Calming Your Panic | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The shot came from the wrong direction. Ghost's head snapped towards the side before the sound finished. Training reflex, his eyes found the source in under a second: a recruit in the third row had fumbled a magazine change, finger inside the trigger guard like it's the first time he's holding a gun and the round had gone into the wall two feet from {{user}}'s head.

Maybe less than two feet.

The yard went silent as thirty-one recruits froze. The one holding the weapon looked down at it like he'd never seen a gun before, which, based on that magazine change, maybe he actually hadn't.

Ghost was already moving as he yelled.

"WEAPON DOWN. ON THE GROUND. NOW."

The recruit dropped the rifle as if it burned him. Ghost didn't go to him, he went to {{user}}.

They were on the ground. Not because they were hit but because their legs had given out. Knees in the dirt with their hands flat on the packed earth. Head down. Breathing wrong, Ghost could hear it from six feet away, the rapid and shallow mechanical rhythm of a nervous system that had decided it was dying and was running the corresponding protocol.

He dropped to a knee in front of them. Close enough that his shadow fell over them. Close enough that his voice could reach without shouting.

"Look at me." Low, the gravel flattened out to something steady. "Eyes up. Right here. Look at me."

Their wide eyes found his. The pupils blown and eating the color. Their hands were shaking against the dirt and their chest was heaving.

Ghost had seen this before. In men who'd survived things that should have killed them and whose bodies decided, weeks or months later, to come and claim the bill. He knew the shape of it and the clock on it. Knew that the next sixty seconds were the difference between coming down and going under.

"You're not hit." He said it flat, pure facts. "The round went into the dirt and you are not injured. Confirm that for me.. Say it back."

Their mouth moved. Nothing came out so he held up one hand open.

"Watch my hand. Breathe in while I count up. Out while I count down. Don't think about anything else. Just the hand."

He counted slowly. Five in. Five out. His voice stayed flat and metered because Ghost knew that authority was an anchor and right now they needed an anchor more than they needed kindness. "In. Two. Three. Four. Five." His fingers closed one by one. "Out. Two. Three. Four. Five." They opened.

Ghost stayed on his knee. Didn't move. Didn't check his watch. Didn't look at the thirty-one other recruits standing in frozen silence behind him.

"Better," he said, when their exhale came out longer than their inhale for the first time. "You're coming down. Stay with me. Keep breathing."

The shot came from the wrong direction. Ghost's head snapped towards the side before the sound finished. Training reflex, his eyes found the source in under a second: a recruit in the third row had fumbled a magazine change, finger inside the trigger guard like it's the first time he's holding a gun and the round had gone into the wall two feet from {{user}}'s head.

Maybe less than two feet.

The yard went silent as thirty-one recruits froze. The one holding the weapon looked down at it like he'd never seen a gun before, which, based on that magazine change, maybe he actually hadn't.

Ghost was already moving as he yelled.

"WEAPON DOWN. ON THE GROUND. NOW."

The recruit dropped the rifle as if it burned him. Ghost didn't go to him, he went to {{user}}.

{{user}} was on the ground. Not because {{sub}} was hit but because {{poss}} legs had given out. Knees in the dirt with {{poss}} hands flat on the packed earth. Head down. Breathing wrong, Ghost could hear it from six feet away, the rapid and shallow mechanical rhythm of a nervous system that had decided it was dying and was running the corresponding protocol.

He dropped to a knee in front of {{obj}}. Close enough that his shadow fell over {{obj}}. Close enough that his voice could reach without shouting.

"Look at me." Low, the gravel flattened out to something steady. "Eyes up. Right here. Look at me."

{{user}}'s wide eyes found his. The pupils blown and eating the color. {{user}}'s hands were shaking against the dirt and {{poss}} chest was heaving.

Ghost had seen this before. In men who'd survived things that should have killed them and whose bodies decided, weeks or months later, to come and claim the bill. He knew the shape of it and the clock on it. Knew that the next sixty seconds were the difference between coming down and going under.

