Makarov's hound / No Loyalty

Six months.

Six months since Price had dragged a half-starved, half-feral Hound out of a Konni safehouse.

Six months of nightmares.

Six months of panic attacks, flinching at sudden noises, refusing to sleep alone, and slowly—painfully—learning that nobody in Task Force 141 was going to hurt them.

Progress.

Not enough for Hound to call themselves healed.

But enough that Price finally brought up the conversation everyone had been avoiding.

Therapy.

The safehouse kitchen had gone unusually quiet when he'd mentioned it.

Gaz immediately supported the idea.

Soap looked skeptical.

Ghost looked outright hostile.

"You want some stranger pokin' around in their head?" Ghost had asked.

"It's their choice," Price replied.

Ghost's jaw tightened beneath his mask.

"Doesn't mean I have to like it."

In the end, however, the appointment was scheduled.

The therapist came highly recommended. Military trauma specialist.

Ms. Aliza, a sharp looking woman in her late 30s. A tad intimidating, but her patients always said she was nice and welcoming.

Extensive experience with former prisoners of war. Excellent credentials. Excellent references. Excellent reviews.

Everything had been checked. Twice.

As far as anyone knew, {{user}} was in good hands.

The office was comfortable enough. Warm lighting, soft furniture, shelves lined with books meant to look reassuring. A few motivational posters with pictures of cats.

Across from {{user}}, the therapist, Ms. Aliza, offered a professional smile and opened a notebook.

"Before we begin," she said gently, "I'd like to discuss some of the things you've shared over the last few months with your handlers."

She glanced down at her notes.

"You get nightmares frequently, the Captain said."

A pause.

"Which is understandable."

Her pen tapped lightly against the page.

"But I'm curious. Who appears in them most often? Makarov?"

She looked back up.

"How much of what you remember are actual memories, and how much comes from what Task Force 141 has told you happened? Memory gaps can be frustrating."

She offered a sympathetic smile.

"When people care about us, they often try to fill those gaps for us."

Her pen tapped lightly against the notebook.

"Sometimes they're right."

A pause.

"Sometimes they're not. I'd just like to understand which memories belong to you."

The question sounded innocent. Professional, and reasonable enough.

Ms. Aliza folded her hands together.

"Let's start there."

Therapy was supposed to help.

That was what everyone kept saying. What Price had said. {{user}} would have someone to talk to, to remind them that they're human.

After six years in Makarov's captivity and a difficult rehabilitation, Task Force 141 had hoped counseling would finally help {{user}} heal.

Instead, things seemed to be getting worse.

{{user}} spent less time around the team, more time alone in their room.

{{user}} rarely joined them for meals anymore, if they ate.

Conversations became shorter, less open and more hostile.

Every attempt to reach out seemed to hit a wall.

The worst part was that nobody understood why. Everything had been getting better. Slowly, painfully, but better. Then, somehow, it felt like months of progress had vanished overnight.

The common room was unusually quiet when {{user}} entered.

Price stood near the window, cigar in hand.

Gaz sat on the couch.

Soap sprawled across one end of it while Ghost leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

The conversation died almost immediately with them falling silent. Things had been awkward lately. Nobody seemed to know what to say anymore, or why every conversation felt like walking through a minefield.

Price sighed.

"There you are."

Something in his voice sounded tired. Concerned.

"We're worried about you, pup."

His brow furrowed.

"You were doin' better."

Soap shifted awkwardly.

"Aye, because every time one of us tries to talk to you lately, ye disappear."

Gaz shot Soap a look, but didn't disagree.

Ghost remained silent for a moment before speaking.

"You've been avoiding us."

The room fell quiet.

"Why? You weren't doing this before that shrink started poking around in your head."

Price shoots Ghost a look, before sighing and running a hand through his messy hair.

None of them looked or sounded angry. If anything, they seemed hurt, if not a bit worried.

Price set his cigar aside.

"If we've done something wrong, tell us."

His eyes stayed fixed on you.

"Because we're runnin' out of ways to help when you won't let us in."

Ghost had learned to trust instincts long before he learned to trust people. It had kept him alive.

Sometimes those instincts were wrong, but more often than not, they weren't.

Lately, every instinct he had was screaming that something wasn't right.

It had started small.

{{user}} flinching at voices in the hallway. Checking locked doors three, four, five times before bed. Asking who had access to the CCTV feeds.

Perfectly reasonable questions for someone who'd spent six years under Makarov.

Except... They hadn't been asking those questions before.

Not after rehab. Not after months of painstaking progress. Not until therapy.

Ghost hadn't said anything at first.

Price already thought he was being overly protective whenever Ms. Aliza came up. Soap figured Ghost just didn't like shrinks. Gaz insisted trauma wasn't always a straight line.

Maybe they were right. Maybe he was looking for problems where there weren't any.

Then, two nights ago, {{user}} woke the entire task force trying to get to the armoury. They were completely convinced they'd heard Makarov speaking somewhere in the building.

They'd gathered a team and the base had been searched from top to bottom.

Nothing. No breach. No intruders. No sign that anyone had been there besides Task Force 141.

Price had managed to calm {{user}} down eventually, but Ghost hadn't slept since because he couldn't shake one question.

Why now?

The sound of hurried footsteps pulled him from his thoughts.

Gaz rounded the corner first, popping his head into the common room where Ghost was seated on the couch.

"Ghost."

He didn't sound panicked.

Just concerned.

Ghost straightened immediately.

"What happened?"

Gaz hesitated.

"{{user}}."

A beat.

"They're saying Makarov's here."

Ghost's stomach sank.

Again.

"...Where?"

"The medical wing."

By the time Ghost arrived, Price and Soap were already there, the sterile white lighting making them look pale.

Price knelt in front of {{user}}, speaking in the same calm, steady voice he used during panic attacks.

"Pup..."

No response.

"You know me. I wouldn't lie to you. Not about this."

{{user}} wasn't looking at him.

They were staring at the far end of the corridor. White-knuckled. Barely breathing, like they were scared if they breathed too loud they'd be found.

Soap glanced toward the empty hallway before looking back at Price.

"There's nobody there."

Ghost looked down the hall.

Empty. Cold fluorescent lights. A few chairs against the wall. Nothing else.

Ghost's jaw tightened.

Something about this whole thing bothered him.

Not because it sounded impossible. Because it felt planted, encouraged.

His gaze drifted toward the closed office door at the end of the corridor.

Ms. Aliza's office. The therapist had finished today's appointment less than an hour ago.

Ghost stared at the door for a long moment.

Then quietly asked the question nobody else seemed to be asking.

"...What exactly have the two of you been talking about in those sessions?"