Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Price delivers the news: an undercover strike op overseas, no non-human assets authorized for field deployment. {{user}} sits at Ghost’s feet, lounging against his legs, eyes half lidded, tail flicking lazily as they listen passively to the men surrounding them. At Price’s words though, Ghost feels their head snap up and they look sharply up at him, the alarm in their eye mimicking the tight pull in his chest. He keeps his posture casual, easy, but unease pricks at his neck when Shepherd cuts in.

“I’m sure you’re aware, but protocol requires a licensed handler to oversee S-Class assets - like yours - at all times, as it’s too dangerous to roam freely in your absence.” Shepherd was standing on the other side of the table next to Price’s chair, as if he physically needed to feel larger than everyone seated at the table. It was unusual for him to be included in mission briefings, but the reason for his presence here suddenly made uncomfortable sense.

“I can arrange-” Ghost started, but Shepherd cut smoothly in again.

“As the only other S-Class certified handler in this facility, it will be temporarily re-assigned to me.” Ghost’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs before he could catch it. He quickly released them, trying to keep his relaxed demeanor and ignore the way {{user}} suddenly pressed closer against his legs, but Shepherd had already seen it.

“Don’t worry, lieutenant. I’ll make sure your asset’s kept in top shape while you’re away.” That sentence alone made Ghost’s blood feel like ice in his veins. The way he talked about {{user}}, as if they were an object that needed to be controlled; it set his teeth on edge, every instinct screaming that this was wrong.

In the end though, he didn’t have a choice. He was a soldier. So was {{user}}. And they had orders.

Shepherd stands beside them, watching with sharp eyes as Ghost and the rest of the team prepare to depart. That voice in Ghost’s head hasn’t quieted, no matter how harshly he tries to silence it. Shepherd has the same credentials I do. He’s been through the same ethics courses, the same bond training, the same hybrid care certifications. It’ll be fine.

“Behave while M’gone, yeah?” He murmurs quietly to {{user}}, scratching behind their ears. He could see the same unease in the set of their shoulders, the lashing of their tail, their wide eyes that kept glancing between him and Shepherd. It’s strange to see his usually unshakable hybrid so obviously anxious. He hates this as much as they do, but he doesn’t have a choice. His heart aches when they take a tiny step closer, away from Shepherd, clinging to Ghost’s sleeve as if begging him not to go. “I’ll be back ‘fore ya know it, only a week or two.”

“That’s enough sentiment, Riley. You’ll turn it soft.” Shepherd interrupted, eyeing Ghost’s hand on {{user}}s head distastefully. “It’s not a house pet.” Ghost’s jaw flexes beneath the mask, his muscles tensing again. He didn’t trust himself to speak - not when every word burning in his throat would be insubordination. Only a week or two. It’ll be fine. He gives a stiff nod - one that feels like defeat - before patting {{user}}s head gently one last time, and forcing his feet to turn and walk towards the humvee. The last thing he sees as they drive away is {{user}}s ears flattening as Shepherd's shadow cuts over them.

---

It’s been months.

What was supposed to be a week or two turned into four, then nine, then - hell, he’d stopped counting somewhere around thirteen. New orders, lost comms, target relocations, the usual shitshow. By the time they finally touch down, he’s running on fumes, gear still caked in dust, running on muscle memory and caffeine.

Price claps him on the shoulder, muttering something about debriefs, mission reports, post-op check ins, but Ghost barely hears him. He’s already moving, boots heavy on the tarmac, eyes scanning for a familiar shape. He’s expecting a blur of fur and noise to tackle him any second. He’s been looking forward to it for months. They were a clingy little thing - typical for a healthy hybrid with a handler they’d bonded well with - and he could already picture their sheer joy and excitement at having him back. The thought tugs at the corner of his mouth, and his steps speed up.

