Chapter Text
As far as funerals went, this was a nice one.
It was a fairly large affair, to no one's real surprise. You could’ve told Simon the entire garrison had shown up and he would have believed you. Outside of coworkers, a few childhood friends milled about the somber group. And of course, there was the family.
Simon did not introduce himself to his mother. He watched from afar as she dabbed a handkerchief to her oddly dry eyes- almost like she’d been expecting this outcome. Though her grief did not go unnoticed either. Lucy had meant to say a few words, a small script shaking in her hands as she took the podium. She took a breath and let loose a stream of tears so violent Simon worried she might drown in them. Ronnie spoke for her. As the formal gun salute rang out around them, Patty placed a stuffed dog atop the casket. Everyone knew that technically that broke code- may have even been considered disrespectful on paper- but no one stopped her.
By all accounts, the funeral was beautiful. And Soap would have hated it.
They had talked about it once, before their relationship had even been an idea in Simon’s mind. It was a mission gone side-ways, and a long night spent listening to the sounds of thunder and gunfire around them. It was times like that the pair did their best bonding; the threat of death does that to a person, Simon supposed. He’d made a poorly timed joke about them getting out in body bags, and Soap had gone uncharacteristically quiet.
“Think they’d be too cut up if we died?” he’d asked after a moment of odd silence.
“The enemy?”
“No, the guys back home. Think they’d even miss us?”
“Im sure Price would be fucking miserable.”
Soap chuckled. “True.”
“Course they’d miss you Johnny. Give you a right proper send off.”
“What about you?”
“I'm already a dead man. No funeral necessary.”
Soap shook his head with a frown. “Funerals are right fucking boring though arent they? Do I look like a funeral kinda guy to you?”
“The fuck kind of question is that, MacTavish?”
“The answer is no, L.t., I do not. I don’t want people to mourn my death, I want them to celebrate my life, you know? I didn’t waste the best years of it- my prime, mind you- just for people to forget all of that in favor of my final minutes of shame. I want a fucking party.”
“The only thing you’re gonna be remembered for, Soap, is your dumb callsign and your dumber haircut.”
“You know you love me, Ghost.”
“I’ll remember that at your death party.”
“So I’ll be remembered for 3 things then.”
Simon watched as people filed out of the cemetery. No one was smiling, or laughing, or reminiscing about Johnny’s life. They were all just empty. The sight would have made Jonnny more sad than his actual death, Simon thought. He was abruptly snapped out of such thoughts, though, by a person stopping in front of him.
Lucy looked somehow worse than she had earlier. She stared up into Simon’s eyes, mascara smudged around her own in messy circles. She looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn’t manage it without breaking down again.
Simon nodded.
Lucy nodded. She began to walk away again.
Ronnie stopped next. He extended his hand for Simon to shake, which he did firmly.
“I just wanted to say that… You know you're always welcome in our home, right?” he asked.
“Thank you,” Simon answered.
Similar to Lucy, Ronnie looked like he had more to say. He opened and closed his mouth before nodding, and moving along after his wife.
Patty only stared.
Simon had been trying his best to keep an eye on her throughout the event. It had been difficult around all the people and the fanfare, but from what he’d seen it didn’t look great. The 9 year old hadn’t said a word to anyone all day. She hadn’t smiled, nor cried, nor screamed, nor shown any indication of emotion whatsoever anytime Simon had seen her. And even then, staring up at her pseudo-uncle, her face remained entirely expressionless.
“You know who did it,” Patty more stated than asked.
“That's classified kiddo,” Simon replied.
“You know who did it,” she said again. Simon sighed.
“I do.”
“Gonna kill ‘em?”
“Worse.”
It was quiet as Patty nodded, seemingly thinking something over. She looked over to her parents. Ronnie was talking with a man Simon didn’t recognize a good few feet away, one arm still wrapped comfortingly around Lucy. He looked back towards them, face a mask of worry and concern. Patty sniffled.
“Ok,” she said, and began to trudge towards her parents. “Bye Uncle Simon.”
Simon watched the devastated family march into their car and drive off down the road. Something clenched around his heart as he watched their car grow smaller and smaller until eventually it rounded a corner and disappeared. The thing inside him squeezed harder.
“Love you guys,” Simon mumbled to an empty cemetery.
