Chapter Text
The temporary base they had set up didn’t exactly provide the quietest place to think; instead, it was in the middle of the night the day before it all happened that Soap snuck out of his tent and to the edge of the trees. The cool night air was just barely misting ahead of him, and even as he tapped all his pockets looking for his cigarettes, he found the little itch disappearing. He’d left them anyway; the sky was inky black over the tents, and the greenlands sprawled endlessly. The edge of the trees was only about fifty feet from the edge of the base, but the smell of gunpowder and petrol disappeared all the same. He sank down against the first tree he could find, sitting on the ground facing the camp.
Lifting his chin skywards, he took long breaths of the air, savouring the feeling of the cold against his skin, the soft grass under his boots.
It was quiet. Crickets sang in the bushes, and it was a half moon in the sky. Leaning further back against the tree, he let his eyes slide closed.
“Going to catch a cold sleeping out here, Johnny.”
“ Fuck—”
He was up on his feet in a second, but who else but Ghost, leaning against the same tree, clad in all black. He didn’t even have the skull mask on, just a tired balaclava pulled up over his nose and a cigarette in his mouth, clutched between smirking lips.
“For fuck’s sake, Ghost,” Soap groaned, wiping his face, “d’ye have to sneak up on everyone?!”
“Got to live up to the callsign. More concerned about your situational awareness, if I’m honest,” he shrugged carelessly, smoke curling from his lips as he spoke. The burning end of the cigarette reflected in his eyes, bright orange in light brown.
“Sorry I wasn’t expectin’ to be haunted in the middle o’ the night!”
“When else? And besides,” Ghost replied, another careless drag, “imagine if I wasn’t a friendly.”
“Piss off,” Soap grumbled, taking his seat back against the tree. Ghost watched, curious, but didn’t rise to the prodding. There was a moment of silence, thick and warm— the crickets were still chirping. In the near distance, Soap watched the night guard patrol.
“Nightmares?” Ghost asked after a moment, voice quiet as if there was anyone to overhear.
“Nah.”
“Insomnia, then?”
“Not quite.”
“Go on, then,” Ghost prompted, and Soap watched a little ash fall beside him. “What’s got you out of bed so late?”
“Not goin’ to write me up for bein’ past curfew, are you?” Soap asked, smile tugging at his lips as he looked up. Ghost just smiled, hiding it in another drag.
“And what excuse would I give for finding you?”
“Hm,” Soap replied, letting his eyes close again. He wondered if the grass would stain his trousers, or if he’d leave little footprints in the ground.
“S’not quite insomnia,” Soap said again, eyes fluttering open. “Just… feel like something’s about to happen?”
“Storm on the horizon?”
“Nah, not necessarily something bad. Just,” he gestured vaguely, “something. Something important.”
Ghost huffed a very quiet laugh; Soap looked up to catch him gazing at the nightguard again, eyes inordinately gentle.
“Nothing’s going to happen, Johnny,” Ghost said softly, and with such conviction that Soap believed him in a second.
“Nothing important, anyway,” he seemed to add as an afterthought, and a little more ash fell down. “Get back in bed, we have the mission tomorrow, won’t do to have you falling asleep on your feet. Go on,” he added, nudging at Soap with a foot. “Forest’s not big enough for the two of us.”
Later, when he’d get into bed, Soap would realise he’d forgotten to ask Ghost why he was up. But the next morning came, the mission plans set, the conversation forgotten, tucked away.
When the third check in came back quiet, Soap suddenly wondered if the stabbing sense of foreboding in his chest was visible on his face. He could hear Price besides him, voice increasingly concerned, and from the corner of his eye, see the restless way Gaz’s fingers shifted over his gun.
“Fuckin’ hell, Ghost,” he muttered into his mic, on their private channel. “You’re going to give Price a heart attack.”
Say something, he wanted to say. Please.
Besides Soap, Gaz shifted, looking almost nervous. In the ghillie suit, he blended into Soap’s peripheries, but his eyes were narrowed, jaw set.
The mission would take them to a base of operations in the middle of the forest. Several satellite signals had been registered from it, and several of those connected with a certain arms trades group in Germany, who had been interrupting the transport of arms overseas— there was a high suspicion that the disappearing weapons were finding themselves in warzones, often against civilians. Tall pine trees towered around them, almost blocking out the late afternoon sun— there was hardly a breeze, no sounds but their quiet breathing and careful footsteps.
