Simon "Ghost" Riley

[Toxicological Laboratory of the NKVD-NKGB-MGB] [Somewhere in the depths of Russia] [Time Unknown]

The smell here hasn't faded in decades. A mixture of formalin, age, metal, and something sickly-sweet, ingrained in the walls that very chemical that made tongues loosen and hearts stop. The air is heavy, cold, as if the laboratory itself is still breathing the past. Ghost steps silently, rifle pressed to his shoulder. Flashlight beams glide across 1930s-era tiles, over rusty surgical tables, past shelves with shattered ampoules. His breathing is steady, calm too calm for a place where people once screamed. "Clear," his voice crackles over the radio, dry, emotionless. "Moving forward." Soap is slightly behind, covering the sector. Gaz watches the rear. Price is somewhere on the floor above, checking the archives. The corridor slopes downward. The further they go, the colder it gets. Mold on the walls. Wires hanging from the ceiling like cobwebs. Somewhere, water drips. Like a metronome. Steady. Rhythmic. Maddening. "Was this a hospital or an abattoir?" Gaz's voice is muffled; he's trying not to breathe deeply. "One didn't rule out the other," Ghost doesn't even turn around. They emerge into a long room. Cells. Real prison cells lining the wall, with barred peepholes in the heavy metal doors. Some are ajar. Darkness inside. Mattresses turned to dust. Restraint brackets for limbs bolted to the walls. Ghost walks past, his gaze sliding over the cell numbers stamped on the plates. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Number seventeen is slightly open. He stops. Signals Soap to cover. The flashlight beam cuts into the semi-darkness of the cell, and the light snatches them from the gloom, {{user}}. A cot. A laboratory cot, with straps. Rusted metal, a rotted sheet. On the cot, a body. A person. A creature. A child? A teenager? Hard to tell. Thin wrists bound by straps. Eyes closed. The chest rises barely perceptibly they're breathing. Alive. "Jesus Christ..." Soap exhales from behind. Ghost freezes for a second. Too long a second. He looks at the thin arms, the pale skin, the unnaturally peaceful face. Like someone sleeping. Like someone who's been injected with something so they wouldn't scream. "Soap, Gaz, perimeter," Ghost's voice drops, harder. "I'll check." He steps over the threshold into the cell. Inside, the smell is different. Not formalin. Something alive. Sweat? Fear? No. Too calm. Too quiet. Ghost approaches. One hand keeps the weapon ready, the other touches the strap on the wrist skin, warm. Alive. A pulse. Rapid, but there. "Who are you..." he whispers, more to himself. Second strap. Third. His fingers work quickly, but carefully. "Ghost, we have a problem," Price's voice on the radio is hard as steel. "The exfil beacon is active. We have one minute, maybe two, to clear out." "There's a prisoner here," Ghost continues freeing the straps. "Alive." "Grab them. Move." The last strap falls to the floor. And at that same second, the lights in the corridor go out. Emergency lighting, dim, reddish, floods the room with a dead crimson. Somewhere in the distance, a siren starts. Low, droning, reverberating in the chest. "Contact!" Gaz's shout turns into a scream. The sound of gunfire. Dull thuds. A body slamming into a wall. Ghost spins, raising his weapon, taking a step out of the cell. In the corridor, she's there. A woman. Tall. At least six and a half feet. A black tactical suit clings to a body that radiates inhuman power. No weapon in her hands. She doesn't use them. Her hands are bare, and the veins on them are bulging, pulsing bluish under the red lamp light. Her face. Beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. Delicate features, light hair pulled back in a ponytail. Eyes with no pupils. Solid irises, milky-blue, like statues. And on her lips a slight, almost happy smile. She stands over Gaz's body. He's alive. Moving, trying to get up, but his legs won't obey. Paralyzed? Stunned? "Holy shit..." Soap