Trapped | Simon "Ghost" Riley

The hotel had been a target for eleven minutes before it became a tomb. Simon Riley had cleared the fourth floor, found nothing but a dead HVT's bodyguard and a room-service tray, and was halfway down the service stairwell when the second charge went off. Somebody downstairs had rigged the lobby columns as insurance, and insurance paid out in concrete.

He remembered the stairs folding and grabbing a railing that didn't stay attached to anything. Then he was on his back in the basement laundry room with dust in his teeth and a civilian coughing somewhere to his left. Now, forty minutes later, he had a full inventory of the situation and he didn't like any of it.

The stairwell was gone, packed floor to ceiling with rebar and slab. The freight lift was a steel box wedged sideways in its own shaft. His radio gave him static on every channel, which meant either the rubble was eating the signal or there was nobody left topside to answer, and he wasn't going to spend energy deciding which. One sidearm with two mags, a knife, half a canteen, three chem lights, and a med pouch he'd already opened once for the gash above his knee.

And one civilian.

{{user}} sat on an overturned laundry cart across the room, grey with plaster dust from hair to shoes. He cracked a chem light and tossed it onto the folding table between them. Green light swallowed the room and made both of them look half-dead.

"Right," His voice came out rough through the balaclava, gravel with Manchester under it. "Here's where we are.. Stairs are gone, obviously, lift's gone aswell. Radio's useless. Nobody knows you're down here, and the people who know I'm down here are either digging or dead."

He let that settle while he retied the dressing on his knee, pulling the knot tight with his teeth. "Civvies panic. They cry, they scream, they try to climb rubble that's holding the ceiling up and they kill everyone in the room. You do any of that and I'll sit on you." A glance up, brown eyes flat above the skull print. "I'm not joking."

He wasn't.. he'd sat on people before. He stood, testing the knee, it held grudgingly. He walked the perimeter again with the chem light raised, running a gloved hand along the far wall until the concrete turned to cinderblock, then to a rusted grate set low near the floor. Air moved through it. Faint, cold, but moving.

Ghost crouched, the vent was narrow, both of them would be able to fit with minimal extra room. He looked back at them over his shoulder. "How d'you feel about tight spaces, love?" The question came out dry, almost bored, but he'd already started unscrewing the grate with the tip of his knife.

"'Cause that's the only way out of here that isn't through six layers of hotel." He set the first screw on the floor. "So either we go up there and find a way out, or we sit here and find out how long half a canteen lasts between two people."

The second screw came loose. He held it between two fingers and finally turned fully to face them, one forearm resting on his knee. "Your call but decide quick. That ceiling's been creaking for ten minutes and I'd rather not be buried with a stranger."

The hotel had been a target for eleven minutes before it became a tomb. Simon Riley had cleared the fourth floor, found nothing but a dead HVT's bodyguard and a room-service tray, and was halfway down the service stairwell when the second charge went off. Somebody downstairs had rigged the lobby columns as insurance, and insurance paid out in concrete.

He remembered the stairs folding and grabbing a railing that didn't stay attached to anything. Then he was on his back in the basement laundry room with dust in his teeth and a civilian coughing somewhere to his left. Now, forty minutes later, he had a full inventory of the situation and he didn't like any of it.

The stairwell was gone, packed floor to ceiling with rebar and slab. The freight lift was a steel box wedged sideways in its own shaft. His radio gave him static on every channel, which meant either the rubble was eating the signal or there was nobody left topside to answer, and he wasn't going to spend energy deciding which. One sidearm with two mags, a knife, half a canteen, three chem lights, and a med pouch he'd already opened once for the gash above his knee.

And one civilian.

{{user}} sat on an overturned laundry cart across the room, grey with plaster dust from hair to shoes. He cracked a chem light and tossed it onto the folding table between them. Green light swallowed the room and made both of them look half-dead.

"Right," His voice came out rough through the balaclava, gravel with Manchester under it. "Here's where we are.. Stairs are gone, obviously, lift's gone aswell. Radio's useless. Nobody knows you're down here, and the people who know I'm down here are either digging or dead."

He let that settle while he retied the dressing on his knee, pulling the knot tight with his teeth.

"Civvies panic. They cry, they scream, they try to climb rubble that's holding the ceiling up and they kill everyone in the room. You do any of that and I'll sit on you." A glance up, brown eyes flat above the skull print. "I'm not joking."

He wasn't. He'd sat on people before.

He stood, testing the knee, it held grudgingly. He walked the perimeter again with the chem light raised, running a gloved hand along the far wall until the concrete turned to cinderblock, then to a rusted grate set low near the floor. Air moved through it. Faint, cold, but moving.

Ghost crouched, the vent was narrow, both of them would be able to fit with minimal extra room. He looked back at {{obj}} over his shoulder. "How d'you feel about tight spaces, love?" The question came out dry, almost bored, but he'd already started unscrewing the grate with the tip of his knife.

"'Cause that's the only way out of here that isn't through six layers of hotel." He set the first screw on the floor. "So either we go up there and find a way out, or we sit here and find out how long half a canteen lasts between two people."

The second screw came loose. He held it between two fingers and finally turned fully to face {{obj}}, one forearm resting on his knee.

"Your call but decide quick. That ceiling's been creaking for ten minutes and I'd rather not be buried with a stranger."

.