“Laswell?”
“Satellite’s only accurate to the square mile, Price,” Laswell replied, voice slightly faint over their headset. “He was at the base, though.”
The mission objective was simple enough— get in, take whatever intel they could find, blow the place to pieces. Ghost had been sent ahead to scout, the best at moving undetected through environments, and it was possible that his silence was just another aspect to his sleath— but there was a sense of unease to it all.
Soap wiped at his forehead where a thin sheen of sweat was already forming in the humid air. His glove came back a dark green black with the camouflage face paint, and he sighed, wiping it on his trousers, before scrubbing at it to try and patch the now uncovered spot of skin. As a rule, they did their best not to assume the worst— the chances of Ghost having been killed twice, he reminded himself, was low.
With that said, this would be their first overt attack against the arms group. The higher chance was that if they somehow managed to spot Ghost slinking around base, they would interrogate him instead of killing him.
Alone. In the middle of the forest. With no communication. Soap didn’t like to think of that.
Ghost was a tough bastard, he reasoned, stepping over roots. He’d be fine. And Laswell had satellite imagery; sure, the nearest road was a mile away, but until she called out a vehicle moving, it was safe to assume he was still there. And they should have been close to the coordinates of Ghost’s final check-in— if anything had gone wrong, then… well, they’d still find him. In every eventuality, they’d find him.
And then Soap could blow the base to kingdom come if he so desired.
They had been tracking Ghost’s route; he had to give it to him, because even in the wet mud, there was hardly a footprint— and it had taken them to a small cliff overlooking the base. It had been military, once, decades ago, and looked like it had been a haunt for squatters at one point, based on the fading pink and blue graffiti. Ghost’s final callout had promised four operatives, all armed, outside the building together. The three of them crouched in the undergrowth, watching.
“Ghost,” Price tried again, voice a whisper. “Sit-rep, Ghost.”
“I’m only seeing two,” Gaz frowned, looking down at the base. “Are they inside?”
“He would’ve said,” Soap replied, eyes raking over the scene. The two soldiers stood outside, far too on guard for such a quiet day— fingers on the triggers of their guns, they stood by the door.
“S’pose they moved indoors,” Gaz replied. “Why?”
“Five o’ clock,” Price muttered from beside them. Confused, Soap turned around— only to see it.
One of the operatives. On his back, around a bush, pale skin and wide, glassy eyes to distract from the dark red staining his shirt. As they approached him, they could see he wasn’t wearing the same gear as the others outside the door, but had the same gun— dark hair matted with blood, he hadn’t gone down with a fight, bloodied knuckles and busted lips.
“Look.”
The ground around his body had been disturbed; a fight. The leaves were strewn, there was a bullet casing, and a dark patch of soil Soap knew had to be blood.
“Must’ve been ambushed.”
“Bastards,” Soap muttered. “How’d they know he was here?”
“Fuck,” Gaz whispered, and Soap followed his gaze. There was the patch where they had fought, the blood stain, drag marks and a pair of footsteps that didn’t match Ghost’s silent ones… all the way up to the edge of the cliff.
They scrambled forward, glancing over the edge, and sure enough, in the mud below there was another patch. The drag marks continued, only disappearing onto the flattered soil that led to the entrance of the building.
It wasn’t a high drop. It wouldn’t kill him, and if Ghost was falling correctly, he might not even be that injured. But the picture was obvious, and it had rage pulsing slowly under Soap’s skin.
They’d taken him.
“Captain?” Soap asked.
“One entrance, one exit, boarded windows. Gaz on overwatch, we’re expecting a minimum of four hostiles. I’ll take the guard on the left, Gaz’ll take the one on the right while Soap does charges.”
“How much?”
“Enough to blow down the door, nothing else, have stuns at the ready. We can do more after,” Price added, with a little glint of anger in his eyes. He glanced over at Gaz, and nodded. “On my command.”
“Rog,” Gaz replied, already putting together his gun. Soap followed Price down the cliff, the long way around, out of sight of the two guards, steps silent. The base was made up of one big building with a handful of rooms, and Soap could see the newly placed wires and satellite dish on the outside of the building. There was one car, an APC, parked poorly outside the base, the ground compressed where footsteps had flattened it. The concrete walls were thick, and he couldn’t hear a word inside.
