Ashes in the Darkness

Laswell

TW: Very mild self-harm, not deeply described

I laid out on the ground, hair stringy against my face as the sweat dripped from every inch of my body. I could feel the heat of the air stinging at the nerves of my skin, making it dewy. I felt disgusting. Soap had his head hung over the nearby trash can. Voting to not watch, I brought my water bottle up to my mouth and gulped down the room temperature water.

"Get it out before we start again!" I heard that stupid fucking Manchester accent say from behind me.

"Fucking hell!" Soap said, washing his mouth out with a water bottle and spitting into the grass. He was breathing hard, trying to gather enough oxygen to keep going.

"This is what you two get for drinking during an operation," Ghost said with a small chuckle. I turned and brought my bath towel to my face, wiping the sweat from my brow. Locking eyes with my Lieutenant wasn't the best idea because he saw the hatred there, anger was an understatement for the way that I was feeling for him at that exact moment. "Open that mouth of yours and say something," Ghost said as he tracked my movement back over to the track, "I dare you."

"No thanks, I choose life," I said, taking another sip of water, but I didn't have the same motivation to stop my face from showing the rage I was having. He stood and watched. Soap and I had been at the training facility for well over three hours now. Ghost had started us off light with a jog, tricking me into believing that he was going to be nice for once. He had even joined the two of us on the run, lapping me a few times.

Then he had started with the burpees and sprints, over and over and over again, which had made me collapse between rounds. My side stitches were enough to bring me to my knees, but Ghost didn't care, screaming at me to get up and keep going. I had been through basic training, had been chewed out by Drill Sergeants and officers alike, but Ghost would have made my past leadership cower like hurt puppies. After the sprints he had brought out sandbags, heavy sandbags, and told us to walk 12 laps around the track carrying it over our head. I would be unable to lift my arms at all after that.

He had done that with us as well, carrying the bag without so much as a huff of heavy breathing. I couldn't imagine the shape he was in under that sweatshirt and cargo pants that he was wearing, but I had an idea that he was made of stone. We had just finished a second round of sprints and burpees.

"Sandbags, let's go!" Ghost screamed at Soap, then turning to me, "you want a lighter sandbag for your wimpy girl arms?" He teased, knowing what that kind of challenge would do to me.

Standing, I picked up the sandbag that I had thrown down earlier and brought it over my shoulder with a groan, beginning my walk around the track. I didn't mind physical labor, I enjoyed the challenge of a long, uphill hike. Working on the Kootenai National Forest had kept me in good shape, since there really wasn't any other way to track animals than by foot. I hiked on the regular, and most of the time it was uphill in the snow, my body was in good shape aside from the fatty tissue that hung around my hips and backside.

The walking wasn't the hard part, it was the forty pounds of sand that was slung over my shoulder and the weighted vest I had on (to simulate carrying tactical gear). My arms were shaking hard enough to look like they were going to break, but even more terrifying was the way my knees were beginning to buckle with each step. It took around 30 minutes to finish the twelve laps on the track, preparing myself for the next round of sprints and burpees.

Once Soap had also finished his twelve laps, we both sat and gulped at the water bottles that Ghost had brought. "Go get showered, conference room in an hour," Ghost said.

I perked up from the ground, it had been over twenty- four hours since there had been news from Price and Gaz on Laswell's kidnapping. I had tried to keep my mind from running through the horrifying possibilities that could have been happening to her. I didn't know this Al-Quatala force that was running these missiles, but I could guess that they were bad news. "Is there news about Laswell?" I asked, Ghost looked down at me and simply nodded, his black and white Balaclava wrinkling under his chin. My heart sank that couldn't be good.