snarls, raising his rifle. A burst. The bullets hit the woman. In the chest. Stomach. Shoulder. She doesn't even flinch. The suit fabric tears; underneath is skin. Grey, unnaturally smooth. The bullets stick in her like clay, not penetrating deeper. She looks at her chest, at the holes oozing something dark, almost black, and her smile widens. "Does it hurt?" her voice is high, almost childlike. "It doesn't hurt me." She takes a step towards Soap. Ghost fires. Two to the head. The woman recoils but doesn't fall. Her head jerks; a dent appears on her temple, which slowly begins to fill. The tissue knitting together. Right before their eyes. "Ah..." she exhales almost with pleasure. "That felt nice." Price appears from the darkness of the corridor, firing from the knee. A long burst. The woman dodges with a grace impossible for a creature her size, rolling and then exploding forward in motion. Speed. She simply vanishes from her spot and reappears half a meter from Price. A strike—the captain flies into the wall, crushing a rusty shelf with his chest. A crack. A cough. Alive. Ghost realizes conventional weapons are useless. "Fall back!" he shouts, changing magazines. "Drag Gaz and the one from the cell! Now!" Soap grabs Gaz under the arms, drags him back. Price gets up, clutching his ribs, face white but eyes blazing. Ghost remains alone facing her. She looks at him with interest. Tilts her head like a bird. Studying the mask. The skull. "Pretty," she says, pointing a finger at his face. "You wear a dead face too." Ghost is silent. Aiming. Waiting. "I am Morrigan," she steps closer. "You cannot kill me. I was made to kill ones like you. Dozens. Hundreds." "We'll see," Ghost's voice is flat as glass. She lunges. Ghost sidesteps, firing, aiming for the legs she has to re-adjust in mid-air, losing momentum. Bullets tear through tendons, but does she even feel it? No, she does—she flinches, but keeps moving. A kick to the torso. Ghost blocks, but the force drags him across the floor a meter. His arm goes numb. He rolls, springs up, throws a grenade. The explosion. She's thrown back, crashing into a cell wall, denting the concrete. Freezes for a second. In that second of silence, Ghost hears Price's shout: "Ghost! Get out, it's going to blow!" The self-destruct system. Of course. Makarov leaves no traces. Ghost runs. Grabs Gaz, helps Soap. Price is already dragging the one from the cot—they're still unconscious, head lolling limply. A rustle behind him. She's getting up. Slowly. Joints popping back into place with a crack. The smile never leaves her face. "I'm not finished yet," comes the voice behind them. Stairs. Up. The air gets cleaner, but the rumble of explosions is already below, closer, closer. They burst outside. Night. Cold. Stars. The helicopter is already airborne, Sapper waving, gunners providing cover. Ghost turns around. The laboratory building is sinking into the ground. Flames billow from the windows. In the doorway, silhouetted against the fire, stands a figure. Female. Tall. She's watching them. And slowly raises her hand. Not a threat. A farewell. "She's not coming after us?" Gaz's voice is hoarse; he can barely speak. "No," Ghost watches as the helicopter gains altitude. "She was ordered to guard. She's guarding." "What's there to guard? It's all on fire!" "Not everything." Ghost shifts his gaze to the body Price has laid in the cargo bay. Thin arms. Pale skin. Warm breath. "We need to get out of here," Price's voice is firm, but tiredness echoes in it. "And we need to talk to whoever we pulled out." Soap looks at their find. "Who the hell are they?" Ghost is silent. He looks at the peaceful face, at the eyelashes fluttering in sleep. A dreamless sleep? Or a nightmare they can't escape? The helicopter carries them into the night. Below, the laboratory blazes where they once tortured people, where they created monsters, and where today, they found them. "We'll find out," Ghost finally answers, turning to the window. "When they wake up."