He hoped Ghost was alright.
Steadily, they approached the door, stopping short of a corner where the guards stood not ten feet from them. Taking out some PE-4, Soap hurriedly applied a detonator charge, before nodding at Price.
“Gaz.”
“Waiting on you, sir,” he replied.
“Execute.”
Price rushed forward; the guard to the left started and then rushed towards him. The guard to the right fell limp a second later, a crack piercing the silence of the forest— at the same time, Soap rushed to the door, applying the explosives to the hinges and the lock before hurrying back to each side of the door, just as Price took out the other guard and took position. He could hear shouting from inside, and covered his face as the charge went off— the door flew off its hinges, and Price and Soap stepped through the smoke.
The room was dark, illuminated by a yellow light and the tiny gaps in the windows where it wasn’t fully boarded up— they had the advantage of the dark, but Soap threw in a stun grenade, earning several shocked gasps as the charge went off. Visible, now, as Soap’s eyes had adjusted to the dark, he made out four of them, two armed— he shot the one closest to him, as Price wrestled with the other, and turned to the rest of the room—
And there was a kid.
Soap blinked, hard, but the child stayed— on a chair in the centre of the room, eyes wide, arm at an odd angle, their eyes met— he raised his other arm, and too late, Soap realised what he was pointing at—
The other man, unarmed still, came at him with a knife— with a sweeping kick, Soap knocked it from his hands before shooting him twice in the head with his pistol. Price had already dealt with the other armed soldier with the same efficiency, and took the final one by the scruff of the neck, forcing him against the wall—
“Where is he?” He snarled, as the man spluttered. “Where the fuck is he?”
“ Scheiße, ich weiß es nicht! I don’t know!”
The man had a high voice, brown hair and brown eyes— he was young, untrained, hands scrabbling at Price’s wrist.
“I’ll give you one fucking chance,” Price replied, unholstering his pistol with his other hand, “answer the question!”
“There! There!” He replied, pointing a desperate finger at the kid. The kid flinched; at the same moment, Soap spotted it. Ghost’s mask, stained red and abandoned on the floor. He picked it up, jaw gritted.
“We’re not here about the kid,” Soap replied, walking up to him, lifting up the mask. “We’re here about Ghost. Where is he?”
“ Verdammt, I’m telling you, he is there! Don’t shoot!” He practically begged, as Price lifted his gun. “I’m not lying, I’m not lying, that is him! He is there!”
Price cocked the gun.
“Nein! Bitte! I’m telling you! We—”
The pistol was louder in the small space with the absence of the three others, and the man only needed to be shot once. He fell against the wall, and then slid down it, mouth hanging open, eyes closed.
“He’s not here,” Price muttered. And then, switching on his comms: “he’s not here.”
“Say again?” Gaz replied, audibly surprised. Soap glanced down at the mask in his hands again, hands in fists.
“He was. Now he’s not.”
“Check the other rooms,” Price ordered. “Laswell, has anyone come or gone?”
“Nothing since Ghost went dark,” Laswell replied, and Soap heard several keys tapped, “but I’ll go over it again.”
“We would’ve heard an engine. Oh,” Soap replied, as he turned to the child again. He was curled up on the chair, peeking at them both through gaps between his fingers— spotting him looking, he gasped, closing the gaps fully.
“We should do something about the kid.”
Price turned as well, eyebrows raising. He had blond hair, and if he wasn’t currently hiding them, light brown eyes, and instead of real clothes, seemed to be wearing a huge T-shirt. It came just past his knees, dark and stained with mud, and he wasn’t wearing shoes.
“I don’t think anyone else is here,” Price replied thoughtfully. “Gaz, get down here. Stay on your guard,” he said to Soap, “I’m looking through the other rooms.”
The kid flinched as Price walked by, carefully opening a door and disappearing through it. Soap looked around at the room. The lamp had fallen over in the fight, casting long shadows over the bodies, and there was blood all over the floor. He felt a pang of sympathy for the kid, and then slight confusion; what was he doing there?
Approaching him carefully, he sat down in front of him.
“Hey,” he started, trying to keep his voice low. “Ah, hello.”
The kid didn’t respond, but opened the gaps between his fingers again. His arm was definitely at an odd angle, and Soap could just make out wide, brimming eyes.
