DECODE - Simon Ghost Riley [Editing]

12 | Sacrifice

TW: Dark themes; Murder, Infanticide, Genocide, War Crimes, Attempt rape, graphic depictions of violence, canon-typical violence.

Two hours later, Las Almas.

If I had to guess, it had been hours since I first descended into the chaos of Las Almas. Hours of my leg slowing me down, no doubt infected from the grime and sludge by now. Shit, I was still only in the city. How was I still only where I'd started?

I couldn't guess how much longer this would take, and if I'm being honest, it felt as though time was a flat circle and I was stuck at the periphery floating between nothingness and everything all at once.

The blood from the sliced flesh had since congealed, plastering my cargo trousers to my calf muscles in an itchy cast that seemed to tighten with every step and every movement I made. The tightness of the fabric did nothing to alleviate the pain from my wound, and I'd shed the hoodie Ghost had given me like I'd shrugged away the only hope of salvation. It was as though the small comfort it offered no longer existed, instead it was shredded into strips of bandage for my leg in the naivety the wound wouldn't get infected... but I wouldn't be so lucky.

I knew that now.

The fever had already set in, my skin burned to the touch and it felt as though the rain evaporated as it pelted my skin. No doubt I'd be lit up like a fucking Christmas tree on any thermal cam the Shadows had.

Since announcing to Ghost and Soap I was on the move, I'd seemingly wandered in circles in a futile attempt to conceal my movements, only to lead any trace directly to the path I'd carved in the streets. It became obvious on my fourth lap of the same alleyway, the same blue storefront practically a cerulean 'fuck you' in the dead of the night.

The pair of operators on my side had disappeared, no longer talking over the crackling radio. Neither of them wanted to joke anymore, and I couldn't blame them. No amount of shitty jokes would diminish the scenes we'd born witness to. Nothing could prevent that.

The signal was spotty, occasionally my radio would jump channels across to one occupied by Shadow Company, their casual chatter and incessant bragging of war crimes felt as though it was slap in the face. It made me want to scream and fight and scrape at them for the comments they made, the narrative they conjured up to somehow justify their actions.

I pushed through the storefront and landed on a balcony which overlooked the street below. It seemed as though this city was tiered, each level reminiscent of a new layer of hell as you descended closer to the centre, and with each level came more patrols to be wary of.

My eyes scanned the street below, there were no nearby stairs or ladders to descend down, and it got to the point where my only option would be to drop down to the roof below and then make it to street-level to remain hidden.

From here, the wind seemed to howl through the city, smoke and iron tainted in the harsh gales and wrapped around me. My hair was a mess, half still up in the bun I wore during active service, and the rest plastered to my skin from either the rain or perspiration, but I wouldn't have time to mess around with it to keep it out of my face. So, instead, I slicked it back to give a temporary break to the strands tickling my cheekbones.

I clambered over the iron railing, boots struggling for grip against the wet metal, but I eventually found myself on the other side and staring down at the sodden slate roof beneath me. It was a good five or so metres if I had to guess, ten at a push. It wasn't favourable, but neither was dying.

I just had to land on my feet.

I tried to psych myself up for the drop, but instead found my stomach in agony over the thought that I might break my neck on impact.