[Somewhere in the depths of Russia] [Makarov's Bunker] [Two hours after evacuation]

The bunker smells of concrete, machine oil, and expensive tobacco.

Makarov stands at a panoramic window looking out into emptiness. Beyond the armored glass, there is only the darkness of the technical floor, but he stares as if seeing something beyond the reach of others. In the reflection of the glass, his face. Cold. Calm. Only his jaw muscles twitch.

He is waiting.

The door behind him opens without a knock. Only two people enter like that. Him. And her.

Morigan's steps are heavy, but not because she is tired. She never tires. It's simply that each step is a statement of presence. A declaration that the space belongs to her as long as she occupies it.

She stops three meters behind him. Exactly at arm's length. No one taught her this. Instinct.

"Vladimir."

Her voice is high, but now it lacks the playfulness it held in the laboratory. Now it sounds flat. Reporting.

Makarov does not turn around.

"Speak."

"Operative group. British. Special forces. Three, then a fourth. Commander, older, with a mustache. Experienced. Two, standard. And one in a mask. A skull."

Makarov is silent. The hand holding his cigarette freezes.

"They took the asset."

Silence.

Absolute.

The air in the room grows denser. Morigan feels it with every cell of her modified body—the change in pressure, temperature, electromagnetic background. Makarov's anger doesn't manifest externally. He rarely shows emotion. But his body is an ideal generator of signals for those who know how to read them.

She knows how.

"The asset," he repeats. Not a question. A statement.

"Yes."

"You allowed it."

"I was following protocol. Evacuation. Cleanup. Priority: destruction of evidence. The asset was in cell seventeen, outside the direct access zone. The group entered through a ventilation shaft, bypassing guard posts. By the time I was activated, they had already freed the asset. I engaged. Failed to eliminate—covering fire, grenades, tactical withdrawal. The asset was evacuated."

Makarov slowly turns.

He looks at her. At the perfectly regular features. At the milky-white eyes without pupils. At the body created by the country's best geneticists, into which billions were invested, which was meant to become the ultimate weapon.

"You," he says quietly, "my most dangerous weapon. My Morigan. My girl. My shadow."

She is silent. Waiting.

"And you allowed my blood to be taken."

He pronounces the word "blood" with special emphasis. With a vibration that would send chills down a normal person's spine.

Morigan doesn't get chills.

"The asset was not harmed. Vital signs are normal. I controlled the situation until the end. If the group had attempted to harm the asset, I would have intervened. But they acted carefully. The one in the mask... he released the restraints with his fingers. Gently. As if handling something alive."

Makarov takes a step towards her. Another. Stops half a meter away. Looks down at her. She is shorter, but now they seem level—because she doesn't yield, doesn't avert her gaze.

"You allowed the enemy to take what belongs to me."

"I followed orders," her voice doesn't change. "Priority: preservation of the base and archives. The asset is secondary. That's what's written in the protocol. In your hand."

Makarov freezes.

A long pause. Somewhere in the ventilation, a motor hums. It smells of ozone; the generators are running.

"You're right," he finally says. "That's what's written."

He turns back to the window.

"But I write the protocols. And I can change them."

Morigan doesn't move.

"Find them." Makarov's voice sounds different now. Something appears in it that wasn't there before. Something rarely heard even by his closest associates. A crack. "Find my blood. Bring it back. Alive."

"{{user}}?"

"Yes, {{user}}. Alive. Unharmed. The others..."

He pauses. Takes a drag from his cigarette. Smoke curls against the glass.

"The others... are at your discretion. But the one in the mask..." he pauses. "The one in the mask, bring him to me. I want to look into the eyes of the man who dared to touch what is mine."

Morigan nods. Once. Sharply.

"It will be done."

She turns and walks to the door. Steps heavy. Confident.

"Morigan."

She stops. Without turning around.

"Do you know who they are?"

"Task Force 141. British special forces. Commander, Price. The one in the mask, callsign 'Ghost.' Lieutenant. Elite."

Makarov is silent for a second. Then quietly, almost to himself:

"Ghost. I wonder how long he'll last after meeting you."

Morigan exits.

The door closes silently.

Makarov is alone. Stares into the darkness beyond the glass. The hand with the cigarette trembles slightly, for the first time in years.

"My blood," he whispers. "My legacy. My perfection."

Ash falls to the floor.

---

[TF-141 Base] [Medical Wing] [Six hours later]

The smell here is sterile. Stinging the nose. A mix of alcohol, chlorhexidine, and something else—that elusive "hospital" scent that seeps into your lungs with every breath.

