Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

Too Good to be True

Warning: this oneshot is not only comprised of angst but also very strong language that may not be suitable for everyone. If you do decide to carry on, enjoy!

No one likes a backstabbing cunt.

But to be one is another story.

The thrill of a secret no one else knows and how you can be whoever you want for a limited time is a deal the most daring cannot pass up. And you're one of those who jumped at the chance to do such a life-jeopardizing job.

Not much time lapsed between you signing your plausible death away and leaving to 'join' Task Force 141.

Under a new name with a fake past, a story woven out of made up family members and even a brand new birthday, it fulfills you with a new purpose. This task of yours demands finding out more information about the task force and their next moves only to feed it to your team, 141's enemy.

Stealthily, you gather and deliver all the tidbits about the team who now trusts you, who shouldn't trust you. So openly, they place their lives in your greedy hands as well as their life stories, and you know too much beyond what's described in their documents that you have also captured in your memory.

Enjoying their company is the payment for such dirty work that will eventually come to haunt them. The guilt is almost incomprehensible as laughter is shared amongst you all, and as the weeks bleed into months, you struggle to keep the lies buried.

The rude awakening that stops you right in your tracks is falling for the goddamn lieutenant. With his unmatched perception and uncanny ability to sniff out deception, you fly under the radar somehow.

For some reason everyone else's business is easily shared with your superior except for his. Late night cigarette breaks morph into shared secrets which then eventually lead into forbidden feelings.

At some point, he is no longer Ghost to you.

A normal human takes the lieutenant's place, and he's able to take off the mask in moments of weakness when he just needs a reprieve from the demanding role.

As much as he may love you, you cannot fully love him knowing what you've done and what you keep doing.

'Maybe this was a mistake,' you consider. 'Nobody likes a backstabbing cunt, but I don't like being one either.'

The admission flirts with the tip of your tongue, and you know the price of coming clean to Simon. He's going to hate you. He may kill you with the same hands that have made you feel so much pleasure.

But you can't keep living with all of the lies burying you alive instead of the other way around. You're supposed to keep your shit together, not let it overwhelm you.

You're going to let one man ruin your reputation like that?

When he mumbles against your lips that you're "too good to be true", the answer is yes.

Yes, you'll let him ruin you completely and irreparably.

When all hell breaks loose inside the tightly secured base, a scenario no one ever saw coming, but you recognize those faces.

Worry then surprise flash across their expressions, and there is no denying that they've come for you. Since they'd not heard for you in over a month, it's a guess of yours that they expected you to either be dead or locked up in a cell, not alive and well. Right as rain.

They react quickly in dancing with you despite being caught off guard, having anticipated you to be relieved to be saved or to even see them after so long.

But it's in that moment of an impromptu waltz, you are born as a two-sided traitor who doesn't deserve the title as 'double agent'. Not when neither sides knew of your brand-new transgressions.

A bullet bites into your thigh as someone grabs your arms from behind before you fall, and it's all downhill from there.

You've been caught, little mole.

Your deep burrows are filled with cement, there's nowhere to hide. Not even Simon can save you when he's just as blind as you are, submerged in a familiar fight he cannot win somewhere else on his infiltrated base.

"You fucking cunt," your once-befriended comrade spits in your face before they twist something foreign around your neck.

————————

The two of your swing your feet just above where your bodies hang.

You, for being a traitor.

Him, for being the one you thought you could guarantee safety.

Your bodies now serve together as a warning.

"It was my fault," you finally say as a crow lands on your cooling body. You try kicking it away, but your transparent foot goes through the feathered creature. It doesn't even flinch.

Too many thoughts are going through his head, you can hear them practically being screamed at you as you continue to sit. "Hm?"

"I stopped giving them information."

It dawns on him then.

"You were the mole." It isn't spoken like a question as the truth is just as obvious as the postmortem stiffening your muscles.

You pause before you admit more. "Yes, but I couldn't do it anymore. The guilt was eating me alive, and I stopped before I spilled any more information... but it was already too much. This was all my fault."

He doesn't miss another beat. "I need a cigarette."

Your bodies swing softly in the tree together with necklaces made of rope, and you can almost still feel the whisper of how it snapped your neck.

But the dead can't feel anything but emotions.

You have no nerves but the ones you've irritated all on your own.

You look over at him, but he can't bear to return your gaze.

And how could you blame him when you're the one to blame behind you two now serving as the military's malicious decoration, medals of mastering murder?

His next sentence breaks your heart, "I knew it was too good to be true."

If you could have an appropriate, bodily response, your mouth would have gone bone dry, the moisture supplying the tears you wish you could cry out of regret.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, your eyes drifting away from both his physical form and spirit.

"Sorry doesn't revive either of us, and even if it did, I'd probably kill you again and again and again every time those fucking words came out of your mouth."

You give a curt nod. "I deserve it."

Together, in stifling silence, the rest of the task force joins where the two of you sit, their remains come to join yours, and now it's no longer a blazing warning but mementos of victory.

The mole was caught, the fish hooked.

Your greedy hands now embarrassingly empty save for the lives that you took.