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"I think I have something you might like," the grin on my face only seemed to grow bigger with each passing millisecond. The British man's eyes continued to bore into mine, his icy gaze not letting up for even a second. I'd be lying if I said his sharp stare didn't give me a sense of unease, but like hell if I was going to show it.

The room fell silent once more as both men said nothing, the air surrounding all three of us seemed to grow even heavier as I waited for any sort of response, any indication that they were intrigued, any hint of emotion at all, but I was only met with annoyed looks and menacing stares. I felt the blade of the knife press harder against my throat, letting me know his patience was wearing thin.

"I know it's Major Hassan you're after," I finally spoke, I studied the eyes of each man. The Scottish man's lips curled into a faint smirk as the balaclava'd bitch finally dropped the knife from my neck and re-sheathed it back on his thigh strap, all in one quick fluid motion.

I stretched out my neck, not realizing I had craned it so far behind me, a light stinging feeling erupted at the top of my spine, and my eyebrows furrowed in slight pain before my expression returned back to its usual bitch face. "I know where you can find him," I continued. My voice was low and steady as I made sure to articulate each word. 

The British man fell back, slowly making his way beside his butt-buddy, mohawk man. They gave each other a look, their eyes spoke a language only they seemed to know. It seemed like hours of conversation could be shared with just one glance. After a second, they both turned back to me. Each pair of eyes looking me up and down, studying me. 

"Where is he?" The Scottish man finally asked, breaking the silenced tension of the room. The skull man crossed his arms tightly against his chest, his biceps bulging against the thin fabric of his long sleeved shirt. I rolled my eyes, how scary and intimidating. I fixated my gaze back on the Scot, "Las Almas, I'm not sure who or what that is but apparently they owe AQ some favors," I replied, I instinctively bit my lip, had I shared too much? 

I furrowed my eyebrows once more, my green orbs narrowing down at the Scot, soaking up every expression, or lack thereof, he made. He seemed to do the same to me. It felt like hours of just us staring at each other, each of us studying every move, every breath, anything at all that could be observed from the other person. 

"Anything else?" The skull-faced man interjected, of course there is you stupid Brit. I rolled my eyes, "why is that not enough for you?" The Scottish man let out a low dry laugh, "do you enjoy playing with your life?" he growled as his lips pursed together, making a thin tight line. 

I observed each of the two men's body language, taking note of the veins twitching in their arms, the sweat glistening on Mr. Mohawk's forehead, either from the dank ass room we were in, or from frustration. The Brit's hand slowly grazing his pistol, brushing his fingertips lightly against the the handle.

I flashed a cocky smile at his stupid question, "that depends..." I drawled, speaking lowly and slow, my pearly whites flashing with each syllable flowing from my mouth. I relaxed back further into the metal seat, sighing lightly, a ghost of a smile still etched on my face. "That would mean I'd have to care about it in the first place," I remarked, a tone of disdain evident in my voice. 

Obviously I was bluffing, and I prayed the way I portrayed myself would keep them from seeing right through my semblance like an open window. I kept the cocky smile plastered on my face, flashing looks of judgement and indifference between the two men before me. 

The longer I held my gaze between them, I could almost see the irritation dripping from every pore and crevice of their bodies; and I must say, I was enjoying every second of it. Both of their patience were wearing detrimentally thin, the skull man's calm facade deteriorating faster than the Scot's. I could see his jaw tightening under the thin layer of his balaclava. "I suggest you start talking woman," he barked, his angry words coated in pure venom. 

"Fuck yo-"

Before I could even register it, the room filled with a deafening metallic clang as the British man slammed his fist against the table. The noise reverberated through the air, shaking my bones. His frustration became palpable, a swirling storm seeking an outlet, and I could only hope it wouldn't be me next. 

Tension crackled through the air between me and the literal deranged psycho before me, I could feel my breath hitch in my throat as I struggled to maintain any composure I could muster. The Scottish man remained unfazed, not even a flinch or look of unease on his face, as if this sort of display was regular coming from the Brit. 

My words were stuck in my throat, a million possibilities and thoughts ran rampant through my mind.  Time seemed to stand still around us, the British man's dead stare never faltering. The weight of his gaze conveyed an unspoken demand for me to speak, so formidable it would make even the boldest soldiers shudder in discomfort. 

