Chapter Text
Ghost had operated underground before - sewers, bunkers, and many other shit places - but this place carried a different kind of pressure. It wasn’t just the concrete closing in from all sides. It was the movement. The constant violence of it. Trains tore through the adjacent rails at full speed, their passage hammering through the tunnel like shockwaves, rattling the lights overhead and vibrating straight through bone.
Ghost moved fast anyway.
He and Gaz advanced along the maintenance walkway, rifles up, boots slipping slightly on damp concrete as another train thundered past. The wind of it dragged at their kit and drowned the world in steel-on-steel noise.
“Two minutes out,” Ghost said into the radio. “Price, Johnny - talk to me.”
“Device located,” Price replied. “Soap’s working it now.”
Ghost caught sight of them through a break between trains. Soap was crouched over the bomb casing, panel torn open, wires exposed. His shoulders were tight and his head was bent low, hands moving with practiced speed. Price stood over him with his weapon up and ready, scanning the tunnel ahead for any upcoming danger.
Ghost felt the distance immediately. Not far, but wrong. The rails between them were still active. He had to be careful crossing. Another train slammed through, lights strobing wildly.
Then Ghost saw movement beyond Price. A man who did not hurry because he never had to.
“Makarov,” Ghost said instantly. “Price - Makarov is behind you. He’s approaching now.”
He raised his rifle, lining up the shot through the narrow corridor. The angle wasn’t ideal, but it was there. He could take it.
The warning horn blared. A train burst into the space between them.
Ghost swore, shifting position, trying to keep pace as the steel wall tore past. The vibration rattled his optic, turned the sight picture useless.
“Price, do you hear me?” Ghost snapped. “You’ve got—”
Static crackled.
“Interference,” Soap replied. “Can’t hear you clearly.”
Ghost’s jaw tightened.
“Johnny, get off the bomb,” he said, louder now. “Makarov’s right there - get clear.”
The train was still passing.
Seconds dragged, stretched thin and useless. Ghost paced alongside the passing train, eyes searching for any opening, any moment where he could reacquire the target.
Then the gunshot rang out. It didn’t sound like any of his team’s guns.
Ghost froze.
His first thought was Price.
The train cleared.
Price stumbled backward into view, hitting the concrete hard but alive. Relief surged through Ghost so fast it almost knocked the breath from him.
Then his eyes dropped.
Soap was on the ground.
Ghost was moving before the thought finished forming. He ran, vaulting the barrier the second the rails cleared, boots striking the platform hard enough to jar him. Another train thundered past behind him, but he didn’t slow.
He dropped beside Soap.
Blood was spreading beneath Soap’s head, dark and fast. His eyes were open, unfocused, staring past Ghost at the tunnel ceiling.
“No,” Ghost said quietly.
Soap’s chest didn’t rise.
Ghost pressed his fingers to Soap’s neck, already knowing what he wouldn’t find.
No pulse.
Ghost stayed there, hands still at Soap’s neck, staring into eyes that no longer saw him.
“Johnny,” he said again, uselessly.
Price’s voice cracked through the tunnel.
“Gaz,” Price said into the radio, breath unsteady but commanding. “Get on the bomb. Now.”
Ghost barely registered Gaz dropping beside the device, hands moving where Soap’s had been seconds earlier. He barely registered the retreating footsteps downrange, the sound of gunfire as Makarov vanished back into the tunnel.
The world narrowed to Soap.
To the weight of his body against the concrete. To the blood soaking into Ghost’s gloves. To the fact that he was still looking into Soap’s eyes and expecting them to move.
“Simon.”
Price’s voice, closer now.
Ghost didn’t respond.
“Simon,” Price said again, rough. “We have to finish this.”
Ghost didn’t hear him.
The bomb’s timer beeped steadily, counting down. Gaz spoke through clenched teeth as he worked, calling out wires, confirming sequences. Price answered automatically, voice hollow but functional.
“Disarm in progress,” Price said over the radio. “Solder down.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, heavier.
“Soap is KIA.”
The words hit Ghost distantly, like they belonged to another room.
The beeping stopped.
“Bomb disarmed,” Gaz said.
Someone clapped a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. Someone said his name. Someone told him they needed to move.
