The Medic || Ghost [Simon Riley] Story.

0400

                                      Ghost

A fucking female in 141. Fucking unheard of. And I get that we have worked with females in the past, that's not what I'm pissed about. I don't think they are the lesser of the species or anything like that. Task force 141 just can't accommodate them. The nature of us, we're brutal.

Army regulations my arse, we've never bothered about them before so why now? And why her?
Nash sticks out like a sore thumb. Tall, blonde with green eyes. She's a fucking terrorists wet dream. They get a hold of her, and they will, they'll plaster her tear streaked face all over the world. 'Proof of life' they'll call it and because she is the American Beauty, they'll negotiate.

Save us all the fucking hassle and just ship her back to whichever backwater, bumfuck redneck town she came from.

Her face was a picture when I mentioned her zedding in Gaz's bunk. Americans are so loud, anyone within 5 foot of that briefing tent could have heard that conversation. It was hilarious the way she acted. Poor Gaz. But admittedly he's had worse.

I glance down at the toothpaste stain on the thumb of my glove. I feel the corner of my lip tug upwards. The look of disgust on her face when she saw me and asked about the mask. I couldn't help myself. Everything about her is so plucky. She's too pure for this game.

Soaps snoring starts, like he's a pot of porridge waiting to be stirred.

"Thats my cue!" Gaz calls out, "Nash, you've got a 5 minute window to get to sleep before his snoring gets any louder."

"Good to know." She chirps, a sheepish undertone attached to her voice.

I lie on my side facing the door of the tent, I always do. It's a comfort thing because I don't sleep much so I watch for danger instead. Constantly.

But now, the loud as fuck American is in my periphery, and she's a front sleeper.

Myla

I will be plagued by nightmares. The sight of that eerie skull-headed figure lurking in the corner of my vision is absolutely terrifying. I attempted to turn away, hoping to escape its chilling presence, but to my dismay, it only intensified my fear. He appears to be asleep, yet his eyes are shrouded in darkness, making it impossible to be sure.

"Night, troops," Gaz's voice breaks through the growing snores of Soap.

0300 hours

In an effort to satiate my growling stomach, which embarrassed me greatly last night, I rise a bit earlier than necessary. I hope to grab a quick bite before we embark on our journey. The hunger pangs were excruciatingly painful. 'Time to feed the beast' my dad would say, knowing that I am a hairsbreadth away from being hangry.

I thoroughly cleanse myself in the shower, taking extra care to shave my legs and tidy up my personal area. It's a small act of self-care, knowing that I may not have the opportunity to do so again for quite some time. I generously apply a British antiperspirant I picked up at the airport, it reminded me of a freshly-lathered bar of soap. Then, I coat my bare legs and arms with my favourite orange oil lotion.

Wiping away the fog in the mirror, I part my hair down the middle and begin to dutch braid it. I can't help but smile at my reflection. I'm both nervous and excited for this new chapter of my career. It's an honour to be here. Truly.

Glancing from the mirror I reach down for a hair tie and secure it at the end of my braid, peering back into the mirror to make sure they are even.