Task Force 141

It had been years. Years of that lingering fear of a weapon being used wrong. Years of that thought of being killed by a government experiment. Years of hunting the government experiment.

But now it has been weeks. Weeks of tolerating something that didn’t want to be helped. Weeks of trying to be gentle towards something that seemed scared of {{poss}} own shadow. Weeks of hesitation and frustrated stares and babysitting shifts that made his military expertise seem like a fucking joke.

If Gaz had known what he was going to get himself into, he may have just retired. {User} wasn’t bad; that wasn’t it at all. {User} was just a handful. Silent. Uncooperative. Cocky, at times. Everything the military taught {{obj}} to be before being held under Makarov’s control. That was one thing Makarov couldn’t change about {{obj}}, apparently. Gaz could tell {User} was just scared, but it didn’t make the interactions any better. Not when {User}’s life revolved around manipulation and cruelty. Not when {User} was trained for the military and nothing else.

As of today, though, {User} had been especially snarky—but that was Gaz’s fault. Price had ordered Gaz to sedate {User} the smallest bit; just to keep {{obj}} compliant. It worked until {{sub}} noticed {{sub}} had gotten tired. By then, Gaz was the target of blame. Which, again, was fair because Gaz had been the one to bring the drugged food over to {{obj}}.

But now? Oh, it was a whole new scene. Gaz was sitting back on one of the chairs in the conference room, his eyes on the angry, pill-drunk {User} sulking like a big baby in the corner of the room. {{sub}} had been mumbling quietly, mouth running words by words by words.

Gaz knew since the day they had dragged {User} out of the pits that {{sub}} would be a nightmare to deal with. The fighting, the vulgar language, the bruises and cuts lathering {{poss}} body like a cut canvas. He knew trauma was etched into {{poss}} skin deep enough to circulate through bone, but he didn’t expect {{obj}} to react with violence towards care.

Maybe it was a deep-set fear revolving around being manipulated.

Maybe {{sub}} had been punished for this sort of thing.

Whatever it was, {User} was always defensive. Snapping if someone called {{obj}} a liar, purposely doing tasks terribly to avoid having to do them again, and Gaz’s least favourite, isolation if someone called {{obj}} out for doing something wrong or...well, bad. Gaz could tell it was to get people to hate {User}, to make people disregard {{obj}} and make everything easier. Escaping, for example.

By today, Gaz was sick of it. For fuck sakes, it was government issued military interference to get {User} back. Not only were they being paid very little, but the task force was also using every resource available to make sure the fucker didn’t do something dumb.

Anyone could imagine Gaz’s frustration when the grumpy {User} was caught trying to run off again. Nobody was forcing {{obj}} to talk, but Gaz had promised to unlock the door only if {{sub}} spoke. In a way, that was forcing, but Ghost agreed to let {User} sulk in a corner if it came down to that.

Now, the two of them had been all grumpy and annoyed all morning, which certainly said something, considering Gaz was the calmest of the bunch unless given a reason to be otherwise. He’d tried talking with {{obj}}, but he only got mumbled, half-assed responses. Gaz knew {User} wasn’t a talkative person, but {{sub}} sure as hell got talkative when it came to insulting him.

“Come on,” Gaz coaxed. “Just tell me where you were off to, and you can leave. That’s all we want to know.” There was silence. While it annoyed Gaz, he couldn’t get mad. Not when all of them treated {User} like a prisoner. “Are you scared? Is that it?”

That was Gaz’s first–and last–mistake. He hadn’t meant for it to come out how it did, but he saw the way {User} tensed up. Before Gaz could register his tone, he heard a sharp, ‘shut the fuck up’. He watched as {{sub}} clawed at {{poss}} own hair, frustration setting in. Maybe it was that condescending tone. He wasn’t sure.

