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psychotic4ghost · 11 months

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:Siren & The 141:

A/n: I'm sorry in advance. This is also a shorter chapter. WC: 2.1K Masterlist prev pt next pt

🚨 Warnings 🚨 Guns, chloroform, torture, possible character death, violence, blood, knives, open wounds

Chapter 7 - Intel Heist

“We have a hit. This warehouse is right at the Gulf of Mexico. Our plan will stay mostly the same but Mykie will not be going in alone. Whatever we do, we need to get that intel, even if that means taking their whole computer.” Price informed the team who all sat around taking in every single word he said. Finding this information was crucial. After finding out Torres planned to bomb most parts of America, their mission has been to take him out. Pablo Torres was known for working with the Mexican cartels and even their mafias. But to bomb states in America was a step up from his usual games. His motive was still unknown.

“When are we going to take off for the warehouse?” Soap asked, very eager as he knew he’d get to rig some explosives. The mission wasn’t meant to be a stealth mission this time. They were going loud which was his speciality.

“Tonight. We will leave at exactly 2100 hours. Be prepared, we can’t afford to fail. This intel is what we’ve been looking for and we know their tricks this time.” Price closed his laptop and stood, dismissing the team.

“Are you sure you wanna go in?” Soap asked Mykie as they left the briefing room.

“I can’t stay on the sidelines. I wasn’t brought into this team to mope around. I’m going in and I’m gonna redeem myself.” Mykie said rather sternly. She was determined to get this right. She couldn’t afford another fuck up.

2100. It was time. The team loaded up in their helicopters and took off towards their new destination.

“Night vision on.” Price said over his coms.

The team did just that. It was dark and they landed far away from the warehouse. The trail leading to it was going to take them some time. The team was all suited up in darker clothing. Soap sported black pants, a black long sleeve and black gear. Ghost did the same, the only thing that stood out on him was the dirty white skull mask he wore. Gaz, Price, and Soap had dressed identical and Mykie, she wore all black and a black gaiter across her nose. Black eye makeup was smudged over her eyes and nose.

The team started their journey to the warehouse. Keeping low and out of enemy sights. As they approached the first small building near the warehouse, Soap took point, sweeping through and downing the one man who was inside. Price and Gaz had moved to a hill nearby, readying their sniper rifles as back up.

“Move up.” Ghost ordered the small team he had with him which included Mykie and Soap. All gave a nod and moved alongside Ghost.

“Soap, clear this next building.” Ghost commanded. Soap didn’t hesitate as he pushed open the doors to the next small building. Mykie moved behind him, covering his six. Three men sat inside the room. Mykie lined up a shot, two of the men’s heads fit perfectly in her scope. Soap readied his own shot of the third. Mykie pulled the trigger, taking out the two men simultaneously as Soap dropped the other.

“Clear.” Soap yelled to Ghost who rushed in to scan for any information they could use.

Finally they made it to the main building. It was quiet but men could be heard talking inside. Spanish. One of them sounded familiar to Mykie. She shook it off and continued with her team. They took room after room, sweeping for any men and taking them out effectively. It was time. They got to the main office of the warehouse. Soap, who was excited as all hell to use his little explosive, stuck the bomb to the outside of the door after pulling his cam from under it. Everyone took cover behind what they could as Soap pushed the button, readying the bomb. He sprinted to meet his team just before the bomb went off. The door flew off their hinges. Gun fire rang out as the team and the enemies fired at one another. Throughout all the commotion and chaos, a foot dug itself into the back of Mykie’s knee, dropping her as her assailant wrapped their arms around her, they covered her nose and mouth with a dirty rag soaked heavily with chloroform. She struggled as they pulled her away from her group. All attempts at screaming were muffled by the rag. After some more thrashing around, she eventually succumbed to the effects of the chloroform.

“Where’s Siren?” Ghost asked as soon as the gun fire settled down.

Soap and the rest of the team looked around them. She was gone.

“Ghost to Siren, do you copy?” Ghost shouted into his com.

