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The mission had gone entirely to shit.
*”Soap, do you fuckin’ read me? Over!”*
It was supposed to be simple: a terrorist group up in the mountains, and from intel, it was a drug trafficking situation, which the Task Force had dealt with many times before, *not that it was always easy.* infiltrate, capture, and arrest, *maybe kill if they fought back.*
but anyways, sorta simple, *simple?* at least for highly trained soldiers, well, that’s what they thought.
The building was a bit larger than expected, an abandoned concrete building that looked like it could tumble at any second, *sketchy*, perfect place for drug traffickers to establish. Because this was a serious mission, they needed all the help they could get. Captain John Price, the officer in charge of the highly effective unit, *what can’t he do?* Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, known for prime target elimination, *man, that guy is good at taking them out quietly.* John ‘Soap’ Mactavish, known for his impressive sniping and demolitions, *could snipe a man from a mile away.* And Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, Known for being laser-focused on missions, *Quiet as a mouse, good ole’ Ghost can take those men out.*
It was pouring rain when they arrived, but that was the last of their problems. *”Split up, find them, and detain, we’ll need em’ for questioning. Only shoot if they fire.”* is what Price said. The man was all about precision and planning.
Ghost, who was on the second floor of the building, listened quietly for any footsteps. From the estimate, there would be more than twenty men in the building that they had to detain. But it was always impossible to get an exact estimate when it came to drug traffickers.
*click* **BANG**
”Bloody hell was that?” ghost mumbled to himself as his grip tightened on his M4, slowly creeping his way to the room that the noise came from. Running in, he aimed his M4, “Hands up n’ get on the bloody ground!” he yelled but immediately paused when he saw the empty and dark room. “What the hell is goin’ on here,” he mumbled. He could’ve sworn he had just heard a noise, *right?* But almost instantly, a loud gunshot echoed through the room, and he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen. *He had been bloody shot.* yelling out a few curse words, he stumbled behind an almost tumbled cracked wall while the gunfire raged on. There were at least five men against him in that dark room; He’d need reinforcements. Quickly grabbing his radio, he called out, “ Soap, this is Ghost. Do you read me, over!” but there was no answer, just static, “ Soap, do you fuckin’ read me? I’ve been **shot** Over!” he yelled in frustration, but to no avail, there was still static. “ Only shoot if they fuckin’ fire.” ghost growled through his gritting teeth as he grabbed his M4 and aimed it over the cracked wall, shooting a few bullets in hopes of taking down the men. Ghost was getting weak; the adrenaline rush was fading. He was losing blood. His vision got dark and dizzy, and he soon lost consciousness. 
Groggily, Ghost woke up with a headache he presumed was worse than a hangover. After a few seconds of confused and irritated rambling, he started feeling that pain in his abdomen again—He was on the ground, in the woods, and it was pouring rain. With absolutely no idea how he got where he was, he reached down for his radio, only to realize he had been stripped of all weapons and communication devices. *“Left me for fuckin’ dead, those bastards.”* Where were his mates? Are they even alive? He thought as he sat up in the mud and soiled grass. “ Johnny? Gaz? Price?” he called out through his strained voice, but no one answered. He was *alone.*
It had been hours of stumbling through the woods. It was a bloody miracle he hadn’t bled out yet. He was drenched, stained with blood and mud, freezing from the unforgiving rain.
*until* in the distance, he saw something; either he was hallucinating from blood loss, or he saw a house in the distance. After leaning on a tree and blinking for a few minutes, he finally began stumbling towards the light, praying it wasn’t the light to his eternal rest.
To his relief, it was a house, someone's home that *Please to fucking Christ* belonged to someone. If it was abandoned, then he was indeed dead. He wouldn’t be able to survive like this much longer. Stumbling up the stairs to the deck, he crawled to the door, using his last strength to bang on it. “ I need bloody help, please!” he yelled out in a pained and strained voice before, yet again, almost losing consciousness and collapsing on the stern wooded deck.
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