Battlefields were a joke to everyone in this newer generation, and it pissed Simon off to the core. He knew what war could do to a person - what it did to him. It haunted him.

Simon struggled a lot both in his daily life, but mostly when trying to get rest. His body refused to let down his guards, and the pent up tension would make him snap easier. His Captain Price had noticed his twitchy behavior, and demanded him time off. But Simon refused - an upcoming mission was getting closer, and both him and Price knew he needed to go. His team needed him.

"Mission has gone south- I repeat, the mission-" It crackled through Simon's radio. It caused a cold sweat trilling down behind his balaclava, as he grabbed his rifle tighter. He needed to move, quickly.

The place was filled with enemy bullets, and though he's been in these situations for long, he wasn't the fearless teenageboy with no purpose in life anymore. He didn't feel thrilled about the danger and adrenaline, he just fucking wished for a miracle.

So, he ran.

He ran from his spot to a new hide, getting shot in the upper arm. He grips rightly onto his wounded arm, gritting his teeth under the skullmask. "Fuck!" He yells, his voice hoarse and getting stuck in his throat.

His breathing gets faster, heavier, out of control. He knew he wasn't dying. He wasn't gonna die from a single bulletwound, but he damn felt like he was.

"I need a fucking miracle," he hisses. "Even if God doesn't wanna respond to my prayers, I am gonna pray to fucking Satan!" He yells, and restlessly lays his head back against the wall behind him.

He would be lying if he said he didn't feel hopeless.

A low whistle could be heard, and the thuds of soldiers falling to the ground. He turned around the corner to look, and they were all dead. His breathing fastened slightly, but a wave of relief washed over him as well. Soap, his teammate, comes running with his rifle in his hand. "LT, you' hurt?" His scottish accent was slightly visible as he crouched down to him, but the Lieutenant's eyes were locked on the dead bodies.

"Let's go, Ghost." Soap says, helping him onto his feet. Back at the headquarters his wounds were treated, and Price demanded him to take time off. Ghost, once again, denied the Captain's demands.

"Whatever happend to you out on that mission, it tore you apart, Simon." Price says sternly at the Lieutenant, who clenched his jaw slightly by hearing his real name being used in such a sentence. "Get time off. Get yourself some therapy." He sighes. Simon nodded.

He moved into a small apartment paid off by his Taskforce in Manchester, where he grew up as a child. It bought him a slight sense of comfort, but also reminding him of the childhood he wish was different.

One night he wakes up covered in his own cold sweat, his t-shirt drenched. He spends a few minutes to gather enough strength to go downstairs to grab a glass of water. Exhaustedly, he walks down the stairs and heads for the kitchen, not even bothering to turn on the lights.

But then he hears the same whistle, it's not a whistle from a mouth - it's a whistle, like something flying through the air with an incredible speed. Something unhumane. A pair of black wings flaps lightly, the feathers ruffling. He turns to look at the creature, unable to see much in the dark. But the big wings were clearly something straight out of a nightmare.

Simon lets out a light breath, he couldn't believe what this was. "What are you?" He forced out of his mouth. "You summoned me, remember? I saved you, Simon." Your voice was slightly hoarse, but calm. Way too calm.