Ghost didn’t look up.
He stayed kneeling in front of Soap, staring into eyes that were already glazing, trying to understand how a man who had been talking seconds ago could now be so completely gone.
The tunnel lights flickered again.
The sound of passing trains stretched and distorted, metal screaming until it became unbearable, until the concrete seemed to bend inward, until Ghost felt like the tunnel itself was collapsing around him.
-
He gasped and jolted upright.
Darkness. Silence.
His breath came fast and shallow, heart slamming hard enough to hurt, fingers digging into the sheets like he expected concrete beneath them. Sweat soaked through his shirt, cooling rapidly against his skin. For a second he didn’t move, eyes locked on the far wall, waiting for the roar of steel that never came.
No tunnel nor trains. No blood. He was alone in his room.
The realisation hit him all at once, sharp enough to knock the air from his lungs.
Soap.
Ghost was on his feet before the thought finished forming.
He crossed the safehouse room in long, silent strides, boots barely registering on the floor. His mask was still on - he hadn’t taken it off before sleeping, couldn’t remember doing much of anything before the darkness had taken him. He shoved the door open and moved down the hall, pulse hammering, every sense stretched tight.
He didn’t slow until he reached Soap’s door.
It was closed.
Ghost stared at it for half a second too long, then pushed it open.
Soap was there.
Alive.
Asleep, sprawled half on his stomach, one arm thrown over the pillow, hair a mess against the sheets. His chest rose and fell steadily. Might even see him drooling a bit if you focus too closely.
Ghost stopped just inside the doorway.
The relief hit him so hard it made his knees feel weak.
He didn’t realize he was staring until Soap shifted, brow furrowing as he surfaced from sleep. A second later, Soap’s eyes cracked open - then widened.
“Jesus Fucking Christ—”
Soap jerked upright, hand flying instinctively toward where his weapon should have been. He froze when he clocked the silhouette in the doorway.
“…LT?” His voice was thick with sleep, confusion bleeding through. “What the hell are ye doin’?”
Ghost didn’t answer.
He stood there, rigid, breathing too hard, like he’d run a mile. His hands were clenched at his sides. The skull mask stared back at Soap, hollow and unmoving.
Soap frowned, rubbing at his face with his free hand.
“Mate,” he said slowly, “you’re starin’ at me like I’ve grown a second head or somethin’.”
Ghost swallowed.
“You’re alive,” he said.
The words came out rougher than he meant them to.
Soap blinked. Once. Twice.
“…Aye,” he said cautiously. “Last I checked.”
He shifted, sitting up properly now, eyes narrowing as he took Ghost in. “You alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. No’ usually the other way ‘round.”
Ghost dragged in a breath through his nose, forced it steady.
“Nightmare,” he said after a moment.
Soap studied him, concern replacing the teasing edge in his expression.
“Bad one, then,” Soap said quietly. “You want to talk about it?”
Ghost shook his head once.
“No.”
Soap didn’t push. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, grounding himself, elbows resting on his knees.
“Alright,” he said. “But next time you decide to loom over me while I’m sleepin’, maybe give me a heads-up, yeah? Nearly shat meself.”
That earned the barest huff of breath from Ghost. Not quite a laugh. Not nothing, either.
Ghost nodded once, then stepped back.
“Get some rest,” he said.
Soap’s brow creased.
“You sure you don’t need it?” he asked. “You’re wound tighter than a bloody tripwire.”
Ghost paused in the doorway, looking at Soap like he was committing him to memory. Alive. Breathing. And very much annoyed.
“Yeah,” Ghost said. “I’m sure. I’m sorry for waking you up Johnny.”
He closed the door gently behind him.
Back in his own room, Ghost sat on the edge of the bunk, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. His hands were still shaking. He forced them still through sheer will.
He could still hear the gunshot. Still see the way the train had stolen his shot at the worst possible second. Still feel the weight of Soap’s body against concrete that no longer existed.
Ghost lifted his head slowly, staring into the dark.
If that had been the future, then it wasn’t fixed.
And he would do everything in his power to make sure his Sergeant never dies on that tunnel floor.
No matter what it costs him.
To be continued…