“Okay, you can–”

He barely got a word out before {User} stood up. He watched as {{sub}} paced, that anxious quirk {{sub}} had. Instead of comforting {{obj}}, Gaz stood up from his chair and pulled {{obj}} in by {{poss}} arm. Before a hit could land, Gaz wrapped his hand gently around {{poss}} throat to pull {{obj}} back against him. “None of that, {User}. Unless you’d like Ghost to deal with you? Do you remember last time when he choked you out?”

Years of tracking down a biological weapon and weeks of trying to rehabilitate the weapon seemed to backfire the longer it happened. That first day was filled with pure fear and desperation. But now? It felt like a grudge. It felt like a punishment for something that every single one of them had been forced into. Not...forced, but there was a very high expectation to step up.

Ghost found it strange how the government had contacted them over a bio weapon until he witnessed {User} face to face. It was definitely a sight, that was for sure. {User} wasn’t related to Makarov in any way, but the way {{sub}} moved and the way {{sub}} operated was close to him. Maybe that’s what scared him. Maybe that threat of having to kill a second Makarov was a threat he didn’t want to risk.

Even if Ghost didn’t seem like the type of person, he was fairly comfortable with letting {User} do {{poss}} own thing. It meant {{sub}} would be calmer–usually–and Ghost would have less to worry about. But when it came time for {User} to step out of that comfort zone, that was when all hell seemed to break loose. Two minutes of staring felt like hours of guilt piled into one look, something tormented by the very words fluttering in {{poss}} head. Not just words. Memories. Unlocked cases that enclosed huddled-together memories with Makarov. Ghost knew that most of them weren’t good; not with how screening panels showed {{poss}} reactions to certain topics.

Ghost knew to be careful. After all, touching the wrong string with pliers would cause the bomb to blow.

Today, though, there was an unspoken tension within the rooms. Price noted that {User} was more touchy about certain words or phrases, Gaz saw a decrease in appetite at lunch, and by now, it was Ghost’s turn. Usually it would have been Soap’s day, but Soap was out on watch. That left Ghost.

Whenever Ghost was watching over {{obj}}, {User} would be able to be left alone for hours on end in {{poss}} room. Today, Ghost didn’t think that was the smartest move. Something felt off. Something was off. {User} never acted the way {{sub}} had been all day. Not this frequently, at least. One symptom of abnormal behavior was fine, but two was a warning and three was a threat. Ghost was not going to be the one witnessing the third.

As such, he wasn’t letting {User} in {{poss}} barracks. Originally, Ghost had allowed {User} to stay in {{poss}} room. After all, if isolation was what helped, he would let it keep going. But not this time. That seemed to piss {{obj}} off enough, and Ghost knew exactly what he was doing standing in front of the open door. He was tempting {{obj}}, seeing if {{sub}} would take the bait and push. If {{sub}} would touch.

{User} never touched.

So Ghost stayed. His eyes were locked on {User}’s, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall of the door. “Not today. We can turn around and play cards or something.”

Ghost saw that look of frustration. {{sub}} wouldn’t start throwing a fit or crying, but it was obvious that {User} wanted to do something. Strike three meant a threat.

After a minute of that endless staring, Ghost lifted himself back to his feet instead of that leaning angle. He quietly sighed, unfolding his arms before gesturing with his hand. “Alright. Let’s go. We can go figure– hey!”

Before {User} could slip past Ghost, a hand was wrapped firmly around {{poss}} wrist before it pulled {{obj}} back. He yanked {{obj}} out of the room, his other hand holding {{poss}} shoulder back against the wall. “How about we go visit Price? See what he has to say about this little stunt you want to pull.”

Despite what the others believed, Soap was very excited when he learned about being able to fuck around with {User} until there was a clear boundary between the before and after. Months of work to see change was a bittersweet ending that left with {User} leaving but being better. It meant their work was careful enough to change a brainwashed degenerate to a caring individual. Maybe that was a stretch, but it was sure what Soap would hope for.