"The missiles," is all I managed to croak out, my voice lightly wavering. My previous attitude of nonchalance shattered at my fingertips. A smug grin pulled at the Scottish man's lips as he glanced over at the skull masked man, "do you know where they are?" he asked, turning his attention back onto me. 

"AQ has them," I muttered, fear gnawed at my mind as all my bargaining chips were stolen from me. The weight of uncertainty settled heavy upon my shoulders. 

My eyes darted between the British and Scottish men before me, seeking any sign of affirmation in their body language, desperate for some indication my response had been sufficient enough. They were like big fucking boulders, stony expressions and rock barriers keeping their emotions at bay. At least now anyway. 

"You've been helpful," the skull man remarked, he narrowed his icy blue eyes into steely daggers. A wave of confusion spread across my face, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

I watched intently as the Scottish man gave the Brit a quick nod, and turned on his heel to leave the room. 

With a cold and calculated motion, the skull man retrieved his pistol from the holster attached to his thigh strap, its metallic gleam catching the faint light. Confusion quickly morphed into fear, until I was left in absolute horror. My heart thrummed wildly in my ears as adrenaline coursed through my veins. I thrashed wildly against the restraints I was in.

"W-wait!" I yelped, pure terror intertwined with my words as I stumbled over them. My mind seemed to go blank, every thought, every word I wanted to speak, absolutely everything lost in the black abyss of sheer panic. His face remained stern, his features impassive, but the dangerous glint in his eyes betrayed the underlying threat he carried.

In this harrowing moment, the power dynamics between us were starkly laid bare. My will to survive, to find a way out of this fucking bullshit, clashed in a war between the overwhelming presence of the deadly weapon pointed directly at my head. The sound of the safety being disengaged echoed through my mind, as the gun was cocked I finally spat out the only thing I could think of. 

"I- I'll help you get them!"

He maintained his deadly stare, the small flicker of intrigue in his eyes contrasted against his indifferent and menacing aura. The gun remained pointed at my skull, as his finger kept its place lightly grazing the trigger. "How do you propose you do that?" he challenged. The Scottish man shut the opened door in front of him, and turned back into the room, portraying the same look on interest on his face.

Sweat glistened on my forehead as I opened my mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. My mind was a raging war zone. I was faced with two options, each with their own set of consequences. I surveyed my outcomes, be murdered by a fucking lunatic, or betray not only my country--but my comrades, my friends. 

I knew if Al-Qatala ever found out, which they probably would, I would be tortured. The horrors I'd witnessed, hearing enemy soldiers on the brink of dying, begging for the mercy of death, and becoming hollowed out shells of the strong soldiers--people--they used to be. Their ear piercing screams, and guttural sobs echoed in my mind. But, as I stared up at the barrel of the man's gun before me, I let out a shaky breath. My decision had been made.

"I- I'll join you, and use my knowledge to locate Hassan, a-and the missiles," I sputtered out, my wide eyes still fixated on the gun before me. They had no reason to trust me, I mean, fuck, if it was me behind the gun I would've squeezed the trigger without a second thought the moment I opened my fucking mouth. It was a miracle I wasn't splattered against the wall and floor behind me. 

Once again, the two men gave each other a glance. Their dimly lit faces slightly obscured by shadows, remained stoic and unmoving. The British man held his gun steadily aimed at my head, my eyes were glued to his pointer finger resting ever so gently on the trigger. 

As if they operated on the same fucking brain, they both turned to face the one way window, as if letting whoever the hell was inside watching that they needed to discuss something. I let out a sigh of relief as the skull man slowly lowered his weapon back down to his side, his massive hands still gripped firmly around the handle. 

The Scottish man turned to face me once more, "I would say wait here, but it's not like you could go anywhere could ya lass?" he gave a small chuckle, as if that was the funniest joke of the century or something. I responded with an exaggerated eye roll back at him. "Shut up, Soap," the British man grumbled as he made his way to the door.

Soap? Jesus christ where do they find these people.

I stifled back my laughter as I bit my lip, I knew I wasn't in a position where I could be making fun of someone who was fine with me being killed only moments ago. Soap mumbled something to himself, a mixture of amusement and slight annoyance evident in his face. The British man swung open the door after typing a series of numbers into the keypad, and exited. Quickly followed by Soap.

