.”

“Her injuries—are they worse?” Ghost asked, and your eyes snapped toward him. His figure loomed almost in the dark as he watched Melina take care of you— much like Captain Price.

“I need to run some tests. What worries me the most are the broken ribs,” Melina spoke, not taking her eyes off you.

You were never scared of needles, but hospitals always made you queasy for some reason. They made your senses prickle as if you were Spider-Man — your heart thumping inside your chest and a hollow feeling filling your entire body. You lay on the cot, body rigid as you didn’t look away from what Melina was doing. You felt a bead of sweat drop from your forehead, and although you wanted to wipe it off, you remained perfectly still.

“I need to talk with Chief Laswell,” Captain Price said finally, breaking the silence that had formed inside the room.

“She’s not going to like that we moved the asset to our building,” Ghost answered, and you looked at him briefly. He was already looking at you, his skull mask the only bright thing on him, although you could see his faint whiskey-colored eyes.

“Well, couldn’t leave her in the main one. Besides, our mission is to keep her safe,” Price argued back, taking a step away from the cot and joining Ghost. You returned your eyes toward Doctor Melina, who was inspecting your wounds carefully.

Soap entered the room then, a bottle of water in hand and a chocolate bar in the other, although he hid it in the palm of his hand.

His blue sapphire eyes took one look at your state once again, and he dropped the bottle near the nightstand close to the cot as he joined his Captain and Lieutenant by the wall.

“She dinnae deserve this,” you heard Soap’s faint voice in the back of the room. Your eyes were staring at Doctor Melina’s hands, but your ears were perked to listen to the soldiers. For some reason, though, as if a match was struck, your eyes snapped toward the masked soldier on the wall, your gaze locking on the three authoritative figures in the room.

“You’re forgetting your place, Johnny,” you heard Ghost’s voice — menacing and cold — as if he was voicing a warning. His stance was tense, while Johnny’s — Soap’s — was stoic. His expression told you that he was fighting something within the depths of his head, by the way his sapphire-blue eyes held determination. His lips remained flat, his eyes never breaking from Ghost’s. That’s when you noticed Captain Price’s gaze already focused on you with a frown on his face.

Your cheeks felt like embers, as if you were caught with your hand in a cookie jar. You averted your eyes back to the doctor.

“Ghost, you’re up on Kira’s watch,” Captain Price said, and you could still feel his eyes on you. You swallowed at the name of your best friend. For a second, you wanted to ask them — ask him — if she was alright, but your body couldn’t form coherent words to express your worries.

Ghost hesitated in his movements at Captain Price’s orders; for what you could tell, he was having a staring contest with Soap. Only when you heard the faint footsteps of Ghost walking past your cot did you look at the remaining soldiers. Soap’s eyes were glued to Ghost’s retreating figure as he closed the door and left.

The moment was broken by Doctor Melina discarding her gloves.

“I suggest you not move for a few hours. I’ll come by later to check on the burns,” she said, getting up from her spot. Price took that as a cue to approach her, and they both exited the room together, whispering and ushering between them. Soap, though, remained in his spot. With a sigh, he walked closer to you.

“Here, lass. Got ye this.” In his hand was the chocolate bar you saw hidden inside his palm when he first entered. Your hand went toward it, grabbing the candy.

“Thank you.” It hurt you to say it, both physically and mentally. But it felt like the right thing to do. You could see he was struggling with something, and by Ghost’s words, you knew it was serious.

“Aye, dinnae mention it.” He nodded his head as his eyes fell on your face. “Really, dinnae mention it,” he said, cracking the smallest grin. Your lips involuntarily lifted upwards, and you coughed as a strangled laugh escaped your lips.

“I won’t,” you said, after accepting the water Soap gave you instantly. The cold, hydrating beverage soothed your pain mildly, and you decided it was the best opportunity to ask him about Kira. “Is she alright?” you asked tentatively.

“Aye, she’s a minx and a fighter.” He nodded, not elaborating any further on the state of your best friend. You wanted to press, but ultimately, you decided against it. Between the stern look one of his teammates gave him, the candy bar, and the pained look on Soap’s face, you knew at that moment it wasn’t the right thing to do.

You cleared your throat as you shifted slightly on the cot. The burning on your stomach was mild from the meds, but still, the cotton of your sweatshirt left a rash in its trail. You bit into the candy, not having anything sweet for a few months now; the sugary treat dissolved on your tongue — chocolate milk and coconut, one of your favorites.

“Lass asked me tae give yae,” Soap said, adjusting his stance near the cot. Your eyes shot up to him — so that’s how. You swallowed the chocolate, your senses pricking up like a sixth sense. If Kira sent you the chocolate, that meant she probably had a message there somewhere — you couldn’t read it without Soap noticing.

You hummed only, your fingers fidgeting, yearning to open the wrapper and scan what could possibly be there. But you refrained from doing it. As if saved by some deity, Captain Price opened the door. Your hand instantly went to the covers, hiding the chocolate bar.

“Soap,” he called, as his blue eyes traveled from you to the Sergeant beside you. “A word.”

Soap sighed and walked toward the door.

“You call if you need anything, lass,” Captain Price then spoke, and your eyes shot up to him again. You nodded — not that you would do it. You wanted nothing from them; your main focus was on Kira, and second, on the documents.
As soon as the door locked, your hand shot up from the covers, stashing the rest of the bar of chocolate in your mouth. You opened the wrapper.

The Red Sigil is moving.

The words were written in black Sharpie. Some of the chocolate had stained it, but you understood the message clear as day.

Kira had managed to salvage the little information you had decoded from the documents. She had gotten your video, and she had sent it to the organization you were the leader of.

You didn’t know if you should cry or laugh. The emotion was bittersweet — on one hand, you were completely fucked. On the other, every government that was part of the accords in those documents was fucked.

A wet laugh escaped your lips. Even when your ribs protested and a few stray tears fell from your eyes, you still relished the small victory. Your wet fingers swiped at the wrapper, scrubbing at the words. They became smudged and faded — good enough for you. They would probably find it later in the trash can. But it was done. And now, all you had to do was accept your fate.

And get Kira to a safe place.