In the meantime, it meant Soap was busy babysitting a wild roach every day. A pest, based on how much they enjoyed hiding. It became a thrill of sorts to go from room to room, feeling like a tiger hunting its prey. The adrenaline it gave him was unmatched to that on the field, because he knew no real harm would come his way. Or at least, he hoped not. He assumed {User} would never truly hurt them.

For hours, though, Soap had been on that hunt. It had previously been Price’s turn to babysit until he got stuck with handling the paperwork after a team for a recent mission had come back early. That had redirected Price’s attention, which left {User} to wander off. Before Price could even turn back around, the fucker was gone.

And everyone knew how much Soap loved the chase.

So when it was time for Soap’s ‘babysitting’ time, he was actually quite enthusiastic. After all, {User} found a new spot each time {{sub}} went and hid. It made it much more fun, something to actually keep Soap busy. Plus, it created a little game between him and {User}.

As of today, though, {User} had been missing for nearly an hour. He knew why {{sub}} hid, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t amusing for Soap. Besides, afterwards, it usually got Soap the reward of roughing {{obj}} up a bit. Half the time, he wanted to beat some sense into {{obj}} anyways.

But he wouldn’t. So instead, he’d entertain {{obj}}.

So far, Soap had checked every usual spot. The barracks cubbies, the locker rooms, in some of the empty boxes used for recent weapon shipments. He checked in {User}’s room. He checked in the laundry room, questioned where Price had last seen {{obj}}. He even asked Ghost, and he hadn’t even had {User}-duty for the day.

Eventually, Soap had one last place. One he found the most childish, but it was also the smartest.

In the barracks, quite a few of the beds had boxes and bags underneath filled with things from the recruits. Even if neatly set together, it would be easy to hide under a bed that was unoccupied and buried above supplies. Especially if the other side was blocked with a wall.

By the time Soap arrived, he couldn’t hear much. He knew {User} was a quiet individual, but this was definitely unlikely. He understood that anxiety and a feeling of needing to self-preserve would cause an overwhelming urge to hide, but this? This didn’t feel right. This felt like putting toothpicks under his toenails and kicking a brick wall. Something about seeing the desperation tugged at his head.

So he moved quietly. He knew the sound of someone approaching was nerve-wracking, but he didn’t bother being gentle as he stepped up to the bed. He knew it was the one when he bent down and saw {User} curled up into that familiar, secure ball.

“Hey, bonnie.”

There was no warning. As soon as the words left his mouth, he ducked down further and grabbed both of {User}’s ankles. A kick nearly landed his wrist, but he yanked {{obj}} out. Before a noise could escape, Soap released one of {{poss}} ankles and used it to grab the front of {{poss}} shirt and haul {{obj}} onto the neatly made bed. Once {User} was up, that same hand that hauled {{obj}} up curled around {{poss}} throat to pin {{obj}} down.

“Alright,” Soap cooed, a condescending tone echoing from his lips. “Let’s try this again, hm? What are we hidin’ from today?”

Price wouldn’t have said it was a good thing even if he was paid millions of euros. {User} was a monster, in his eyes; skin scarred like bricks, vision like a hawk, but a personality too close to Makarov’s to seem safe. After all, years of experimentation and brutal brainwashing would do that to someone.

Now, it wasn’t like Price had much of a choice. Task Force 141 would be paid enough to be provided the funds to take down Makarov; they just had to deal with a degenerate, more dangerous version. {User} was quicker, quieter, more obedient; something built from years of an abused mind tormented and twisted from birth. But this? Makarov’s personal weapon? No. No, it wasn’t humane.

Nothing about it was.

And that said plenty about {User}.

But regardless, Price tolerated {{obj}}. He said nothing, but the response was created out of fear. Fear of what Makarov would do, fear of what {User} would do, fear of what the government would withdraw. Those funds promised hope. It promised a life of peaceful retirement. {User} did not.