Once they finally left, I relaxed back in my seat once again, well, as relaxed as I could possibly be at a time like this. I let out a long shaky breath I didn't even realize I was holding in. My eyes darted from my tight cuffs, up towards the one way window. The only thing I could see staring back at me was my disheveled complexion. 

My long brown hair once styled carefully in a low neat bun had cascaded into wild, tangled locks that framed my face haphazardly. I stared into my own tired eyes, dark bags encircled them, and it looked like I hadn't slept in years. My soft pink lips were now chapped and crusted at the edges. Crimson streams of dried blood danced down my forehead, trickling down the valleys of my face, stopping at my jawline. 

I almost didn't recognize myself, I chewed at the corner of my mouth and quickly turned away. Quickly refocusing my gaze on something else. I counted the cracks in the walls and ceilings, taking notice of the faded paint once occupying parts of the barren concrete. 

But no matter how hard I tried to distract myself, to let my mind focus solely on the fucking paint, the cracks, the whatever, I couldn't reel my thoughts away quick enough from the sense of impending doom plaguing my consciousness. 

My heart rate and breathing seemed to pick up, it felt like I was suffocating on the musty air, thickening in my lungs. My breath came out in short, gaspy spurts. I knew I needed to compose myself, that I couldn't be caught with my tail between my legs like a fucking bitch. I softly closed my eyes, and tried to steady my breathing.

5 years ago

I collapsed onto my cot, salty tears stung my eyes. My vision was misty and clouded as I choked back my sobs. I buried my face into my hands, and tried my best to block out the vision of my mother, sad and alone, crying in the doorframe as the military SUV I was confined to drove away.

My hand pressed firmly against the glass, the words I mouthed, words I so desperately hoped she could decipher, still fresh in my mind. The dried blood under my nose served as a stark reminder to the events that had happened only hours ago. 

A plethora of thoughts swarmed in my mind, "will I ever see her again?", "will she be okay?", "will I be okay?", "why did this have to happen?". Every second a new phrase would take first place, before being replaced by a new, often times worse one. 

Oh god, why can't I fucking breathe? 

Panic gripped my mind and took full control. The world around me felt like it was moments away from caving in, a tight knot formed in my throat as I gasped for air. There wasn't enough oxygen in the universe to satisfy my desperate lungs. 

My eyes shot open as one hand held my throat, and the other gripped the thin white sheet under me. My chest heaved with each inhalation, rising and falling with alarming intensity. I was so wrapped up in my own world, I didn't hear the door swing open and someone run inside.

My hand gripped my throat harder, as if that could help in any way, shape, or form. A light squeeze of my shoulder snapped me back into reality, but only for a second. My wide eyes focused on a man I'd never met before, knelt down beside me at the edge of my cot.

A look of concern was evident on his face, his gaze scanned me up and down. "Okay I'm gonna need you to control your breathing, can you do that for me?"

If I had even an ounce of saneness in that moment I would've rolled my eyes straight out of my head. No fucking shit. But of course I had none, so instead I just stared up at him as if he just asked me to do the craziest thing in the world.

My mouth felt dry as I continued gulping for air, struggling to find and sort of relief from this suffocating tension I found myself in. 

The man softly sighed, his stare remained trained onto my fearful eyes, "focus on your breathing." His voice was slightly demanding, but maintained a sense of concern. His brown eyes were soft with empathy, contrasting heavily against his hardened face.

I quickly clenched my eyes tightly shut, my mind was consumed by the feeling of sheer panic that managed to fester and burrow itself deep into each divot and crevice of brain like a virus.

My hand held my throat tighter as I tried refocusing my attention onto my sporadic and uncontrolled breathing. I took notice of the sharp feeling of air cutting at the back of my throat with each forced inhale, and the dryness of my mouth with each quick exhale. 

"I want you to inhale through your nose for four seconds, okay?" The man's deep voice cut through my wild thoughts like a sharp blade.

I nodded my head, as I began to sharply breathe in air through my nose. My efforts were futile, and ended up with me once again gasping for air through my mouth. My heart rate quickened in my chest as light-headedness began to loom over me.

