Word count: 2.6k

Was this the right decision? Probably not, it was more than most likely going to end in my death and I can only hope it won't be painful. Hopefully a headshot if I'm lucky, a sniper perhaps so I really won't feel anything or notice until its too late. Shoving a powdered egg into my mouth a tear trickled from my eye, which I quickly wiped away with my sweaty ass palms. The sticky sensation was almost enough to make me gag more than the nasty ass eggs ever could. 

A feeling of calm washed over me like a gentle wave of the ocean, my choice beginning to feel more right. This is what needed to be done, in all honestly I felt like it would be more beneficial for both sides. What was I really bringing to the table? I was just another soldier, I wasn't important. My life really didn't mean much, and I'm sure the information I had already provided would be more than enough for the Task Force. Besides, I'm sure they have technology that could get them anything else they could possibly need

With a contented sigh, I looked back down at my plate, my features scrunching up into a grimace. My fingers moved my fork around the globs of eggs, somehow they began to congeal into one another creating a weird slimy texture. "Eugh," I mumbled, continuing to pick at my food. I must've looked like a child, sitting alone and grumbling as I poked around the contents on my plate. Shaking my head, I stood up and tossed out the rest of my rations before walking out of the mess hall again, right back toward my barracks. I'm sure they ate better during World War II. 

Ever since I'd been in this base, my mind had been swirling with emotions, swarming around my brain filling me with unease and other feelings I had suppressed long ago. And finally, for once, my head felt clear of the fog that had inhabited it the second I agreed to help the team, the haze blocking my eyes vanished into thin air and I could finally, finally see things for how they really were. A small smile etched itself across my mouth, the heat feeling less unbearable, the people seeming less significant alongside all my other duties.

Softly I shut the door behind me, making my way over to my untidy bed, eyeing the bunched up bundle of clothes in the corner of my room. My father was right in my nightmare, I was a traitor, but now, I was going to make it right. I was doing the right thing, going back to where I belonged no matter how fucked up that place may be. It was where I was raised to be, trained to be, born to be. And I was okay with that, not everybody gets their happy ending, or desired one at that. To have good in the world there has to be some bad. I was the bad, so people like the Task Force could be good. It's like a fucked up merry-go-round that I can never get off of.

Running my hands over the crinkled up mess of my still damp sheets, how they were still damp I have no idea, I smoothed out its wrinkles, tucking the corners under the mattress of my bed, making sure it was taut. My fingers gripped the other white sheet and repeated the same process before draping the grey fleece blanket over top of it. Taking a step back and admiring my work, I rolled my eyes at the fact I still had no pillow, but that wouldn't matter anymore. 

I approached the heap of dirty clothes and dumped it into the laundry basket next to my wardrobe, wiping my hands against one another and grinning. "All in a days work," I mumbled to myself before plopping back down on my bed, groaning when I realized I had just fucked it up again. There was no way in hell I was going to redo my bed after I had just spent 10 minutes cleaning everything else... what can I say? I'm lazy and proud. Leaning my head back on the window seal, I stared up at the ceiling littered with cobwebs. How gross. Thank God I hadn't seen a spider of else I would've demanded a room transfer. 

Now all I had to do was figure out exactly how I was gonna pull my plan off. Gaz, Soap, Ghost, and Price don't seem like they're total fucking idiots. If I were to just run off surely they'd notice and would have no problem whatsoever shooting me down before I even got a few meters away. My eyebrows furrowed together and my lips pursed, "The fuck am I supposed to do," I mumbled under my breath. 

Maybe during a fire fight when everyone is more worried about saving their own asses I could just slink away and run for my life... literally. But surely the whole British fucking outfit would give it away, I mean they really like to let people know who they are, plastering the flag and 141 emblem on every single piece of the fucking uniform. Maybe I could put on some sweats and a shirt under the whole outfit? Rip off the vest and gear and helmet and run to my comrades?

