"ʜɪꜱ ɴᴇᴡ ᴛᴏʏ" | Ghost Simon Riley X Injured Y/N || Call Of Duty

1. Rubble

His foot crunches down on each rubble and crumbling concrete, making every step he took audible. Though with all the collapsing buildings and showering missiles, his sounds were swallowed, making his presence faint, lingering, almost non existent; a ghost.

His gloves hands hold onto his rifle firmly, kept at an aiming position as he scanned the area, alone, needing only his body and his mind to finish these missions, whilst the others dealt with their deal of the hand present to them.

He kept walking, his eyes, to which were the only thing lift visible by the mask, unphased and remain stiotic by the chaos painted around him, every step taken into the mansion showed more insight on the state of it, crumbling down, barely held up, shaken by each sound of a far way explosion foreign to its structure, and even the place itself.

He was determined, as like any other missions, disallowing distractions or hovering at a place for much longer than he needed to be, taking more thorough steps. The night, the sky was painted red, crimson orange and red, the rubble creating dust and puffs as if the clouds got pulled down to the surface.

Despite so, his pace remained unwavering, as if nothing could've changed him, his mind was set. He was deserving of his title, deserving of his achievements, deserving of the respect he would get despite his person unrevealed, unknown, and with uncertainty came fear. respected, but feared, quivers at his presence, his manner, his voice.

Ghost was a nightmare, though one could not remember it after waking up. Because in truth, you do not.

He walked down the halls of the building, to which were once held up by marbled pillars, carefully and specifically detailed at each curve and dent towards the roof and base, then his steps took their first pause. A sound lingers around his ears, to which he shifts the headphone piece slighty above his ear, waiting for the sound to fall into his ears once more

And it did.

He pulled the headphones back in place, and gazed around. Death was assumed. Casualties was typical. Civilians caught up is to be expected, and he was no damn medic, not a hero either. Yet the voice seemed to overpower the explosions that filled his mind for the past hours, and slowly his path changed.

Civilians also held hope.

The time ticks, and soon his eyes trail down, looking at the rubble he seemed to not care for all this time that he trudged over, until now. His eyes scan down the figure, a women, he notes. Her eyes barely opened, but she looks up despite so, her dry quivering lips painted white by the dust and rubble, as per her hair, and it would be arguable to whether she was pale from the fear or the dust and collapsing concrete and bricks itself.

He looks around, deciding that it would be bothersome to help, her chances of survival were not worth the risk of his own, and he sinks his foot into his pre walked path, turning around to trail back to his initial mission.

"help..."

I'mmmediatly, he pauses. Tensing up, shifting his weight to another foot, before he moves his rifle and straps it back into his port arms on his chest then slings it back around to his back, sighing to himself; a deep one, not in length or volume, but tone. He turns back around, facing the women, her leg buried beneath manageable rubble, he noted, her head leant back, unable to be held up by her exhaustion and worn out body, blood seeping down her neck, thigh, and a small amount trickling down her shoulder, mixed in with the feeling and texture of sand, the blood acting as glue to a children's art project involving sand, her skin being the paper.

He crouched down, on one knee, his gloved hand enough to single handle crush her head moving to her cheek, his index finger coldy brushing against her skin, causing her to tighten her closing eyes, wincing, before he moved his hand down to her neck, extending two fingers to check her pulse.

He knew she was alive, but he wanted her to think there was reasoning to why he had extending his hand to her face. In truth, he was just inspecting, as if she were an object.

"This better not become a nuisance." He muttered beneath his breath, his low voice and firm tone almost pressed down by his mask, before he shifted his gaze to the rubble above one leg of hers.

She remained silent but alive, her parted quivering lips focusing its function on just breathing in air, rather than speaking, aside from the obvious sounds of her grunting and groaning.

Ghost takes out his hand pistol from the compartments of his vest, clicking the safety shift on, then twirling it in his hand so he's keeping hold by the barrel, using the handle to drive it into the rubble. He would rather take more time freeing her from the bounds of the rubble than to use his hands like a dog, let alone take his gloves off.

After he managed to get the big pieces of rubble off, he grabbed a hold of the slab that was twice her thighs size but almost his palms size off to the side, then gazed at her blood seeping thigh through the material of her clothes. He then stood back up, his figure towering, as he gazed to the side, then back at her, in thought.

The soldier received a radio message, orders, to which he pressed down on the button of his radio attached to his vest to silence. His thoughts lingers before he grabs the small radio out his vest by the antana and un-straps it out his vests compartment. He then shifts some of its buttons around, and turned a few knobs, before tossing it to the floor, on the rubble beside her quivering hand as he pressed a different button to the already pressed one on his headphones.

"Keep pressing that red button, the second you stop ill assume you're dead and leave ya' behind." He told her, his words firm, tone steady and slow but carried a lingering threat despite his intentions.

Before he was sure she heard his instructions, nor if he knew she was conscious, he walked off, back to his initial path, bringing his rifle back to his chest, holding onto its barrel and handle. In truth, she was the least, in fact, not even a priority, but he wanted to know he atleast attempted something rather than completely ignore her plea, he wanted her to hold on to a bit of hope before she drew her last breath. Make her think she tried all she could.

Each slow seconds, a buzzing sound, like a radio switching channels, rung into his headphones, indicating that she was indeed pressing down on the small comms device he gave her, more seconds between each one, slowly losing her ability to continue.

Minutes pass, and soon an hour. The buzzing sound had stopped in his headphones time ago, shortly after he had left her, and despite so, despite his instruction, he walked back to where she was. This time, his mask was covered in a few crimson, blood, not his own, his mission was clear, and so he thought he had time to waste, or atleast thats what he told himself.

He walked back to her, she remained in the same position, only that the radio was in her opened palms, as she laid there unconscious. Unphased, he crouched down to one knee and took his glove off his right hand using his left before bringing his fingers to the side if her throat feeling for a pulse, truly this time.

She was alive, and so he withdraw his hand and placed his gloves back on, then tilted his head with an almost frustrated sigh or grunt as he thought, grabbing back his radio and placing it in his vest.

"What should I do with you.." he mumbled to himself ever so subtly.

Minutes pass to which he was finding himself grabbing her by her waist and arm, slunging her over his shoulder, her arms and head hanging down by his back, her stomach pressed on his broad shoulders despite the gear and uniform, his arm around her waist and hip keeping her there, and his free hand, his left, moves to grab his pistol, unable to use his rifle in this state.

He sighed, and slowly begun his trail, walking back midst the chaos of the night, still managing to make his presence barely visible even when she was holding him back

who knew what awaited her