It was easy. Too easy.
The moment Ghost met Soap under the stage, he was met with a narrow stairwell. The stairs themselves, individually, were all wooden and broken to some extent. He guaranteed that if he were to walk on them, they would made significant noise.
Soap was awaiting him at the bottom of the stairs.
"Lt. Good to see ya," Johnny nodded. He then looked around, his pistol pointed to the ground and in hand. "This place is like a labyrinth. I'd say there's more space down here than there is backstage."
"You said you found it?" Ghost huffed from atop the stairs.
"I did. It's a ways from here," Soap nodded. "This place is a ghost town. Only sign of life being those two guards guarding the door to what I assume to be the missile."
"Ghost town?" Ghost said. "Perfect for me then."
"Don't worry about the stairs. They can't hear us from here."
That explains why Soap was able to speak to him so freely over the comms. Ghost made his way down hastily. He then peaked the corner and looked left and right. Soap had a point. There was absolutely nothing down here apart from icy stone brick walls and cement floors.
"We should inform the others," Ghost said as he and Johnny began to move.
"Right."
"Gaz, Captain," he called through his headpiece. "We've found it. Stay where you are. Minimal threat down here. We can take care of it."
"Copy that, Lieutenant."
"Let's move." Ghost turned to Soap and gestured down the hall.
The place was eerie. The walls were cracked and damaged, each nook and cranny littered with gray cobwebs. The floor cracked underneath their step. Ghost looked down. Shattered glass and... something else...?
"What the hell..." he murmured. He turned around. "Soap. Watch your step. Careful of making too much noise."
Soap acknowledged him as they paraded on. As they continued, the damage to the general area became more evident. Ghost couldn't help but shiver. It was like Antarctica down here. It was moist, yet absolutely freezing. He touched the wall with a gloved hand, then observed his fingers. The walls were wet, as if they were sweating.
They turned down another hallway, becoming more stealthy as they proceeded; they were approaching the missile the more they continued.
"'Ey, Lt., what the fuck is that?"
Ghost looked to the wall where Soap gestured. Shackles.
That explained it. This was a dungeon. For what and which time period, Ghost could only wonder.
"Looks like the Hofmanns have some explaining to do," Ghost mused.
"We're here. Right down that hall. That's where they are," Soap said. Ghost nodded, then put a finger to his mouth, signaling them to be silent.
He scanned the area. It was exactly as Soap described. Two men walking around aimlessly, rifles in their hand. They wore normal attire with tactical gear strapped over their bodies. They had headpieces like Ghost and Soap.
Definitely Hassan's men.
This was too easy. Surely there was a catch.
Ghost felt a poke on his shoulder.
Soap gave him a look, and then handed him a silenced pistol. Ghost nodded to Soap in appreciation. He then peaked over the corner and aimed the weapon, staring through the scope to get a precise shot.
He aimed for the heads, and then took out both the men with ease.
"Move," Ghost commanded. He and Soap moved to the door. He tried the handle. Padlocked. It was rusty, old metal. Damaged.
"Let's pry her loose," said Ghost. Soap nodded, and Ghost got his bolt cutters out. He cut the chains. They fell to the floor with a reverberating jingle.
They exchanged a glance, nodded, and opened the door to reveal what was inside.
...
Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes became hours.
The show was almost over. Throughout the production, your performance manipulated the prince to believe you were Odette, when in true reality, you were Odile.
At the end, you were Odile. And Odile wins. Odette dies nothing can change that.
The black swan prevails.
Your dark, ebony eyeshadow, deep rouge lipstick, and black, feathered outfit was hypnotizing to the audience as you stepped towards the prince. The music intensified. It's like every pair of lungs in the audience were constricted, unable to breath, unable to move, incapable of action.
The black swan prevails.
It was over. In this tragedy, the prince kills himself by drowning himself in the swan lake. You had won. Odette had won. Once the prince had already fallen in love with you, Odette died. And Odile rose.
The black swan prevails
The prince was dead. You stood over his body, contorting your arm movements to replicate that of a swan's wings flapping. But it was not graceful. It was sharp. Evil. Dark. Your chin rose, and your eyes were narrowed. The prey was dead. All hope was lost.
The black swan prevails.
The audience was eerily silent.
Your met eyes with König's.
He was crying.
The air was stifling.
Your body was sleek with sweat, your muscles twitching with extreme strain; you felt as if you were going to pass out.
The lights dimmed.
The music faded.
The audience erupts into a cacophony of applause and cheering. You sigh deeply out of your nose, allowing your body to relax. The red curtains slowly close until the audience is no longer visible. Your body sways into an idle stance. You stare down at the man beneath you.
"Aren't you gonna help me up?" he scoffed. You only then realized who he was. You had gotten so caught up in the whole performance you completely forgot that you were supposed to be Clara. Lukas.
"You," you seethed under your breath. You wish you could do more than just metaphorically drive him to suicide.
He looked sheepish, scared. Lukas's hair stuck in matted strings to his forehead, which was shiny with droplets of sweat. His eyes crinkled from the brightness of the lights backstage; he lifted up an arm to shield his eyes.