He let the stillness of the graveyard surround him then. There was nothing except for him, the headstones, and the corpses of those who’d died in battle. And somewhere lost in it all, the first thing Simon had ever truly loved. Simon clenched his jaw, rearranging his body around the squeezing stiffness within him.
Simon had entered that cemetery to say his final goodbye to the man he loved. To let go of whatever they had and whatever it had turned him into. Simon may have entered that cemetery, but it was a Ghost that left.
In the days that followed, Ghost floated silently around base, secretly gathering the gear and intel he'd need to complete his mission. Anyone who did see him didn't say a word to him. For the better, too; the coil inside Ghost had wound itself so tight, he thought he might explode onto whoever even looked at him the wrong way.
It didn’t take long to get what he needed; Laswell was more than happy to help, and Ghost was packing light. When everything was finally said and done, Ghost just about waltzed right out the base's front gates. Though he did, of course, have enough sense to avoid any security, or anyone who would ask him any questions.
After a few minutes of quiet walking, Ghost had finally finished boxing away all his nerves and doubts. Soap deserved to be avenged, and no one else was going to do it. He pulled the phone he hardly used from his pocket, and called one of the few contacts it had saved.
"Nik, you ready to go?"
Nikolai cleared his throat over the phone, clearly nervous about what he was about to say. "Comrade, are you sure you want to go through with this?"
"Answer the question."
"I am."
"Good. I'll be at the rendezvous in 10."
"You're really doing this?"
"Either you fly me in, or I'll walk to Russia on my own," Ghost growled. "I'm killing Makarov with or without your help."
There was a stretch of silence across the line that set Ghost's skin tingling with apprehension. What he'd said was true, of course. Soap and Ghost had been each other's impulse controls, and with Johnny gone Ghost was dead set on achieving his goal. Nothing but death itself was going to stop him; that didnt mean he much liked the idea of finding his own way to Russia though. The idea was to get this over with as fast as possible, and Nik was fast.
"You can always call on my aid, Comrade," Nik answered, voice solemn.
"Thank you," Ghost sighed. "Be ready to go. I want this done quick."
During the long flight, Ghost took it upon himself to read- and then reread- every bit of intel he'd been able to snag from Laswell. Most of it were things he already knew, or could at least safely assume. Makarov was a psychopath, he was a sadist, and he was a terrorist to his and other countries alike. He was also the right-hand-man to Imran Zakhaev, former leader of the Russian Ultranarionalist movement. And according to his files, Makarov was far worse.
Soap had been responsible for Zakhaev's death, naturally causing him and the rest of Bravo Team to skyrocket to the top of Makarov's hit list. They all knew he'd marked them for death. They all knew exactly what they'd gotten themselves into. Ghost thought he'd be able to protect them though. That had always been his greatest flaw, he supposed; believing he could protect the things that mattered most to him.
He had never quite been able to.
The trip was mostly quiet, but all talking ceased immediately as they crossed the Bering Strait into Russia. Ghost watched the Siberian wilderness pass by below them. There was no point trying to memorize their route, so Ghost just watched. He could only imagine the kind of freeze that would take hold of his body if he tried to make the trek back on foot. He already felt it in his limbs, but the ache was distant. Ghost's body had stopped feeling like his body days prior, and he was fine with that. The less he felt, the more damage he could do.
Thanks to Laswell's intel, and a secret informant of Nikolai's, they'd managed to narrow down Makarov's location to a plush hotel on the outskirts of a town called Kstovo, overlooking the Volga River. Nik set them down 2 clicks out, leaving Ghost to make the rest of the journey alone. Before he made it too far though, the sound of Nik's voice for the first time in days called Ghost back.
"Be well, Comrade. I will be waiting for your signal in the next town over."
Ghost nodded. "Understood. Thank you Nik, for everything."
Nikolai nodded, firmly taking Ghost's hand in his own. "I would not be alive today if it weren't for Sergeant MacTavish. I regret that I was unable to repay the favor. Give them hell, Lieutenant."
"Count on it."
Ghost didn't bother waiting for Nikolai to disappear into the dark sky. He turned his back on his friend and began the long march towards the hotel in the distance. He quickly started in on his mental check-list; night vision, check. Extra ammo, check, flashes, check. Knives, check. His headphones (check) hung heavy around Ghost's neck, and the crunch of snow beneath his boots (check) was too loud, but Ghost didn't dare cover his ears. Never knew who was watching, and Ghost needed all his senses opperationing at 110%.
