Pattern Breaker

An Interlude to Impulse

"Alright, Johnny. Let's get a move on."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"We've got a long road ahead of us, Sergeant. Those fuckers are going to be swarming looking for us- I need you at the ready at all times." Ghost spoke sternly to his soldier- authority lacing his tone. "I know you're hurt- but worse, so do they. We cannot let them pull the wool over our eyes again."

John nodded. "Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye."

Ghost stared at the man incredulously. " What? "

He responded with a giant, goofy grin— slapping the other man affectionately on the shoulder. It reminded Ghost of the day the two men first met. Ghost just rolled his eyes, sighing as he finished strapping his vest on.

—

They were being sent on a mission to Al Mazrah, a skilled team hand picked by Lieutenant General Shepard himself deploying out. It was late at night, Ghost on base preparing himself to meet with the men he was heading. Trucks full of equipment and soldiers filled the lot, engines rumbling loudly– headlights damn near blinding in the dark as Shepard spoke to Ghost over the comms.

"You're wheels-up in five," Shepard said. The stoic man would never show it, but he had grown fond over the years of the essential pre-game before every mission. He couldn't afford to be afraid, and would never allow himself to feel scared for his own life, so instead channeled that energy into excitement that he used to fuel his ruthless and merciless destruction for any enemy that was unlucky enough to cross his path. He rose through the ranks quickly– anyone who was anyone knew of Simon "Ghost" Riley. A fearless, despotic man that donned a skull mask and never showed his face. The Brit had completely reconstructed himself with each kill he marked under his belt. The skills he possessed and experience he carried with a crushing burden were known world-wide by the ones that needed the fear of death the most.

"Roger," Ghost confirmed, striding confidently forward. HIs gear was heavy against his chest and back, kneepads secured firmly–straps digging uncomfortably into the back of his knees. When he first joined, it took him a while to get used to being bogged down by all the extra weight, but now he found comfort in the feeling. It didn't slow him down at all, carrying the moniker of "Ghost" proudly. And he lived up to his name.

"Marines are loading in now," Shepard continued. "You and the Sergeant are leading the way on this."

The what?

Ghost paused briefly, an uneasy feeling pooling in his stomach. He didn't know he was going to be commanding with another soldier directly. This came as a surprise.

Ghost hated surprises.

"The Sergeant?" He asked with trepidation as he approached a truck– the Marines in question jumping off the bed before the vehicle came to a complete stop. One of the men locked eyes with him as he rose from his crouch, a wide smile breaking out across his face. It felt as if the stranger had zeroed in on the Lieutenant– and only on the Lieutenant, as if no one else existed in that moment. He wasn't much shorter than Ghost, built as a soldier is expected to be, accentuated by the gear, helmet, and night vision goggles that were flipped up. Light shone on one side of his face, bright gray eyes practically sparkling as if they haven't yet been dulled by the plague of war.

"Soap MacTavish." Shepard said right as the man began talking.

"Let's get ourselves a win, yeah, L.t.?" MacTavish said in a heavy Scottish accent. He spoke as if the two men had known each other their entire lives. Ghost was sure he was the type of person, even after only knowing about him for mere seconds, that never met a stranger. He hated those types of people. Ghost wasn't a talker, but he knew the personalities. The ones that could strike up a conversation with a brick wall and leave best friends.

What kind of name was Soap?

His face was now illuminated completely, the rest of the men dropping behind him. He had a strong nose, unshaven stubble all around his lip and chin. He lightly punched Ghost on the shoulder.

"Save ya a seat, sir." He began to turn, jogging towards the heli– making some of the deepest eye contact with Ghost he's felt in a long time. Not many people could stand looking at him like that so directly, but it didn't seem to bother the Sergeant in the slightest.

He felt frozen in his tracks, but wasn't quite sure why. It was almost like he could see straight through Ghost's mask as if it wasn't even there– like he knew every secret he kept filed away, but didn't care about the skeletons that came with them. He felt naked. Exposed.

"Fucking hell," he blurted, forgetting Shepard was still on open comms.

"Ghost, you copy?" Shepard called. This snapped him out of whatever hole he had sunk into. MacTavish had broken their stare first, facing with the rest of the soldiers away from Ghost.

"Yes sir."

"Any issues?" Yes.

"Negative, sir." He lazily tilted his head in the direction of his ear piece, trying to shake out whatever shook his nerves. "Out here."

He began striding towards the heli. This was his team, his mission, and he wasn't going to let some green-faced soldier inconvenience him.

This was Task Force 1-4-1, and they had a war to win.