I guess that'd be a huge risk, I would become quite literally the easiest fucking target ever. "Oh yeah hey guys! I have no gear on like a fucking idiot, so I'm basically target practice, everyone take their best shot!" Yeah, no. Or maybe I could peel off all the emblems? I know the one in the helmet is ingrained into it, but I'm pretty sure nothing else is? I could use my combat knife, and just really get to work. Of course I'd have no helmet... but that could do.

The more I became at peace with myself, an unmistakable aura of contentment began to envelop me, as if I was basking in a warm, inner light that radiated outward of my being. The furrows of doubt that had me in a chokehold were loosened. A serene smile graced my lips, the corners of my lips curling upward subtly. Slowly, I pushed my palms into the stiff mattress and sat up once again. Of course, a small twinge of guilt flared up... a small piece of knew this was wrong. But my delusions pushed those feelings away. 

Placing my feet back onto the floor, I sat up off my bed and glanced around my room one last time. My shoulders felt less tense, my posture was more comfortable, as if I settled into a state of harmony with myself. Exiting my barracks, and shutting the door behind me, it felt as if a heavy weight, a burden, had released itself off my shoulders, leaving me standing a little taller, a little lighter. My legs began to stride their way over to the armory. Taking in a deep breath of the stale air, my nose scrunched up in distaste, my smile immediately dropping into a frown. Probably wasn't the best idea to inhale all the disgusting ass gunpowder fumes.

Shaking my head and scoffing slightly, I made my way through the heavy iron door into the armory, my eyes widening at how extensive it really was. The bright fluorescent lighting of the room almost made my eyes hurt, but all I could focus on was the rows and rows of different weaponry. The shelves and racks were meticulously arranged, holding a wide array of arsenal ranging from small firearms, to rifles, to pistols. Even a fucking bazooka. The polished metal glinting in the harsh light. As I made my way through the rows and rows of guns, I ran the tips of my fingers lightly over the smooth surfaces of each weapon, leaving a bunch of fingerprints that would surely piss someone off. 

My eyes flicked to the vests, and slowly I made my way over to them. Quickly I reached for an extra-small one and grabbed it, turning the material over in my hands and feeling it out. It was pretty heavy, but nothing I couldn't handle. Finally, I found what I was looking for, the emblem. A growl left my throat and my eyes narrowed. Of. Fucking. Course. It was stitched into the damned vest, and not just regular stitches, like army grade stitches. So, no, a combat knife wouldn't work very well. "You've got to be kidding," I mumbled angrily. Guess I'm not catching that damn break any time soon. They probably designed the fucking stitches for this reason, like who cares? It's stitching.

Rolling my eyes I tucked the vest under my arm and made my way over to the gear, grabbing what I needed. My hands pulled a small belt and other items that belonged on it, grenades, flash-bangs, explosives, you know, standard army bullshit. Slinging everything over my shoulder after placing everything in its respective spot, I made my way over to the different holsters, taking what I needed. It almost felt like I was shopping, a normal people thing... despite the things I was "shopping" for were deadly weapons designed for the sole purpose of killing someone.

A huge smile found its way to my face when I eyed the knives. My specialty. There was a reason my callsign was Knife in Al-Qatala... the things I've been able to do with just my trusty combat knife alone could make the devil shudder. Humming softly I took a good long look at my options, my eyes lighting up as I continued to do so, like I was kid on Christmas. My fingers interlocked around a tactical knife before shoving it into a holster, next I grabbed a few throwing knives, of course, and then... a machete. A little overkill but that's exactly how I like it.

Satisfied with my pickings I began to get geared up, starting off with my vest, making sure it was tightly secured before attaching my throwing knives onto every possible place I could. Next came the belt, making sure it was also tight and filling it up with the necessary attachments. The holsters followed, putting some knives on it and a small pistol. Placing the machete on my back, I walked over to the rifles and picked what looked to be the best one before slinging it over my shoulder. Sighing softly, I walked out of the armory.