“Do you speak English?” He asked, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. The kid still seemed scared, so Soap wiped at the paint on his face again, until he nodded
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, that makes this a little easier then,” Soap replied, shifting so he was on his knees fully, at eye level with him. He looked to be about three, though Soap had never spent enough time around children to have a clear idea on it. He was, however, very small.
“What’s your name?”
“No.”
The kid spoke in a whisper, voice wet, and closed the gaps in his fingers again like Soap would disappear if he did. Up close, he was surprisingly clean for someone who had to have travelled through the same mud and dirt they had, and kept fidgeting.
“What d’you mean, no?” Soap asked.
“My mum said I can’t tell strangers my name.”
Soap’s eyebrows flew upwards. He was still speaking quietly, into his knees, but—
“I’ve got the intel, we’re just taking the whole laptop—” Price began, walking back in—
“He’s British.”
“Huh?”
“The kid,” Soap replied, gesturing at him, and then turned back to him. “Aren’t you?”
“Really?” Price replied, eyebrows raised. “You’re sure?”
“Heard him speak, sir.”
Hiding his face again, he squeezed a little in on himself when Price approached, copying Soap to sit on his other side.
“Fuck are you doin’ here, kid?” Price asked, curiosity piqued. He didn’t reply, shaking his head— Soap realised he was trembling.
“What’s your name?” Price asked, when he was met with silence.
“He won’t say,” Soap replied quietly. “His mum told him not to talk to strangers.”
“Good advice,” Price replied, “but we’re not strangers, are we? We’re British military, got the flags to prove it.”
“Captain?” Gaz asked from the door, having just arrived, blocking the light from the doorway. The kid whimpered.
“Uh…”
“We’ve found a kid,” Price said to Gaz as he walked in, “he’s British.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“That’s what I want to know, too,” Price replied.
“Don’t cry,” Soap said, waving vaguely as the kid whimpered again. “It’s alright, all the men are, uh…”
“Asleep,” Gaz provided, moving closer to him. “We put them to sleep, and now, we can take you home.”
At the word home, the kid sobbed— the three of them looked between each other, a little alarmed.
“Come on,” Soap said, trying to sound soothing. “Do you really want to stay here?”
“What if we just pick him up?” Gaz suggested very quietly. “He doesn’t look that heavy.”
“I’m not carrying him,” Price replied immediately.
“I’m not!” Gaz responded quickly.
“Come on, kid, just…”
He attempted to pat the kid’s shoulder in what he hoped was consoling; instead, the kid flinched so hard the chair rocked, tipping sideways, and—
“ Get off of me !”
Soap, who had caught him in the nick of time, received a kick to his chest for his efforts, but didn’t let go— he held him under the shoulders, and picked him up off the ground as his legs kicked uselessly—
“His arm is definitely broken,” Gaz commented idly, as Soap took another kick— the kid was very weak, so it was more of a minor inconvenience than anything, but Soap held him at arm’s length all the same.
“Stop— kicking me—”
“ Get off!”
“Are you two really not going to do anything?” Soap scowled, turning to both of them, as he scratched at the arms that were holding him with his good arm. Soap had no idea what he was looking to achieve, as he was well off the ground now, but the kid was thrashing left and right—
“We haven’t kicked you,” Gaz pointed out, apparently appealing to his sense of justice, “is it really fair that you kick Soap?”
“That’s— a dumb— name!” He bit out, still thrashing, wrestling back and forth. Gaz snorted, but at the same moment, the kid bit Soap’s wrist, hard, and he swore— the kid fell, landing on the floor with a wail.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap scowled, watching him flail about on the dirty floor, pushing himself back towards the wall, “I think he broke skin!”
“He sounds like he’s from somewhere up north,” Price commented, looking down at him. “So, this intel—”
“Price!” Soap replied, frowning. “Come on, at least do something!”
“He’ll follow us if we leave,” Price shrugged, and when Soap’s frown only deepened: “For the love of— alright.”
He sighed, taking a step towards him and squatting down.
“Kid.”
He was still crying; big sobs that shook his shoulders, and he was valiantly trying to wipe his eyes with his good hand.
“Kid, listen.”
To his surprise, the kid looked up, two more tears falling down his face as he did— Price sighed again.
“Listen, I’ve lost one of my men, and I need to go and find him as soon as possible. I can’t babysit you. Either you come with us, or we leave you here, in this base in the middle of nowhere, because I need to go find him.”