His fingers gave a reassuring squeeze around my shoulder, as if that gesture alone could rip me from my crazed state. I held my eyes closed tighter as I attempted to breathe in through my nose again. 

One... two... three... four...

"Now hold it for four seconds," the man continued, his fingers still lightly pressed against my shoulder.

One... two... three... four...

"Great, now breathe out for four..."

Slowly my breaths began to return to their normal rhythm, and a small sense of relief washed over my body, as if I had emerged from a raging storm into calmer waters. I slowly opened my eyes, refixating them onto the man before me, a small smile formed on his lips as he watched my nerves begin to soothe. 

I gave him a weak smile back as I pushed myself into an upright position, crossing my legs under me and placing my hands in my lap.  

He seemed to hesitate for a second before finally speaking, "are you the new soldier?" he asked as he planted himself down at the edge of my cot, looking into my eyes with a caring expression.

"Y-yes," my voice was still slightly wavering as I bit my lip in an attempt to conceal its quivering state. I stared right back into his warm brown eyes, the light catching them made his iris's glow like rich honey. 

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and the corners of his lips curled into a small frown. He studied my face before speaking once again, "I don't mean to intrude... but are you okay?" 

Tears began to well up in my eyes once more as I fought to blink them back. It had been a long time since I was asked if I was okay. The wetness clung to my dark eyelashes, like tiny crystal beads, shimmering with each blink. 

"I'm here if you want to talk..." his tone was much softer now, more nurturing. Tears began to spill over, my eyes becoming an open window to my soul, revealing my pain I'd so desperately tried to hide, for years and years.

I shook my head and let out a soft laugh, wiping my teary eyes with my palms. "I'll be fine," my voice lightly shook as I spoke, and I stared up at him once again with a half smile, making it clear I wasn't going to budge on this. 

"I understand..." he said as he flashed a half smile back. With an outstretched hand he spoke again, "my name is Zain, but most people just call me Blaze".

-----

In and out, in and out. I maintained a neutral expression on my face, doing my best to hide my panicked state. It wouldn't take much examination of my shaky breathing, or the way I would inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth rhythmically, to figure out I was internally freaking the fuck out. 

All I could do was pray that there was nobody behind the tinted glass, scrutinizing me, staring at me, finding amusement in my actions. Slowly, I opened my eyes, and exhaled a final shaky sigh. I cleared my throat and sat up tall in my seat, straightening out my shoulders, and correcting my slouched posture. 

Minutes felt like hours. Any creak or soft noise caused my eyes to dart over to the door, hoping that someone would approach it and just tell me what the fuck was going on. The sound of the clock ticking behind me echoed in my mind, only amplifying the anticipation that consumed me. "Jesus christ..." I muttered softly to myself. The sound of the clock was driving me insane, if I could move I would rip it off the wall and smash it into a trillion pieces, until it was nothing but shattered glass. 

The sound of the door opening was like music to my ears, but only for a split second before the circumstances of what could happen next crashed into me like a freight train. I immediately recognized who it was by his stupid mohawk. It was Shampoo... or wait no, Soap. 

He wasn't carrying a rifle, or any sort of weapon, besides the ones attached to his vest and tactical belt. That was a good sign, and his psychopath of a friend wasn't with him. He walked over to me and uncuffed my ankles from the legs of the chair. They were red and slightly bruised, with blisters on the front of them, where the cuffs had applied the most pressure.

He motioned for me to stand up, and I complied. My legs were slightly wobbly with a slight static feeling, and my tailbone stung in pain, probably from sitting down on that uncomfortable metal chair for hours on end. "Let's go," he said as he placed his hand on the small of my back, moving me forward and out of the door. 

As we made our way outside, I took in a deep breath of air and closed my eyes. I would take the smell of gun powder over the stench of that sweaty room any day of the week. He gave me a side eye and continued to guide me forward. I look around at the other soldiers as we passed them, some would stop and stare and others would just glance over and then continue whatever it was that they were doing.

Finally we entered a small building, where he led me to two wooden doors with rectangular windows in the middle of each. My heart began to race out of my chest. He turned the handle and stepped inside, leaving the door open so I could enter. All sounds of the room were drowned out by the rushing blood and rapid heart beat filling my ears. Soap sat down in a chair at the far end of the long, wide, wooden table. 