Their informant had mentioned something about a conference, which could mean 1 of 2 things:
One. The hotel would be crawling with terrorists. A different breed of psycho lurking in every dark corner. Ghost probably wouldn't get 2 steps inside the building before being spotted. Someone would raise the alarm, or take matters into their own hands and shoot him themself. It would be a quick affair, but not one with the desired results.
Two. Everyone would be too preoccupied to notice one little Ghost slip through their ranks. He and Nikolai had planned their infil to give Ghost enough time to get to the hotel just as the conference started. If everyone was punctual, and taking notes like the good little terrorists they were, then Ghost could just waltz right on in. There was, of course, the matter of civilians to worry about, but a meaningful threat was usually good enough to keep a posh prick's mouth shut.
Ghost didn't know how many posh pricks there were in Russia, but he'd put his money- and his life- on there being a few.
Ghost kept his distance for a few minutes, scouting out all the possible entry points on the building. Few people milled about in the lobby, quickly retreating to their rooms for the night. A good sign. He waited for the lobby to be clear of any life before finally making his approach.
The front doors were, of course, not the most ideal entrance, but Ghost had lived through far worse plans. Plus, the front doors were fast; the front doors were quiet. If he went any other way, Ghost ran the risk of setting off an alarm or being forced to break a window. Ghost had no interest in doing either of those things, so he quickly made his way through the empty lobby before shooting off down the first hall. Ghost hugged the wall, keeping his body low and his footsteps light. A door in front of him swung open, and Ghost quickly grabbed the person walking through it to silence them before he was spotted.
It was a young woman, eyes wide and terrified as she looked up at Ghost. She tried to flinch away from the gun pressed to her chin, but Ghost had a firm hold on her.
"Makarov," he growled. "Where is he?"
With a shaking arm, the woman pointed towards a set of double doors just at the end of the hall. They were unmarked, unassuming, and just the place a group of terrorists might be meeting.
"Please," the woman whispered, her accent much less thick than Ghost was expecting. He assumed she must have been fluent in English then as well.
"Is there another entrance?"
The woman nodded.
"Show me."
Ghost loosened his grip, just slightly, and gestured with his head for her to move. The woman walked slowly, never turning her back or taking her eyes off of Ghost. Smart girl. They walked closer to the set of double doors, every cell in Ghost's body on high alert. How hard would it be for her to break free, fling open those doors, and lose the horde upon him? Even if he shot her before she reached the door, the sound alone would alert the entire hotel anyway. Ghost's grip tightened around the woman's arm, and his trigger finger itched in all the wrong ways.
Just before they reached the doors though, the hall turned. The woman led Ghost several feet down it to the first door on their left. Then she stopped.
"The rooms are connected," she said, voice less shaky than it had been just minutes before. "Through the doors in the back."
Ghost nodded, but he didnt let her go. He stared down at her with cold, calculating eyes. She seemed to understand his hesitance.
"I don't want them here, I won't tell, I promise," she whispered. "Use the walkway near the roof, they won't see you."
Catwalks, Ghost thought. What kind of hotel had catwalks? He shook the thought away, focusing in on the task at hand. The catwalks could be useful no doubt, but there was still the whole room full of terrorists issue. He needed to take out Makarov without being spotted, or he needed to take out everyone without getting himself killed in the process.
First thing first though, intel.
Once in the empty conference room, Ghost took careful note of as many of the details as he could. Two sections of chairs, 5 rows long and 10 chairs wide. 100 seats total. The next room over could have just as many if not more. A long elevated stage at the front of the room, most likely where the speaker does their speaking. Most likely where Makarov would be. And criss-crossing the ceiling, thin metal catwalks that lead to a door, connecting them to the next room over. The room where this mission was going to end, one way or another.
Ghost began to climb.
The next room over was dark, perfectly concealing Ghost's entry above the enemy's heads. Makarov stood on the front stage, showing some video or powerpoint about whatever he was talking about. His voice barked out comments, carrying across the silent room as his comrades nodded and muttered what Ghost assumed were agreeances. The Russian was lost on him, though he did recognize a few words. The most notable?
America.
Almost involuntarily, Ghost pulled his phone from his pocket and began to record Makrov's speech. Technically, he wasn't on a recon mission. In all of Ghost's years though, he'd never been handed a piece of vital intel and been anything other than grateful. (Angry sometimes, depending on the information, but always grateful.)