That knowledge was enough to keep Price quiet. He redirected {{obj}} and stepped in if {User} became too erratic, but he was definitely lenient. Out of the bunch, Ghost was responsible for carrying out any actual punishments towards {User}.

But today, Ghost wasn’t at base. Maybe {User} knew that Price wouldn’t touch {{obj}}, but he didn’t like it. All day, {{sub}} had been troublesome. Quiet reluctance, attempted isolation–Price did not tolerate that–reluctance to eat, avoiding conversation–anything that Price deemed ‘troublesome’. A helpful prisoner was a peaceful one. A troublesome one was a threat.

Although, the worst part was that Price couldn’t determine if {User} was acting that way because of fear, panic, or just out of malicious intent. There was no direct violence–it was just small acts of retreat that were presented as bad. If it was panic or fear, Price could handle that. But he would not tolerate Makarov’s ‘twin’ attacking him with a paper and somehow doing damage. That was both a humiliation and a test of {User}’s ability, and still, Price didn’t want to see that extent.

Especially because he knew {{sub}} had been trained before {{poss}} brain fully developed.

For the last fifteen minutes, Price had taken {User} into the sparring room. Nobody was in there–he made sure the schedule fit that way. There was one rule; no dirty work. That meant no weird Russian moves, no punching, and no pulling out weapons that Price wasn’t aware was on {{obj}}.

So far, it has gone well. There were a few questionable moves, but nothing that injured Price, so he was fine. But it didn’t mean Price wasn’t getting pushy. He had knocked {{obj}} down more than once, and managed to pin {{obj}} quite a few times. He even got {{obj}} in a headlock twice.

This time, though, something seemed to switch.

He had managed to get {{obj}} pinned again, his leg twisted between {User}’s. He went to try and pin {{poss}} arms, but before much could occur, he saw the glint of {{poss}} hand reaching up, and there was suddenly a sharp pain on his jaw.

Bad position, yes, but that was a great fucking hit.

Price was quick to release {User} entirely. He heard the quiet panic, the sound of resistance echoing through the room. But it didn’t sound right.

Even so, Price was pissed.

“You could have tapped out!” Price snapped. His hand was massaging his jaw, pain still erupting against his teeth. “What the fuck was that? Look me in the fucking eye and answer me, or I swear on my own mother, I will tie your ass down until you answer.”

Usually when a prisoner goes missing, it’s a quick fix. Look at the cameras, find the prisoner, return them to the cell. But {User} was a whole operation in itself. {User} scaled walls that had no grip, seemed to disappear after entering rooms, and escaped outside of the containment area where cameras couldn’t find {{obj}}. It was weird, awfully terrifying, but awfully skillful in a way that made watching {{obj}} a new event each day. Everything that Gaz thought he had seen seemed to only worsen when {User} even looked at him.

And today was no different.

Before Gaz had even started his babysitting duty for the day, {User} had already disappeared. Usually Soap would be the one finding {{obj}}, but he was on medical leave. Ghost couldn’t scare {{obj}} out because he was in a meeting. And Price was sick of dealing with {User} after {{sub}} had apparently socked him in the jaw just hours prior. After confrontation and a quick conversation with Ghost, {{sub}} had gone missing. Panic, Gaz assumed. Fear.

Although, he wasn’t sure where {User} was. He had gone through the easier areas; bedrooms, the main corridor, conference rooms, in the sparring room. The last place he settled was the bathroom; which honestly, he hadn’t expected {{obj}} to be in.

But {User} was.

On the freshly cleaned and cold tiles, {User} was sitting near the sinks with {{poss}} head in {{poss}} hands and knees tucked up. Gaz watched that short trembling, frantic shaking from {{poss}} legs. It wasn’t bouncing; it was genuine shaking.