The room was decently sized considering how small the building was. The decor, if you could even call it that, was devoid of any distractions. There was a projector at the far end of the room to my immediate left, a woman who looked to be around 50 or so appeared on the screen. She had short blonde hair, and the same piercing blue eyes as the skull-masked man. There was a stern expression on her face, the wrinkles littering her forehead were prominent as her eyebrows furrowed together.

There were four men in the room, all of their eyes on me. Gaz, Soap, skull-man, and then one other. There was a sense of authority to him, much like the woman on the screen. He had a sizable mustache, and a beard the covered almost all of his lower face. He wore a beige bucket hat, and his clothing consisted of a light khaki-colored uniform. 

He and the woman studied me differently than the other three men, he wasn't sizing me up, but instead looking at me like I was more than the terrorist bitch everyone else seemed to think I was. I kept my head held high, my posture and shoulders remained straight as a board. I wouldn't let myself show any fear, not in a moment like this. "So you're Y/n?" the man asked, his eyebrow slightly raised. 

"The one and only," I replied, I kept my tone slightly overconfident in an attempt to hide my nervousness. He let out a small chuckle, and crossed his legs under the table, "and you want to join us to take down Hassan, and find the missiles, is that correct?" My mouth felt dry, "yes, that's correct," I said as I nodded my head. 

The man turned to look at the woman on the projector, giving her a knowing look as if waiting for her to speak. I concealed a small smirk, I loved when a woman was in charge. I also turned my attention to the screen, purposefully avoiding the judging stares of the other men around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gaz with his arms crossed, and the small superficial cut on his neck scabbed over. 

"We believe you could possibly be a valuable asset..." the woman affirmed, her eyes still studying me up and down, "with your affiliation with Al-Qatala, and the fact you're a high ranking officer, specifically a lieutenant, could aid us substantially." I nodded my head once again, waiting for her to speak again. 

"She tried to bloody kill me!" Gaz interjected, visibly perturbed. I snapped my head in his direction and narrowed my eyes down at him. If I wasn't in the middle of such a high-stakes moment I would've barked something back, but I knew better. My jaw tightened as my eyes bore into his. 

The woman continued, "which is why we're having this discussion, Gaz." He let out an annoyed sigh and continued to glare at me. It took every fiber in my being not to jump across the table and head-butt him into another reality. I closed my eyes and composed myself, this wasn't the time nor place, as I opened them I turned to face the woman on the screen once again.

"I believe this is a risk we should be willing to take," the woman vouched, a small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, but I quickly suppressed it, I didn't need a genuine smile being twisted into something completely different. "I agree," the man replied, staring up at the woman on the screen. He then turned his attention to the other men, waiting for their responses.

Gaz mumbled something to himself, and rolled his eyes before turning to face the man, "if she tries anything at all, I'm going to put a bullet straight through her goddamned skull," he remarked angrily, turning his head toward me at the last part. I chose not to look at him, my own anger was beginning to boil over at just at the sight of him. "I don't doubt that," the man softly chuckled.

"How do we know we can trust her?" Soap asked, staring at me intently before looking between the man and the woman. "She will be under 24 hour surveillance," the woman assured, giving a slight nod to Soap. He crossed his own arms, a look of uncertainty etched on his face. "Fine," he muttered, "but I'm with Gaz on this one as well".

 The man turned to face the skull-masked man, "Ghost?" 

Ghost. I turned to face him, his eyes were devoid of any emotion, his arms were crossed loosely against his chest, he didn't even look at me, his full attention was on the man, "as long as I'm the one keeping watch," he monotoned, his British accent still thick and husky as ever. A small bout of confusion flickered in my eye, but I quickly blinked it away. 

The woman on the screen nodded her head, "that's fine," I turned to look at her, "Y/n, you will need to prove yourself, you have one chance, don't fuck it up." With that final statement the screen turned black, and she was gone. 

All eyes, except for Ghost's, were on me once again. "I'm Captain John Price," the man said with a stern look on his face before motioning to the others, "I'm assuming you know their names by now," I looked at the other men, before turning back to face the Captain, "yes, I do."

He let out a small chuckle before standing up, "welcome to Task Force 141".