Something flashing across his screen had caught Ghost's eye though. He hadn't had the mind to really look at it, so focused in on recording as much of Makrov's speech as he could, but Ghost had seen enough to fully pull his mind away from his body.
Ghost was a simple, non-trackable man. He'd never bought himself a phone, only taking the one Price gave him after weeks of pestering. He'd never really used it though. It had less than 10 contacts saved to it, and still had all of its factory settings in place… was what Ghost thought. He hadn't stopped to look at it, but even a quick glimpse was enough for Ghost to notice the difference. The lock screen, which should have been smartphone-standard, was a picture instead.
It was one of the first pictures he and Johnny had ever taken together. Maybe the only one, and definitely the only picture of Ghost taken in the last decade. Johnny was winking down at the camera, mohawk flattened where Ghost rested his chin atop Johnny's head. If you didn't know him, you might have missed the barely-there crows feet he'd inherited from his mom, and the smile he'd inherited from his dad safely hidden away under his black surgical mask.
Ghost could see it though, and he knew Johnny did too. Johnny had always seen right through him.
He remembered when they took that photo so vividly. It was the first time they'd hung out together off base. Graves had convinced the group to go bar hopping with him downtown, and the pair had gotten bored 10 minutes in. So they'd taken to wandering the darkening streets, Johnny having the time of his life antagonizing any passerby he saw while Ghost tried to keep him from starting a street fight.
Thankfully, his endeavors had been successful, even managing to convince Johnny to just call it a night and head back to base. Under the condition that they take a selfie to commemorate the night, of course.
Johnny would joke that it was technically their first date, and Ghost would roll his eyes and mutter about how he could plan a better date than just wandering. In the end, they'd never gotten around to it.
Ghost assumed that that picture had sat undisturbed on his phone for over a year. At some point though, that must have changed and try as he might, he had no idea when Johnny had changed it. Because of course it was him, Johnny was the only other person who knew that picture existed. Ghost himself had forgotten about it for a time, but leave it to Johnny to find some way to be the center of his attention.
For better or worse. This time, worse.
While Ghost had been caught up in the past, the present continued to march on. On the floor below, Makarov had finished whatever presentation he was giving, and the remaining terrorists were filing out the doors into the hotel. Finding a way to take out the entire group was no longer an option then. Ghost quickly pocketed his phone, silently making his way back towards the ladder.
Makarov was the target.
Ghost had seen maybe 5 armed guards when he'd snuck into the room, and they were all notably missing now. Sweeping the room for anything dangerous, Ghost assumed. Luckily for him, Ghost was not dangerous, he was deadly. The first guard found that out the hard way when Ghost dropped silently from the ladder, knife finding its way to the man's jugular without issue.
One down, four to go.
The next one fell hard. He was a big lad- almost as big as Ghost- and he put up a decent fight. Even his muscular body couldn't quite handle the snapping of his neck though. Ghost thought he moved with surgical-like precision, but the anger coiling ever-tighter within him was proving to make him sloppy. What little lighting the room did have all snapped off at once, and Makarov's weasel-esc rose from the darkness.
"It seems the lone survivor has come to take his prize," Makarov sneered. "That is what you are, isn't it?"
Ghost clenched his jaw, moving silently towards Makarov's voice.
"Was the survivor's guilt too much to bear? Did you lie awake at night, haunted by the faces of the men you sent to die? Have you come to meet that same fate?"
"Do you know who I am?" Ghost asked. It gave away his position, he knew, but couldn't find it in him to care. Ghost continued to circle Makarov, moving ever closer. Something within him screamed and clawed at Ghost's ribcage, itching to be let out.
Not yet.
"I annihilated your Bravo Squad," Makarov said, ignoring Ghost's question. "All but one."
"I'm no Bravo," Ghost replied.
"No, I see that. Your Bravo were coordinated, calculated, stupid as they were. But you? Sloppy. Lethal. A different thing altogether. What brings you to me?"
"You took something from me," Ghost answered, hating the way his voice shook. "Something special. Something I can't get back."
Makarov made a tsk sound, his tone rife with amusement. "I understand. You are not Bravo, but you come to take revenge for them anyway. Tell me, who was it I took from you?"
Ghost's hands shook. He'd pinned down Makarov's exact location now. All it took was one bullet.