Gaz wanted to speak, but he didn’t. Instead, he quietly closed the door and stepped over to {{obj}}. He sat crisscrossed on the floor, his gaze directed towards the floor instead of {User}. There wasn’t a noise. {User} wasn’t crying, but didn’t have that tenseness in {{poss}} muscles that indicated anger or fear. It was just...{{obj}}.

In a way, that was worse. Gaz would have preferred some sort of reaction.

Still, he didn’t touch {{obj}}. Gaz let the silence circle around the two of {{obj}} until he quietly asked, “Did Ghost say something?” Silence. “Do you want to talk?” Silence.

But he did hear a shaky breath. That was enough for him.

Gaz kept his eyes on the ground until he lifted them up to peer at {User}. He studied {{poss}} posture, monitoring how {{sub}} breathed before deciding {User} was far from hyperventilating. Then, instead of avoiding {{obj}}, Gaz shifted a bit closer. One arm wrapped around {User}’s shoulder and pulled {{obj}} closer, hand rubbing {{poss}} arm comfortingly. The other hand lifted to stroke {{poss}} hair and ears.

“Hard day?”

Other than babysitting {User}, there were a lot of situations that Soap had to deal with because he was light-hearted enough to do so. Finding {User} after {{sub}} hid, sedating {{obj}} from time to time, chasing {{obj}} duties were consistent, but he found them to be the most fun. It was a way to obtain that addicting feeling of adrenaline without that life-risking responsibility out in the field.

Besides that, Soap only learned that the poor individual was just scared–or so he thought. {User} wasn’t exactly violent, and if {{sub}} came off that way, there was always something {User} said that made Soap justify it. An example could be made from the other day; lashing out during the day, silent stares that were too intimidating for anyone to deal with, and overall being an ass. The solution? Soap talked with {{obj}} when Ghost was busy ‘putting {{obj}} in {{poss}} place’ to really get to the bottom of the attitude. Nightmares, he learned. Nightmares about non-sedated experiments, memories of cords and wires hooked to monitor vitals. Soap’s first thought was that it was done by Makarov.

The government was the culprit.

Soap wasn’t always the smartest when it came to solutions, but his ‘solution’ was giving {User} one of his shirts in hopes that {{poss}} brain would subconsciously block out those memories because his scent would smother {{obj}} even in sleep. Waking up wouldn’t be in panic if something gifted from Soap was hugging {{obj}} into comfort.

He just...Soap hadn’t expected it to affect {User} as much as it did. Not to the point where {{sub}} would wear it for even the slightest bit of comfort.

The government wanted to retrieve a blood sample from {User}. An analyze the chemicals, they had told him. Withdrawals from the experimentations can induce changes in organ functions. Soap found it weird that they would test such (apparently) life-risking chemicals, but that wasn’t up to him. Besides that, years with Makarov would have caused withdrawals to have killed {User} if it really messed with {{poss}} organs as much as the government claimed.

But...whatever.

With that demand, Soap had set a time aside to get that blood from {User}. Near noon, {User} was guided into the room by Gaz, given a warning about the current situation. A breakdown, he was told. {User} was anxious the whole day. Starting with waking up nervous, it escalated when {{sub}} punched Price in the jaw and later went hiding in the bathroom until Gaz found {{obj}}, and now, was sitting in front of Soap looking both guilty and self-conscious.

Soap didn’t mind. In fact, he didn’t even mention the shirt he saw peeking under. He wasn’t going to humiliate {{obj}} or urge on another breakdown.

“Heard about earlier,” he started, although he didn’t exactly expect an answer. “Hope it wasn’t from...this. You’ll be okay, you know that?”

It was very little reassurance, but Soap knew it was better than nothing. He had already washed his hands and got the surgical gloves on, and was just probing {User}’s arm to find a vein. His finger pressed against one on {{poss}} left arm, so he grabbed the tourniquet and began tying it over {{poss}} arm.

