Call of Duty Oneshots

Call Me Kick (Requested Kick)

It started with a chance meeting in a cellar of a Federation factory. 

You had been captured as a spy, taking photos of the mysterious factory with your camera. Truly, you hadn't known what the place was and your eagerness to snap photos overcame the common sense to walk away. Thus, that eagerness got you captured.

Your wrists were bound, but not tightly. You were also able to freely move about in the medium-sized room with just a couple of chairs and a table. The door remained locked, yet no one stood outside it. 

They definitely didn't find you dangerous. 

There was a loud scuffling down the hallway outside and loud protests. The men who'd imprisoned you were coming back, but it didn't sound like they were alone. No, someone was with them. Someone fighting against them. 

"Throw him in the room with the other prisoner," a deep voice ordered. 

You tensed in the uncomfortable chair you sat in. The door was slammed open, making dust fly through the air as it hit the wall. Two of the men who had brought you to the same place were roughly shoving another in. They made him land on his elbow and kicked him as he fell back against the ground. 

They spoke in a language you didn't understand and then slammed the door locking it. Someone was definitely outside now, keeping guard. 

Your wide eyes moved from the door to the masked person before you. He grunted as he sat up, wrists bound tightly and ankles cuffed just wide enough for him to shuffle around. He had to be much more dangerous than you. 

"Motherfuckers," the man's voice was deep as he huffed out in frustration. 

As if just noticing your silent presence, the man glanced your way. You immediately noticed the trail of blood running down the side of his mask and let out a low gasp. You tensed to get up, but the man held up a hand.

"Don't worry about it," his voice was gruff. 

You opened your mouth to respond. 

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"What's your name?"

"Call me Kick," he struggled to get up so you finally stood to help him. 

He gazed at your hand before firmly grasping it. You helped him stand, finding his height taller than your own. You looked to his eyes- the only thing you could make out from his painted black mask. 

"Let me look at your head, would you?" 

"No, it's-"

"It will give me something to do," you argued, guiding him to the chair you'd been sitting in. "Please?" 

Kick let out an annoyed sigh and then plopped down on the chair as if it was the last time he'd ever sit. You gently grasped the clear goggles around his head and tugged them off. Kick was stiff as a board as you touched the sides of his mask. 

"Do you need me to keep it on?"

"Can I trust you to never tell a soul about my identity?"

"Will I remember it?"

Kick watched you in curiosity. "Hopefully not."

You felt as if there were multiple meanings to those two words, but decided to ignore them. With a tug, you slid off his ski-like mask. Kick's amber eyes opened when you'd stripped him of the mask, looking at you more fiercely. 

A memorable face? Kick's was going to be one you never forgot. His eyebrows were even and dark, bringing out the color of his slightly tanned skin. His amber eyes lit his face on fire, a deep contrast to the black of his thick, yet short, hair.