Necromancy → Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Prologue

Usually people have a name that they go by.

An alias at least. A fake first and last name. Especially in this trade. 

But this one didn't. 

The only thing they knew about him was that he was a part of the 141. A lieutenant, assigned to assassinate every last person left in the faction that was left of Vladimir Makarov's legacy of terrorism. 

Including myself. 

And even though Makarov himself was dead, his hideous visions still lived on. A few of his allies and followers had formed a faction that I didn't have a choice but to be a part of. They took me in when I was just a girl. Trafficked from my country into Russian entertainment, Makarov was barely an adult himself when he took me in. Raising me like a sibling before coercing me to be with him. Not even as a lover. As an object. He was a master manipulator, and for a long time, I thought I loved him. I thought he was the only person in the world that I would have. 

It was only until his death that the curtain fell. The mask unveiled. My eyes opened. 

I was trained to be a sort of spy. A resource to get inside information. To seduce, degrade and humiliate myself by any means necessary for getting him what Makarov wanted. I've killed dozens, my hands shake when they are still but I can hide it. "It's just because you're a woman now..."  He would say softly, as he would take one of my hands into his freezing ones. Since his death, I've been laying low, hoping all of it will blow over. Waiting for some sort of purpose to return to me. That maybe I would just be able to have a normal life...

How stupid of a thought that was. 

The Russians are greedy. And now, I've been dragged back to their circle of shit and the ransom that hangs loosely over all of our heads. Back to the manipulation. Like it never ended. Like Makarov never died, the soldiers are coming for us again- only this time to wipe us completely off the slate.

We got a tip that they would be sending someone in to take down the remainder of Makarov's followers. A Ghost, they said, was coming to haunt us all. 

There was only one advantage, and it was that the United States doesn't know who I am. 

This...Ghost  won't know who I am. Which meant I was the advantage to the Russians right now. Their key to retribution. The diamond in the rough. Last resort. Scapegoat. 

Which brings me to where I am right now. In this very moment. 

Cold hands grip my bare shoulders in the dimly lit room as the vice president of the faction whispers to me some attempt at encouragement. His words slip into my ear, erotically:

"Seduce."  He says with amusement, his accent thickening the English words, "Seduce him, and you'll be free..."

I inhale sharply through my nose as I feel the man press up from behind me, his arm snaking around to wrap around my waist. A pool of regret makes a pit at the bottom of my stomach as he continues, whispering:

"All you have to do is kill a ghost."

- - - - -

With only a few days to prepare, the night fell too fast today.

Before I knew it, I was being dragged off, wearing intentionally torn clothes. They had roughed me up a little too. It was almost pathetic, but the cuts and bruises made my disguise all the more believable. I was to play a poor, American girl who they kidnapped and forgot about. A martyr, the perfect distraction.

The only intel we had was that a lieutenant by the name of Ghost would come infiltrate one of the bases that my comrades set up, only to find me there instead. Me, being there all alone, would be enough to get them to take me back to the closest base for them to find out who I was. 

From there, I could then intercept information and then kill the lieutenant right before the Russians would come pick me up. His death would be dramatic, they said, the perfect retribution for Makarov. 

It was a foolproof plan, with just enough stealth and sophistication to scare the 141 away and buy our terror organization a bit more time to regroup and relocate. I just needed to play the role correctly, and kill him.

My collarbone stung where a deep cut had been drawn with a stiletto blade. It was just one of the many things they did to me to make me fit my part, but it stung badly. It almost looked as if it was on the verge of infection. I bring my hand up and try to apply pressure to it, the pinching prodding at my skin making me wince as droplets of blood stain my hand. I bite my lip and silently urge myself to ignore it.

They drive me out to an active base that was miles away, somewhere near Makarov's previous holiday homes, and leave me in a corner somewhere cold, my vision blurry from the alcohol I had consumed in preparation for this shit. They mutter something to me in Russian, something about making sure I get him- before they leave promptly.

An hour or so later, I hear doors being kicked and gunned down. I hear the ricochet of bullets against metal, the penetration against steel and destruction against wood. It makes reminds me of my childhood, or whatever small fragments of it in memory that I had left. And I feel nervous: what if they accidentally fucking shoot me?

Doubting the safety of my open position, I move, knees aching as I stand up and try to walk towards a door. There is an indefinite silence, so I stop where I am, my blood pulsing as I glance around. Of course he didn't come alone. They said he would but how reliable was our intel anyway? They always come in pairs for missions like this. 

With the moment closing in, and my heart racing, I listen in and realize that it definitely sounds like there's two of them, and they probably could hear my footsteps too...fuck, they probably won't believe a word I-

A gloved hand, firm and achingly cold is placed on my shoulder. 

I freeze completely.

There is silence, as the tip of a gun is pressed against my lower back. The person doesn't say a word, their grip on my shoulder tightening as I perk up and arch my back slightly while my breath hitches in my throat. Sweat rolls down the side of my temple as I lean my head back slightly while I stiffen, staring at what was his torso, heavily armed, abundant, with top-grade artillery and ammo belts at a crossroads on his chest. He was much taller than me, my eyes only coming into contact with his torso directly. My heart pounds fast in my chest, as I move my gaze upwards to steal some slight glance at the face of the person who had me at the very edge of tasting death...

But that's when I realized that there was no face there at all. 

Instead, a mask...

A skeleton mask.