The kid looked fearfully between one of the bodies, and back up at Price, who shrugged again. Like an afterthought, he patted a few of his pockets, before pulling out a cigar— placing it between his lips, he lit it, the sparks reflecting in the kid’s eyes. He didn’t say anything, and neither did Price— finally, blowing out some smoke, he stood up, turning around.
“Suit yourself.”
“W-wait!”
The kid was still crying, but as Price turned, stood up unsteadily, wiping his eyes.
“Don’t go!”
“You’ve not got shoes,” Soap noticed as he pulled himself to his feet, “the floors covered with needles!”
“Don’t go,” the kid said again, and began stepping around them, hurrying to keep up. Another pang of sympathy, and Soap sighed, stepping towards him.
“If I pick you up, will you bite me?”
“…No,” the kid mumbled, lifting up his arms. Scooping him up, Soap readjusted him over his hip, trying to balance him so that he wouldn’t be uncomfortable against his vest. There was a big purple bruise over his forearm where his arm was angled strangely, and a handful of others littering the visible skin of his legs— he held onto the velcro of the vests with little fists, looking with big eyes at everything.
“How’d you hurt your arm?” Gaz asked curiously, as they began walking towards the door.
“…I dunno.”
“Seems like the sort of thing you’d remember,” Price replied, stepping back into the forest. Something seemed to occur to him, and he suddenly turned, eyebrows raised.
“Have you seen anyone in a skull mask around?”
“A skull mask?” The kid repeated, voice going high. Soap paused to look around his pockets, pulling Ghost’s hardshell mask from his pocket, holding it towards him, as the kid’s eyes widened—
The kid wailed, loud, pushing himself as far from the mask as possible, and Soap hurriedly tucked it away, shushing him in the same movement—
“That’s a no, then.”
“Sh, sh,” Soap cooed, panicking as he started crying again, “come on, kid, it was just a mask.”
“My arm hurts!”
“Because of the mask?” Soap asked, bewildered. And— “fuck, Price, d’you think there’s a basement in there?”
“I’ll check,” Gaz nodded, disappearing through the door, as Soap rocked the kid awkwardly on his hip.
“Laswell,” Price nodded, taking the opportunity and stepping a few steps from the two of them. “He wasn’t there.”
“That’s impossible,” Laswell replied, frown audible in her voice, “unless he was carried off, because no vehicles have come or gone since then.”
“They can’t have carried him off,” Price replied, wiping his face in frustration, “where the fuck would he have gone?”
“I’m telling you what happened, John, don’t get mad at me,” Laswell replied, anger flaring. The kid was still wailing, but was slowly calming down, swallowing down sobs and clutching his arm. Soap rocked him again, shushing him quietly. The conversation continued, quieter, as Soap walked around with the kid. The late afternoon was now becoming the very beginning of sunset, and golden sunlight peeked through the trees. The kid, at the very least, seemed momentarily distracted by that.
“No basement,” Gaz announced, stepping out the building. “Kicked the floor all over, it’s all concrete.”
“Did you see anyone?” Soap asked, turning to the kid again. He wiped his face on his hands, blinking up at him. His eyes were very light brown, with pale eyelashes and pale hair— in the light, Soap could see the baby fat that clung to his cheeks, littered with freckles and a little scar to the side of his face.
“There was four grown-ups, and only two of them had guns,” the kid replied. “But then you shot them.” And then, chin wobbling: “did they die?”
“…We put them to sleep,” Soap replied after a moment, glancing over at Gaz, who shrugged with wide eyes. “Remember?”
“That man didn’t want to die,” he mumbled, sniffling again. “But then you killed him anyway.”
“It’s…” Soap struggled for a second, “hard to explain.”
“Are you going to shoot me?” The kid mumbled, hands tightening where they were still holding on to the straps of Soap’s tac vest.
“Wh— no!”
“Nobody’s going to hurt you, kid,” Gaz replied, rescuing Soap from the line of conversation. “Price?” Soap prompted, looking over at him.
“I know— I know, Laswell, I’m sorry,” Price replied, taking off his hat to rake a hand through his hair. “Just—”
“You’re worried, John, just— keep your temper,” Laswell advised, voice surprisingly kind. Clicking his comms off, Price approached the three of them, wiping the camouflage paint from his face.
