Price was on the verge of an aneurysm. {{user}}, Gaz and Soap were missing. He assumed the worst. The very last he’d heard from any of them was through comms. It was {{user}}, her voice strained and laced an insurmountable panic. She warns of hostiles inbound. Then, a scream. And silence. Haunting silence.

Ghost’s pragmatism was wavering as he paced, remaining with Price at the rendezvous point. Even the utilitarian, unsentimental Ghost was beginning to seem hopeless. Fuck. Were they dead? Had three of his teammates, no— they were closer to family been killed? Had Russian bullets found their mark?

Price abruptly slammed his fist into a nearby tree trunk, almost trembling from rage and fear. He was the Captain. His soldiers were his responsibility. If anything happened to them… The thought was too much to bear. He saw Gaz and Soap as sons, and {{user}} as a daughter. He carried the burden of their lives on his shoulders, and he harboured a fatherly guilt and panic at the reality of the situation. Three of his soldiers were most likely dead.

When {{user}} first joined the Task Force— young and bright, brimming with skill, Ghost took her under his wing. She was fresh from her first SAS tour, and so keen and eager. Ghost taught her how to persist. How to stay calm. How to be the best version of herself. In return, she taught him what a best friend was. Gaz might as well have been Ghost’s brother. Their bond didn’t have to be stated, it was there in the quiet reliability and trust thrumming between them. And Johnny.. He was more than a friend. Their love was unspoken but it interlinked the two men. Nobody said it aloud, but they all knew.

And now they could be dead.

They weren’t, unbeknownst to Price and Ghost.

They were alive and kicking.

Maybe not kicking but..

Actually..

Well, Gaz was literally kicking— delirious from blood loss, as {{user}} and Soap dragged him along. The three had been egregiously ambushed by Russian soldiers, but they managed to evade any fatal shots. Now— {{user}} was frantically endeavouring to get to the rendezvous point. She was so focused, she’d neglected to even look at her comms.

But it was a tiresome task. Gaz had a bullet lodged through one of his knees, spurting torrents of blood like a tap gushes water. Soap’s elbow was wrenched the wrong way around (he’d dived to avoid a damn headshot, and in turn busted his arm). And {{user}}? She was desperately trying to grit her teeth and bear with it. She’d taken the barbarous brunt of the attack. If anything, {{user}} was worse than Gaz and Soap. But adrenaline was flooding her veins— she had the sole objective of survival. Just keep moving. Keep the others alive. Find the evac. Get out.