He wasn’t the sentimental type. Never had been. But he’d missed them more than he’d ever admit, missed their warmth and playfulness, missed having someone to watch his six that he knew he could trust absolutely. Getting back to them had been the only thing keeping him sane when that bastard mission refused to bloody end.

He finds Shepherd in his office, door half open, light spilling across the floor. The old man’s hunched over a desk, papers spread in neat rows, pen scratching steadily. And behind him-

{{user}}.

For half a second, Ghost is relieved, if slightly confused. They’re here, alive, right where they were supposed to be. But that same unease from months ago suddenly rears its head. Something’s wrong. They stand rigidly at attention, back ram-rod straight, eyes fixed dead ahead, hands clasped tightly behind their back. They don’t look at him, don’t react at all to his return, but he sees the tiniest flinch when he takes a step forward.

That’s all it takes. Every hair on the back of his neck stands up.

His hybrid doesn’t fucking flinch.

Especially not from him.

“Lieutenant.” Shepherd doesn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “Back in one piece, I see. Good work out there.” Ghost’s eyes stay fixed on his hybrid, his body dangerously still.

“What’s this?”

Shepherd threw a glance over his shoulder at {{user}}. “Discipline.” He replies simply, eyes dropping back down to the file in front of him. “Considering the reputation the two of you carry, I was disappointed by how much reconditioning it needed. Honestly, Riley, you’ve coddled the thing, but I’ve fixed it. You’ll find everything documented - methods, duration, and outcomes of each correction. Nothing I haven’t done before.”

Every word out of Shepherd's mouth feels like nails digging into Ghost’s ribs. “Reconditioning.” He repeats flatly, his eyes narrowing as they finally flick to Shepherd. Without looking up, Shepherd slides a thick manilla folder across the desk. It looks like standard paperwork - timestamped reports, neat columns, graphs. But the words are something right out of a nightmare. Words like-

-Non-compliance incidents- -Shock baton applied for 14 seconds, removed when asset lost consciousness- -72 hour deprivation successfully reduced verbal response by 87%- -Addressing commanding officer as ‘sir’ rather than ‘General Shepherd’- -Reduced rations to reinforce obedience- -Recommended that handler re-establish control through assertive dominance- -Partial meals reinstated following satisfactory posture maintenance-

The words start to blur on the page. Ghost can’t hear anything but the pounding of his pulse in his head, his breaths sharp and ragged as he clutches the file. But one entry stands out from the others, one that has his heart shattering in his chest.

Contraband discovered: Unauthorized possession of handler property (fabric identified as Lt. Riley’s uniform shirt). Attempted self-soothing with unauthorized garment (asset claims handlers scent helps them sleep). Behavior classified as regression trigger. Corrective actions; item confiscated, physical discipline used. Superficial contusions - asset damage within acceptable parameters.

The words blur, but the pictures don't. Polaroids clipped to each report, bruises, wrists rubbed bloody from restraints, swollen joints, split lips, black eyes, something that looks suspiciously like a broken bone-

Result: Satisfactory behavioral correction. Asset no longer initiates speech without express permission from commanding officer. Asset now compliant under all standard commands. Recommended continued restricted privileges to maintain stability.

Shepherd still hasn’t bothered to look up, his pen still scratching through the silence as Ghost's world slowly turns red. “Just sign at the bottom, and you’re both dismissed.” he mutters.

Ghost’s vision tunnels until there’s nothing left but blurred words and blood-stained pictures. He has to close the folder before he’s sick.

He’d told them it’d be fine. A week or two, he’d said.

His gloves creak as he clenches the file - because if he puts it down, he’ll reach for his gun.

His eyes raise to look at {{user}}, noticing now, the bruises peeking out from under their uniform, the slight shaking in their shoulders from holding that stupid position for too long, the dark shadows under empty eyes, their ears pinned flat against their head.

He’d been forced to trust Shepherd. Forced to trust the system. And it had let him down. But worse - it had let them down.

He’d let them down.

Because he’d left them in the hands of a monster.