“We’re getting back to base ASAP,” Price replied, voice resigned. “There’s no sign of Ghost, not on satellite or anything, and we’ll have to send out a full team.”
Soap’s heart sank, worried— besides him, the kid looked on, confused.
“In the meanwhile,” Price gestured at the kid, who visibly tensed, “he needs to go to a hospital.”
“How’re we getting back to base?” Gaz asked, with a glance over at Soap. “Are we going to carry the kid?”
“We’ll take the car,” Price nodded, with a glance over at the truck waiting there. “Laswell, could we get directions back to base?”
“On it,” Laswell replied. “You’re south-bound for the first two miles through the forest.”
“So,” Gaz began, glancing over at the two of them through the rearview mirror. “Kid, do we get to know your name now?”
“You’re strangers,” the kid sniffled from where he was sat. Just like on the chair, he sat in the back car seat with his knees to his chest, too short to look out the window, and he held his arm to his chest.
“Come on,” Gaz tried, as the car bumped around the ground. There was a trail left over by the previous drivers, and Gaz followed it carefully. On the passenger seat, Price sat with the laptop balanced on his lap, uploading the intel to Laswell’s server. “Okay, how about this— I’m Kyle, he’s John, and, uh, so’s he,” he added, nodding at Soap. “So now we’re not strangers!”
“Why’re you both called John?” The kid asked, looking between him and Price.
“I dunno, kid, it’s a common name!”
“I’ve never met anyone called John,” the kid replied, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah, well, now you know two! What’s your name?”
The kid didn’t reply, curling further in on himself. The car jostled again, and Soap put an arm over him; with the lack of a booster seat, he rocked around with the car.
“How old are you, then?” Soap asked, glancing over at him. He shifted, pulling his long T-shirt over his knees.
“Six.”
“No way,” Gaz laughed, and to his surprise, the kid frowned with surprising energy. “My nieces are six, they’re up to here on me,” he replied, motioning to his hip, “and you’re all the way here,” he laughed, motioning somewhere closer to his knee.
“I’m six!”
“You’ve got to be the shortest six year old I’ve ever seen,” Gaz replied, as the kid flared.
“I’m not short!”
“You’re not tall,” Soap mumbled, earning him a glare that reminded Soap so much of Ghost that it almost ached.
“Your name’s Soap. That’s dumb,” the kid frowned, as Gaz laughed again.
“Yeah? You won’t even tell us your name!”
“Are you really soldiers?” The kid asked, peering at him suspiciously.
“Look at the flag, kid,” Soap replied, tapping at the Union Jack on his vest. He looked between the flag and Soap, and as the car jostled again, Soap put a protective arm over him again—
“Simon,” he finally admitted, voice barely audible over the whine of the engine.
“Simon?” Soap echoed, eyebrows raised, meeting Gaz’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Uh-huh.”
The chance of it were shockingly low; even Price looked surprised, visible in the reflection of the laptop screen.
“What’re you doing here, Simon?” Soap asked, pleased to finally put a name to the kid. He shrugged, straining up to look out the window.
“I dunno.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I don’t know where I am,” Simon replied. “Are we still in the forest?”
“No, kid, I mean in Germany.”
There was a moment— the car seemed to have finally reached somewhere stable, and it didn’t rock.
“I’m in Germany?!”
Oh, fuck.
“Ah— you didn’t know?” Gaz replied, glancing at him again. “This is— we’re in Germany, kid. Don’t get forests like this in the UK.”
“But— but— how? How did I— but—”
“Take a breath, Simon,” Soap advised, trying to placate him; the car jostled at just the wrong moment, Simon flinched away from Soap, hitting his head on the door— Gaz swore, Simon sobbed, Soap panicked, trying to calm him down—
“Jesus Christ, just— calm down, kid—”
“ Go away!” He yelled, the sound echoing in the small space, hands over his head—
“Listen, Simon, just— just, take a breath—”
“Fucking hell,” Gaz muttered from the driver’s seat, “we’re nearly on the road, just—”
“Simon!” Price barked in his captain’s voice. It had the desired effect; immediately, quiet fell over the car. Simon stopped struggling, eyes wide, fixed on Price, and Soap could sit back. Price took off his hat to rake a hand through his hair again, sighing.
“Sorry,” Simon mumbled quietly, sitting back in his seat, knees back to his chest. He cradled the injured arm, eyes downturned.