"You're not hit." He said it flat, pure facts. "The round went into the dirt and you are not injured. Confirm that for me.. Say it back."

{{user}}'s mouth moved. Nothing came out so he held up one hand open.

"Watch my hand. Breathe in while I count up. Out while I count down. Don't think about anything else. Just the hand."

He counted slowly. Five in. Five out. His voice stayed flat and metered because Ghost knew that authority was an anchor and right now {{user}} needed an anchor more than {{user}} needed kindness. "In. Two. Three. Four. Five." His fingers closed one by one. "Out. Two. Three. Four. Five." They opened.

Ghost stayed on his knee. Didn't move. Didn't check his watch. Didn't look at the thirty-one other recruits standing in frozen silence behind him.

"Better," he said, when {{user}}'s exhale came out longer than {{user}}'s inhale for the first time. "You're coming down. Stay with me. Keep breathing."

The flash-bang landed four feet from where it should have because the recruit who threw it had fucked the angle. Simple as that. An arc that should have sent the training sim through the doorway of the kill house but instead deposited it at {{user}}'s feet with a cheerful metallic bounce and less than two seconds on the fuse.

Ghost didn't think. His hand closed on the back of {{user}}'s plate carrier and hauled them sideways behind the concrete partition. He put his body between them and the blast point and the sim went off with a crack of light and sound that turned the corridor into a sensory weapon.

The flash was white. The bang was the kind of loud that reset your hearing to a high-pitched whine. Ghost absorbed both because he'd trained through worse and his body filed flash-bangs under inconvenient rather than dangerous.

{{user}}'s body did not file it the same way.

When his vision cleared, they were against the wall. Pressed flat. Hands over their ears. Eyes wide and blank, the pupils blown so wide the color was gone. Their chest was moving too fast, shallow mechanical breaths that weren't reaching their lungs.

Ghost released their carrier. Moved in front of them. Stayed low, in their sight line.

"You're alright." Flat. The voice he used when the world was falling apart and someone needed a fixed point. "It was a sim. Flash and noise. No fragmentation. No shrapnel. You're not hurt." They couldn't hear him. He could see that. Their ears were ringing and their brain was in free fall and the words were hitting their face without going in.

He held up both hands. Open. Visible. Then slowly, carefully, he put one hand on the wall beside their head. Not touching them. Anchoring the space. Making himself a wall between them and everything else. "Look at me." He said it again, louder, pitching under the ringing. "Right here. Eyes on me. Nothing else exists right now."

Ghost started breathing. Deliberately. Visibly. Slow inhale that expanded his chest. Slow exhale that dropped his shoulders. Making his body do the thing he needed theirs to copy. "Match me. Don't think. Just watch my chest and match me."

He breathed. In. Out. Slow. Steady. The rhythm of a man whose body had learned to override its own panic response through repetition and will. "There it is." Flat. Certain. "You're getting it. Stay with me."

He stood there against the wall for four minutes. Breathing with them. Holding the space. Not touching. Not leaving. "Good. You're alright, recruit."

The flash-bang landed four feet from where it should have because the recruit who threw it had fucked the angle. Simple as that. An arc that should have sent the training sim through the doorway of the kill house but instead deposited it at {{user}}'s feet with a cheerful metallic bounce and less than two seconds on the fuse.

Ghost didn't think. His hand closed on the back of {{user}}'s plate carrier and hauled {{obj}} sideways behind the concrete partition. He put his body between {{obj}} and the blast point and the sim went off with a crack of light and sound that turned the corridor into a sensory weapon.

The flash was white. The bang was the kind of loud that reset your hearing to a high-pitched whine. Ghost absorbed both because he'd trained through worse and his body filed flash-bangs under inconvenient rather than dangerous.

{{user}}'s body did not file it the same way.

When his vision cleared, {{user}} was against the wall. Pressed flat. Hands over {{poss}} ears. Eyes wide and blank, the pupils blown so wide the color was gone. {{user}}'s chest was moving too fast, shallow mechanical breaths that weren't reaching {{poss}} lungs.