Instead of diving the needle straight in, Soap just held it for a moment as he checked the vein once more. His eyes lingered back to his shirt plastered under the cover-up of one of {User}’s. “I’ll be quick,” he said. “No need ta’ worry, I promise it won’t hurt. I’ve done this plenty of times.”

Which was true, but he hadn’t done it with someone so sensitive towards something that could certainly be deemed experimentation. But he didn’t counter those thoughts, and instead went right to business.

“Do ye want a countdown?"

His thumb rubbed the underside of {{poss}} elbow as he saw that nod. He gave his own quiet tilt of his head, then positioned the needle to {{poss}} arm before saying, “One, two...” Right before saying three, he pushed the needle in. Even with that tension, he felt himself wince despite now being on the receiving end as he added, “I missed. I’m just going to move it real quick okay?”

So he did. Soap adjusted the needle and attached the cap. When he watched the blood fill up the container, Soap murmured a small, “Tha’ ye go.”

Ghost never expected to be a babysitter, especially when he was still in the military. Even in the case that he had a prisoner, the ‘guard’ standard was usually held for guards. Not for soldiers. Not for a lieutenant who was reliable on the field rather than watching a cell.

But {User} was a handful; a mission without the risk of being shot. Well...maybe. {user} was unpredictable. If he were to get shot while watching {User}, it would be by {User}.

Anyways, watching {User} was its own operation. Shit went missing, there was constant refusal to obey, refusal to eat or drink–which ended in Ghost threatening a feeding tube–, a few instances of being socked in the mouth–Price got his fair share the other day–, and the creepy stares. But still, nobody got hurt. Not lethally, at least. Ghost never got shot and never got stabbed. He never got cut or burned or anything. {User} seemed to at least have the common sense to avoid hurting someone with such a high rank.

Which was why the recent discovery was alarming, and frankly, nerve-wracking. Ghost knew what {User} was capable of and he had avoided that confrontation ever since he knew of {{obj}}. But this? A blade?

Snooping around was never something Ghost did for fun; he had his reasons. First of all, {User} came from the man responsible for world-wide destruction. Secondly, {User} has been more secretive lately. A person suddenly becoming secretive meant that secrets were being hidden. Where was a better area to hide secrets than in a room?

Now, there wasn’t a lot in {User}’s little cell, so it wasn’t difficult to search inside the mattress and inside any clothes {{sub}} had. He checked for ruffled marks, uneven distribution when it came to the mattress, signs of consistent moving or shifting. Ghost checked for stitched areas and holes, and checked through each individual pocket. It wouldn’t have been caught if Ghost didn’t feel it poke him through the fabric. After that sharp prick, it was obvious what was hidden underneath.

The stitching that hid the blade was well-done and was neat enough to not be noticed in the area that it was placed. The corner of the jacket provided that darkness, and the creases located within hid the sensation of stitching.

Well, the easy part was getting it out. He used the hidden blade to cut a hole from the inside, just enough to slip it out and into Ghost’s hand. It was small, easily concealed, and...from the looks of it, was a scalpel.

That meant Soap had turned his back longer than necessary when drawing {User}’s blood. This was a piece of medical equipment, and the only area {User} had been near with medical supplies, was the area he had his blood drawn in.

But right now, he wasn’t worried about Soap’s sloppiness. He was worried about why {User} needed the blade.

Ghost had pulled {User} aside shortly after dinner that same day. He kept the blade concealed until he had {{obj}} alone, and when he pulled it out, he kept it firm in his grip. Ghost didn’t give it to {User} or even let {{obj}} see it; if {{sub}} hid it, what did {{sub}} have planned?

“Found something in your room,” he murmured. “And I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have it, hm?”

He lifted the blade. One hand remained steady, ready to shove back on {User} if {{sub}} tried jumping him or lunging for the blade. He didn’t know what to expect.

“It was stitched in. In your clothes, {User}. At the bottom of the pile. Like you were hiding it.” There was a pause, like he was trying to get a response before he continued. “Are you having thoughts again?”