I Feel It In My Bones (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Everything Has a Price

JOINED FORCES MILITARY BASE

GERMANY

06 AUGUST, 0900

The echo of your boots reverberated loudly against the linoleum of the corridors. Behind the uninterested glaze in your eyes, carefully masked above your balaclava, no detail escaped your attention. Your gaze flicked over the faces of passing soldiers and officers, some of whom returned your look with outward curiosity, taking note of your feminine figure and partially obscured features. The rhythmic bounce of your plaited hair followed you with each purposeful step.

After a restless night of sleep, where your body was exhausted beyond comprehension but your mind was unsettled at being in a new location, you had slunk out of bed before sunrise and listened to music from your phone. You had eaten a cereal bar, which you had found hidden deep inside one of your duffel bags, and then fell asleep again until you met Price.

You had slipped on your uniform—your khaki undershirt, combat pants, sturdy black boots, and softshell. Three patches adorned your uniform: one of the British flags, below it the red cross of a medic, and a third emblem displaying your new unit, Task Force 141. On the front of the softshell, your name, callsign, and rank were stitched in black. You had quickly fitted on a belt to keep the trousers in place, pulled your phone into your pocket, and, with a deep inhale, left your room.

You were going to meet Captain John Price for the first time.

With steady breaths, you tried to reign in your anxiety. The words of your old therapist ran through your head again and again, a mantra above the clink of your dogtags.

You were here to fulfil the role assigned to you. Nothing more, nothing less. You were a soldier and a medic—a damn good one at that. Your track record and old field reports were proof.

As you approached Price's office, the door was already ajar. Offering a gentle knock, you half-entered, cautiously peering into the room to check if he was there.

Price was seated behind his desk, an unlit cigar gripped in his hand. Upon spotting you, he gestured with a wave, inviting you inside, and indicated for you to close the door behind you. Following the same protocol as in Laswell's office, you moved towards the desk, assuming a stance with your arms positioned behind your back. A swift once-over allowed you to familiarise yourself with your new team leader.

He wore a kind smile, and his neatly groomed beard added a touch of rugged charm. Short, warm brown hair adorned his head, with subtle hints of grey starting to weave into the strands. Fine lines graced his face, accentuated by the warmth of his smile—crow's feet framing deep blue eyes and a few creases on his forehead. As he looked up at you from his seat, Price extended a friendly greeting: 'Bones, it's finally good to put some of the face to the name.'

It was a weak joke, but you still crinkled the corners of your eyes with a small smile. 'It's good to meet you, Captain,' you replied.

'We have a few things to discuss today.' He twisted the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. 'The first thing is about your role in the 141. How much did Laswell tell you?'

'Not much, sir,' you answered honestly.

'I thought as much,' the older man smiled. 'You will be the task force medic. That will be your official title, at least. However, your role will go beyond that. Some Russian assholes are rumoured to have their sights set on creating a new biothreat—as if we don't have enough problems as it is.' He paused, those bright eyes meeting yours. 'You're fluent in several languages?'

'Yes, sir. German, French, Spanish, Russian, and Mandarin. I also know some Arabic.'

'Impressive. Some of the task force still struggle with basic English.' A mischievous glint entered his eyes. 'You also finished second in your class during basic training and have served as a combat medic for three deployments?'