"Get up yourself, cunt," you hissed. You then spat on him. He flinched, groaning in disgust.
You walked away back to your room, leaving him behind still on the floor, but before you could get there, a familiar voice called out your name— er, Clara's name.
"Claraaaaa!"
Ada dashed up to you, pulling you into a tight embrace. You once again felt unable to breathe. Does she suffocate her friends as a hobby?
She, at last, pulled away. "God, you were amazing! That's the best I've ever seen you perform!"
You flushed. Really? You were shocked. You hadn't performed an actual ballet since you were a preteen. Old habits die hard, you guess.
"Yes, really!" Ada nodded ecstatically. Your face grew redder. Christ, [Y/N], you said that out loud? "I mean it was fantastic! You looked all innocent and young as Odette, and then wham! You were evil and twisty Odile! Your expressions were so real! Even when you started crying at the end!"
"Crying?" you muttered confusedly.
"Yeah, you were crying."
You quickly wiped your face, carelessly smudging your white powdered makeup. You scrutinized the residue on your fingers. Tears.
Why was I crying? You didn't feel weak, or ashamed. You were just puzzled.
"Well, me and the rest of the swans are stopping by Judy's for a drink, plus some of the female stage directors," Ada said, her excitement a little dimmed by your lack of reciprocation. "We could all sure use it after the work we put it. The night is still young!"
You feigned a soft smile. "Thank you, Ada, but I'd rather go home and get some rest." I need to get changed and check on Ghost and the others. "Enjoy your drinks."
"But-"
You walked away without another word.
You were exhausted, to put things shortly. Your body was weak, and your lack of sleep within the past few weeks since you've been captured and working alongside the Task Force has finally caught up to you — you feel as if you came three inches from a pillow, you'd pass out almost immediately.
You opened the door to your room, stripped off your damp tights and outfit. You dug through your duffel bag for your clothes and headpiece. You slipped on the casual outfit you had on before, leaving your tactical gear in the bag aside from your headpiece.
You plopped down onto the vanity chair, blowing out a raspberry. You put your headpiece on your head, but made no immediate action to utilize it. You stared at yourself, feeling empty.
And then it happened again. The tears. Like irrevocable torrents, like rain, like a flood.
You smeared them away and lifted up your chin, trying to hide it all with a confident, cold front. As you wiped away the tears, they kept coming. And coming. And coming. And coming. And coming.
Your makeup looked terrible, smeared, powdery... Most of it had been sweated off already. But it still left dark, sleepless smudges all over your eyes.
You continued to wipe away the tears, but it only got worse. You choked on them. You sobbed, but noiselessly. You tried to smile with your teeth. When's the last time you'd seen yourself smile?
Why? Why, why, why, why, why? Why were you crying? Why now? What caused it? You hadn't cried since you had been saw Kilgore for the first time in years. That was understandable. But why now?
You thought of him, and cried more. He was suicidal. How did you never pick up on that? How did you never realize? How were you caught up in your own selfish bullshit that you didn't even realize your best friend was on the brink of killing himself? What the fuck is wrong with you?
Why had you changed so much? You remember looking to his eyes the night before you flew out to Austria, when he explained everything, and you felt everything, but nothing, all at once. You looked at him. He was the same... but you? Who were you?
He fell in love with the soft side of you, the childish, damaged, yet cheerful side of you. The pure white swan. The girl.
He doesn't even know this part of you, the sadistic, careless, murderous, part of you. He doesn't know the black swan. The woman.
But someone else did.
These thoughts became sad, then depressing, then empty, then irritating, then angering, then infuriating.
"Putain de merde!!" you shrieked. Your voice trembled, your bottom lip quivered. You wiped your face until it was red and itchy. You kicked the petite vanity until it crashed to the ground loudly, causing the glass to shatter as it hit the hard floor. It crunched as you pace. You held your face in your hands.
You moved your hands down your face. You breathed in. You breathed out.
"Ghost," you called through the comms; your voice still trembled. "How copy?"
"Odile. The missile is disarmed. Meet us out back. We're leaving."
"Copy that."
You weren't leaving.
✧
[A/N] - ughhh guys this is one of my fav chapters yet. i know it's not very action packed, and over the past few chapters romance hasn't really been present, but bare with me! i love this chapter because it summarizes the parallel between [Y/N] and Odile and Odette. and can we just take a min to appreciate this symbolismmmmm omg. i think this concept is just so fucking cool. and as described in this chapter (if you didn't really get it lol) [Y/N]'s childhood self is Odette, or at least, that's how König sees her. and that's why he's in love with her. but [Y/N]'s adult self is Odile, and that is how Ghost sees her. long story short she was pretty confident being the black swan until Kilgore came back into her life, and now she feels the white swan pushing back in.
so the question is, will she accept herself as Odile, the black swan, or will she allow herself to become Odette again?
or maybe...
until next time!! thanks for reading lovelies <3
-abi