“We need your full name, lad, so we can run a search, find your folks.”
“Sorry,” Simon mumbled again, and Soap looked a little confusedly at Gaz, who shrugged. The car, with one final bump, came onto a tarmac road— Gaz took a slight breath of relief, pausing to double check the compass on the dashboard.
“East,” Price provided, and Gaz nodded, turning the wheel and setting off. On the road now, they could make real speed.
“Well?”
Simon mumbled something indistinct, and Price turned in his seat.
“Speak up, kid.”
“Simon Riley,” he mumbled.
There was a long moment, stretching like the road ahead of them. The sun was low, glimmering between the trees to their left; already, the sky had begun to darken, just barely beginning to turn purple. The car rolled to a stop— Gaz even turned on the handbrake before he turned around, absolutely bewildered.
“Your name’s Simon Riley?”
“Mhm,” he nodded into his knees. Soap gaped at him— his eyes stayed fixed ahead of him, apparently unaware of the complete shock in the car. He’d thought it was already unlikely, running into a British kid in middle of nowhere Germany, but— this wasn’t even coincidence anymore, this was…
“What’s— what’s your middle name, kid?” Price tried, and Soap had never heard him sound so out of his depth.
“Joseph.”
“Simon Joseph Riley? That’s your name?”
“Mhm,” Simon said again, and then looked up at them all, meeting their wide eyes, confused.
“Is that… bad?”
“No—”
“Who told you to say that?” Price asked immediately, tone steeling, eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“Who told you to say your name was Simon Riley, kid?” Price asked, turning around in his seat to look at him fully. Simon’s eyes widened, and he cast a little glance over at Soap, who shook his head, confused beyond belief.
“It’s my name.”
“I know Simon Riley, and he’s not a six year old,” Price replied. “How’d you know his middle name? That’s not on any documents.”
“It’s my middle name!”
“I’ve not got the fucking time for this,” Price replied, turning around in his seat. “Laswell,” he asked, speaking into his mic, “could you run a missing person’s search for a Simon Riley in the UK?”
“John—”
“Bear with me— just, please,” Price asked, with another look over at Simon.
There were a few moments, keys tapped.
“Nothing. No Simon Riley’s been declared missing, not for years.”
“Laswell’s just said there’s no one missing from the UK with that name,” Price replied, looking over at him. “What’s your real name?”
“It is my real name!”
“Kid,” Price replied, voice impatient, “we’ve been over this. I’ve not got time for this. Tell me your real name, or we’ll kick you out—”
“Sir—”
“—and whoever’s brought you here, whoever’s told you to tell us that name can come find you, because—”
“But it is my name! I’m not lying!”
“Laswell,” Price said again, voice testing, “could you run a search for anyone named Simon Riley from now til twenty years ago?”
“No one,” Laswell replied after a few moments. They could hear the tinny sound of her voice over the speakers, and Price’s gaze was icy. “No one named Simon Riley.”
“But it’s my name!” Simon practically wailed. “I’m not lying, I promise!”
The car still wasn’t moving. Soap and Gaz looked at each other, each as alarmed as the other, and Price looked impassively on at the kid.
The likelihood of them running into a British child in the middle of a German forest who insisted to tears that his name was Simon Riley was zero. There was no doubt about it. In fact, if not for the big tears leaking down the kid’s face again, Soap probably would have been doing the same as Price. Their names— all of their names, lived behind miles of red tape.
It was inexplicable. All of it was inexplicable.
“Please— I’m sorry,” Simon cried, wiping his face again, face red and blotchy, “don’t leave me here, I don’t know how to get home!”
“We can help you with that,” Price replied, voice even, “if we have your name.”
“It’s— Simon Riley, I promise I’m not lying,” he wailed, “I’m— sorry, I promise, just— please, I don’t know. Please don’t go, I’m sorry.”
“Kid—”
“Captain,” Gaz cut him off, eyes flashing. Price looked at Soap, but Soap glanced over at Simon, still crying quietly into his knees. Price looked over at him again, and then sighed.
“Alright, alright. Let’s get back to base.”
Simon Riley.
Soap sat back as the car began picking up speed, pulling them away from the forest, away from the base, away from it all. By the time they were back at base, the sun was dipping below the horizon.
Simon let Soap carry him to the medical wing, still crying silently into his shoulder.