It was then I realized I hadn't seen Ghost all day, not that I was complaining or anything. It had actually been quite a long time, I wondered where he was. Again... not like I cared. He didn't even eat breakfast, he wasn't missing out on much, but doesn't a guy as built as him need to eat? God, whatever, not my problem. Grumbling to myself, I shook my head, I didn't care. A slight breeze brushed across my skin, cooling down my steamy thoughts. The once soft purple  sky began to dim into a deep inky blue, stars one by one revealing themselves into the twilight.

We'd be leaving soon, I'd be faced with my decision sooner rather than later. My palms began to get slick with sweat once more, my heart feeling like it was getting lodged in my throat, turning my mouth dry. How could I go from being so content with it to now being freaked the fuck out? Was it my conscious? No, not that. Right? Nervously, I began to fidget with the different knives on my vest, finding solace in their smooth surface. I'd be fine. It was all going to be fine. Tiny pearls of anxiety took form in small beads of sweat collecting on my head, getting caught beneath my helmet. 

I needed to pull myself together, as soon as possible to be exact. If they saw my fear, if they truly thought about it, they might be able to tell what my plan was. That cannot happen. My once steady gaze was now evasive, darting around as I made my way through the compound. The air itself seemed to grow more thick, more dense, more suffocating. My lungs felt like they had forgotten how to form their one fucking purpose as my breathing became more labored. In and out. Four seconds. Remember. 

Gaz and Soap in front of me caught my eye. I needed to pull it together. Come on Y/n, pull it the fuck together. Sweat poured down my frame, making my clothes feel damp and sticky under the weight of my gear making the already horrible sensation even more uncomfortable tenfold. Shaking my head, I kept my eyes to the floor as I walked forward, clenching my fists at my sides, digging my nails into my palms. "Hey lass!" Soap called out, snapping me out of my trance. Haphazardly I lifted my head and gave him a small nod.

"Love the whole fit ya got goin' on, lookin' like one of us," he lightheartedly joked, his lips still in a cheeky grin. I wondered if that was his resting face, I mean, how was he always smiling? He should be studied. Gaz shot a look at Soap, clearly not agreeing with his statement. I could tell he was still unhappy with me having a place in the Task Force, rightfully so, not like I could really say anything about it considering was I was planning to do. Forcing a smile on my lips, I nodded my head, "Sure feels like it." My voice lightly shook, unnoticeable to most, but not to Soap or Gaz. Their eyebrows furrowed and suddenly I felt like I was under a microscope again.

Soap wrapped his arm around my shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze, "It'll be alright," he reassured before shaking me and letting go. He gave a wink to Gaz who just rolled his eyes in return before walking off toward the helipad. Once he was out of earshot I turned to follow him before Gaz gripped my shoulder and whipped my body around to face him, a frown curled onto my lips as I eyed him up and down. "Don't try anything funny," he warned, giving me a slight nod before walking away. 

My eyes widened and my heart began to beat wildly in my chest like a relentless drum increasing its tempo every few seconds. My mouth ran dry, I opened it to say something back, but couldn't find the words. My hands began to shake and fear gripped my body in an iron lock, was I really that readable? Could he tell? Taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady myself, I turned my body back around and began to walk toward the helipad. Of course, because somehow catching a break just wasn't in store for me, Ghost stood tall, arms crossed over his broad chest, shooting daggers into my being.

Unlike Soap or Gaz, Ghost's glare wasn't unreadable. His eyes were a window to his soul when he wanted them to be, and right now he was letting me know exactly what he thought without having to even mutter a word. I felt small under the heavy weight of his stare, the intensity of it almost palpable. Slowly I began to make my way forward, trying my best to ignore him. Trying my best to block out my intuition telling me to run. He knew something, something he couldn't quite place his finger on. His eyes narrowed down at me, his lips in a tight line hidden beneath his mask.

But he knew nonetheless. How much? I wasn't sure yet. But he knew. Oh how he knew.