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*Don’t be fuckin’ dead,* Ghost grunts as he thinks, following the bright red blood staining the stark snow beneath his feet. The wind drowning out even the loudest of sounds was beginning to drive Ghost nuts. He could barely see two feet in front of himself, and the trail, while quite the contrast to the white ground, was jagged and misformed. *Stumbling,* he notes mentally.
Why the fuck were the ultranationalists hiding out in the depths of the Siberian wilds anyways? *Sure, they’re Russian, whatever.* Ghost grunts again, heaving the heavy weapon in his hands. His trusty sniper, the one damn constant in his career. He presses his radio, calling out into the void, “This is Ghost, come in you, can’t spend all day in this goddamn blizzard looking for you.”
*Silence.*
He lets out a heavy sigh and continues following the trial. Ghost wasn’t even sure if it was you’s blood. Looked more like a fuckin’ elk got shot and fled than a human. *So much blood,* he inhales shakily, his nerves shot at the idea you’d already found the pearly gates. Ghost hopes, fucking prays for once in his godforsaken life, that it was an elk.
*Don’t be dead.*
Sure, you is another sergeant. Another Soap or Gaz, another teammate. you can handle the fighting, the injuries, the battlefield as well as both of his other sergeants…of course, you could. Had to or else there wouldn’t have been the offer of the 141. Task Force 141 **is** elite soldiers only. you’d been hand picked. But Ghost couldn’t shake the feeling of immense worry. Fear, even. It’d been too long since the last time we was *really scared* for another person.
His eyes catch on a silhouette of a tiny building. No bigger than a shed, he surmised. His footfalls are completely silent against the wind, and he imagines he’s not very visible, thanks to the uniform they’d been shipped out here in. The door is ajar—not entirely a good sign—and strain as he might, he can’t hear anything over the goddamn whirling in his ears.
Ghost nudges the door with his foot but before he gets the chance to call out, a shot wizzes past his head. “Easy, you, it’s me.” He calls out. No response, not that he hears. “you?”
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