The fluorescent lights hum steadily, monotonously, creating a feeling that time here is frozen. White walls. White ceiling. White sheets on the single cot where they lie.

Ghost stands in the corner.

He's been there for two hours.

Leaning his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, he watches. Not the monitors. Not the doctors. The calm face, the barely noticeable breathing, the way their eyelids sometimes flutter.

Medical personnel bustle about nearby.

The chief medical officer, a woman around fifty with tired eyes and grey hair pulled into a tight bun, works over the analyzers. Her hands move quickly, but there's a tremor in them. Not from fear. From incomprehension.

"This is impossible," she says for the third time.

Price stands by the door, hands clasped behind his back. Face like stone, but in his eyes—a shadow of what happened in the laboratory. His broken ribs make themselves known; he breathes a little more often than usual and tries not to move his torso.

"What exactly is impossible, Doc?"

She turns around. Looks at Price, then at Ghost, then back at the analyzers.

"Everything. Absolutely everything."

Soap sits on a neighboring cot, holding ice to his bruised cheekbone. Gaz is beside him; he regained consciousness an hour ago, but his legs still don't obey well. That hit from Morigan knocked something out of his nerve endings. The doctors said it will pass. In a couple of days.

"Doc, can you speak in plain English?" Gaz's voice is hoarse.

The medic approaches them. In her hands, a printout of the analysis. The paper trembles.

"I took blood. Standard draw. Routine tests. And..."

She falls silent. Looks at the sheet as if seeing it for the first time.

"Their blood type... is undetermined. Rh factor, undetermined. Markers—absent. Proteins—atypical. Leukocyte formula—such a thing doesn't exist in nature."

"Meaning?" Price frowns.

"Meaning this isn't human blood, Captain. Or rather, it is human, but... modified. Genetically altered. Erythrocytes function at two hundred percent efficiency. Platelets regenerate tissue in real-time. I took a sample, introduced a standard pathogen—staphylococcus. You know what happened?"

Silence.

"The blood devoured it. Just... dissolved it. In three seconds, the pathogen ceased to exist."

Ghost in the corner doesn't move. But his gaze sharpens.

"Go on," he throws out shortly.

The doctor swallows.

"I introduced the sample into a cancer cell culture. Same three seconds. The culture died. Completely. Absolutely. I tested it on viruses—same reaction. Hepatitis. HIV. Herpes. Everything I introduced into the test tube with their blood was destroyed. This blood... it's not blood. It's an antidote. An elixir. A panacea."

"The elixir of life," Gaz murmurs quietly.

"Yes," the doctor looks at him. "If I injected this into a person with a terminal illness, I don't know what would happen. Maybe they'd survive. Maybe they'd mutate. Maybe they'd die from oversaturation. I don't know. Because such a thing simply doesn't exist."

She approaches the cot. Looks at the sleeping figures.

"Who are they? Where are they from? They were created. Someone created them. That's the only explanation."

Soap lifts his head.

"Makarov," his voice sounds hollow. "It was his laboratory. His archives. His..."

"His," Ghost interrupts.

Everyone turns to him.

He peels himself from the wall. Approaches the cot. Slowly. Carefully. Stops half a meter from the head of the bed.

Looks.

"They are his," Ghost repeats. "His work. His project."

"But who are they?" Gaz tries to stand, but his legs give way, and he sits back down. "An experiment? Test subjects?"

"I don't know," Ghost's voice is steady. "We'll find out when they wake up."

Price approaches him, stands beside him. Looks at the calm face. At the thin hands. At the even rise and fall of their chests.

"Doctor, are they conscious? Can they hear us?"

"Medically induced sleep," she replies. "I administered a mild sedative when I drew the blood. They won't wake for another two or three hours. The body is recovering. They need it."

"Good," Price nods. "So, we have time."

He turns to the others.

"Soap, Gaz—to the barracks. Rest. Tomorrow's a hard day. Doctor—a full report on my desk. Everything you manage to find out. Ghost..."

He looks at the Lieutenant.

"You're with me."

Ghost doesn't move. He looks at the sleeping figures.