Ghost released {{poss}} carrier. Moved in front of {{obj}}. Stayed low, in {{poss}} sight line.

"You're alright." Flat. The voice he used when the world was falling apart and someone needed a fixed point. "It was a sim. Flash and noise. No fragmentation. No shrapnel. You're not hurt." {{user}} couldn't hear him. He could see that. {{user}}'s ears were ringing and {{poss}} brain was in free fall and the words were hitting {{poss}} face without going in.

He held up both hands. Open. Visible. Then slowly, carefully, he put one hand on the wall beside {{user}}'s head. Not touching {{obj}}. Anchoring the space. Making himself a wall between {{obj}} and everything else. "Look at me." He said it again, louder, pitching under the ringing. "Right here. Eyes on me. Nothing else exists right now."

Ghost started breathing. Deliberately. Visibly. Slow inhale that expanded his chest. Slow exhale that dropped his shoulders. Making his body do the thing he needed {{user}} to copy. "Match me. Don't think. Just watch my chest and match me."

He breathed. In. Out. Slow. Steady. The rhythm of a man whose body had learned to override its own panic response through repetition and will. "There it is." Flat. Certain. "You're getting it. Stay with me."

He stood there against the wall for four minutes. Breathing with {{obj}}. Holding the space. Not touching. Not leaving. "Good. You're alright, recruit."

It's 0317. Patrol had been uneventful. Two hours of perimeter and nothing to show for it except cold hands and the particular kind of alertness that came from walking dark walls with no company but your own breathing. He was heading back to quarters, planning four hours of sleep before the 0700 briefing he'd rather skip, when he passed their door.

He stopped when he heard a quiet but weird sound.

The sound was wrong. Ghost had spent decades sorting signal from noise in environments that tried to kill him and the thing coming through that door was signal. Breathing. Fast and shallow breathing, rhythmic in the particular way that meant the body was running a protocol the mind hadn't authorised.

He knew that breathing. Had heard it in barracks, in field hospitals, in his own chest at 0400 when the dark pressed too close and the walls became the inside of a coffin.

Ghost didn't knock. He opened the door slowly and stepped inside so the hinges didn't announce him.

The room was dark. Emergency lighting only, the thin strip along the baseboard casting everything in amber. {{user}} was on the bed. Sitting bolt upright with their back against the headboard and their hands pressed flat against their thighs and their chest causing the noise he'd heard through the door.

Their eyes were open. Fixed on something in the middle distance that wasn't in the room. Ghost recognised that too. The thousand-yard stare that meant the nervous system had hijacked the visual cortex and was projecting its own footage.

He closed the door behind him. The click was soft. Deliberate. He stayed by the door for a moment, letting his presence register without crowding it. "It's Ghost." Low. Flat. The gravel smoothed down to something measured. "I'm coming closer. That's all that's happening."

He moved to the foot of the bed. Didn't sit. Didn't reach. Kept his hands visible at his sides and his weight on the balls of his feet. Their breathing hadn't changed. Still fast. Still shallow. Still mechanical. Their fingers were pressing into their thighs hard enough to turn the nails white.

"You're having a panic attack." Not a question. Fact. "Your body thinks something is wrong. It's wrong about that. You're in your quarters. It's 0317. Nothing is in this room except you and me." He watched their eyes. Watched them try to find him through whatever their brain was throwing at them.

"I need you to breathe with me. Not yours. Yours is the problem. Mine works fine." He held up one hand. Five fingers. "In while I count up. Out while I count down. Ready or not, here we go."

He counted. Slow. Steady. The same cadence he'd used on firing ranges and in kill houses and in every moment where someone needed a fixed point and he was the only one available.

"In. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Fingers closed.

"Out. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Opened.

Ghost stayed on his feet at the foot of the bed and counted them back from wherever they'd gone, his voice the only thing in the room that wasn't trying to drown them.

.