"A best friend? A brother? A lover?"
But a bullet felt too kind. Too quick. Makarov deserved worse- far worse- than that for what he'd done. For what he could do.
"Have you ever heard that revenge is like a ghost? It takes over every man it touches."
And that screaming, wailing thing within Ghost would not be satisfied by a bullet, he knew. It demanded more. It demanded worse .
"Its thirst cannot be quenched until the last man has fallen."
It could do worse.
His gun clattered to the floor as Ghost lunged. His hands found Makarov's neck as the pair fell hard to the ground. They were close enough now that Ghost could make out the hard lines of Makarov's features; he could clearly make out that malicious shine behind his eyes, and the desperate smile across his lips.
Ghost released Makarov's throat, and the man beneath him began to laugh. It was a terrible sound that set every cell in Ghost's body on edge. He struck out like it was some primal instinct within him, landing a hard blow square to Makarov's face. Blood quickly began to pool where he'd hit, sticking to Ghost's gloved knuckles as he struck again and again.
He could feel Makarov struggling beneath his weight. Like usual, Ghost had the size advantage, and he planned on making good use of it. What he didn't plan on was Makarov's legs hooking around his own. His body pivoted beneath Ghost, shifting his weight forward faster than he could readjust for. They tumbled over one another, grappling as they went.
Ghost punched.
Makarov kicked.
At some point Ghost ended up beneath his opponent, knife embedded in Makarov's stomach. He didn't remember pulling it out. At least Makarov had stopped laughing. His blood had begun to soak down into Ghost's mask, and he could taste it on his lips.
There was a sharp pain in Ghost's side. The weight lifted from his stomach, and Ghost reflexively grabbed for the knife- his knife. He could hear Makarov's labored breathing, and the slight limp in his walk, as he moved around the room.
"How long did it take?" he asked.
Unlike Makarov, Ghost was smart enough not to remove the knife. It was keeping at least some of the blood inside him, and Makarov would be bleeding out. Hopefully fast. Ghost tried to get up, and felt something solid near his foot.
"How long did it take," Makarov asked again, "for him to die?"
The squeeze of the trigger felt familiar.
Safe.
His body hit the floor with an unnatural sort of softness. Not dead. His breathing was even more labored than it had been before though. Wet sounding. And still, Makarov found it in himself to laugh again.
Ghost fell to his knees beside Makarov. He pulled the man up by his collar; he would've spit is own blood back at him if he could. What he could do though, was continue the onslaught. Ghost lost touch with his body, unfazed by the feeling of flesh tearing and bone cracking against his fist. Makarov's laughter rang in his ears like shock after an explosion.
"What is so God damn funny to you?" he growled.
"You may be able to destroy me Ghost," he spat, blood thick in his mouth. "But the beast will eventually come for you too."
Then there was light. A slow growing, flickering thing. Ghost looked towards the ceiling and saw the flames quickly engulfing the room. Makarov was limp in his hands.
Ghost tried to stand. He wanted to set aside the sickly pain in his side, stand, and walk on haggard limbs through those distant doors and into the Russian cold. He wanted to go home, some small part of himself thought.
But the fire was growing fast. The heat had already eaten away at the catwalk's supports, and part of the metal structure came crashing down the floor. It brought the fire with it. The pain in Ghost's side vanished as his mind grew distant from his body.
Home was a place he hadn't seen in years, he remembered. For a time, the military was his home, but it'd never really felt right. Not until Price came along. And with him Laswell, and Gaz, and Johnny. They were home. They were family. But they were all so far away now. Unobtainable. There was only one thing close to Ghost now, drawing ever nearer.
Ghost pulled out his phone again. He found Laswell's contact and sent the video he'd taken from the rafters. It was a large file, but he knew she would appreciate it. He popped out the sim card and snapped it between his fingers, just in case. Then he pulled out the picture he'd been carrying with him the whole way. It'd been tucked away beneath all his gear, pressed close to his chest; close to his heart.
Through the haze of the smoke around him-through the blurriness and the unwanted tears- Lucy, Ronnie, and Patty all smiled up at him. They had become family too, and the were just as far and unobtainable as their missing member.
Ghost pressed the picture to his chest again, and took as deep of a breath as he could manage. At least he could take some comfort in knowing their picture- the only thing that could connect them to Ghost- would burn right along with him.