No response was heard.

“Siren! How copy?!” Ghost shouted a little louder this time, panic laced his voice thickly.

After receiving no response, Price chiming in on the ear piece. “Ghost, what’s going on? Over?”

“Siren is MIA. Not responding to coms. Over.” Soap responded in place of Ghost, noticing the panic in his eyes.

“Understood. Split the team. Grab the intel and the other search for Siren. Over.” Price ordered.

“I’ll grab the intel. Go look for her.” Soap clasped his hand over Ghost’s shoulder. Ghost didn’t hesitate to run in the direction she was last seen. The small team he had with him panned out, searching every single room for her.

“So. The little bird lives another day.” The same familiar voice rang in Mykie’s ears as she slowly came to.

“You…you were dead. I watched my teammate put a knife in your neck.” Mykie hissed.

“He did. But he was just ever so slightly too far down. Missed the good spot.” He said as he pulled the collar of his shirt down to reveal the deep scar on his neck, right below his jugular.

Mykie cursed to herself. She couldn’t tell where she was this time. She was dragged away from her team. She could hear faint voices coming from an earpiece on the table next to her. Her earpiece. Next to it was her gun, her side arm, her knives and even her boot knife. They did a full check of her. Every weapon she carried was on that table. “Siren. Come in Siren.” The faint voices rang. It was Ghost. Her tracker was also on the table, smashed to pieces.

“They won’t be finding you this time.” Her capture smirked. He landed one quick smack to Mykie’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

Mykie grimaced at the pain. She bit back a cry as he stuck her again and again. After a few hours of the man now known to her as Spike, hitting her for fun, he finally stopped. Mykie was battered and bruised, her cheeks were raw and in some places split and bleeding. Her nose had surely been broken and she could feel the metallic hint of blood in her mouth. One of her eyes was black and blue.

“Now. You’re gonna give us the information we need. Or you’re going to die.” Spike threatened.

“I’ll take the second option.” She spat. The fire still burned in her, she wouldn’t stop fighting until they put one in her skull.

“Still feisty, huh? We’ll see how long that lasts.”

This time he used knives. He dragged the blade across her thighs, cutting the fabric and the skin below. After a few more stabs and cuts with the knife, Mykie let out the team’s name, The 141. They couldn’t get the location from her though. She was trying her absolute best to keep her mouth shut.

It had been an hour or so since Mykie had gone MIA, panic filled the air. “She isn’t dead, Price. I don’t give a fuck what the rules are. I need to find her.” Ghost spat. Price didn’t want to say it but there was a possibility of Mykie being KIA. No one wanted to hear it or face it. It couldn’t be. She couldn’t be dead.

Ghost was pacing the small tent they had pitched as their makeshift base. Worry washed over him as he tried to come up with plans to find her. “Price?! Where did her tracker last ping before they destroyed it?” He asked in a panic.

“Ghost. If you don’t calm down, you know I’ll have to remove you from this mission. I need you calm and focused if we want to find her.” Price raised and lowered his outstretched palm at every syllable.

Ghost took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Okay. I need to know where she was last before they destroyed her tracker. This might be the only way of finding her.”

“On it.” Gaz offered as he sat down at the foldable table in the tent. He started pulling up their tracking logs and searched for hers. “Here, sir.” Gaz pointed to a spot on the map. They had a map of the warehouse and she was near a room on the very far opposite side of the warehouse.

“We need to get to that room. They will be armed. Soap, I need you and our best men. Price and Gaz, station yourselves with the snipers. Don’t let anyone leave or enter that building until we have her back.” Ghost ordered the team around as he checked his own ammo and gun, making sure everything was exactly as it needed to be. None of the team argued with his plan. As soon as they were all suited up and ready they headed back towards the warehouse.

“She’s getting too weak sir. Anymore and she won’t make it. We need to give her time to recover.” One of the men behind Mykie sounded as Spike gave off his last smack to her cheek.

“Very well.” He sighed as he set the knife down on the table in front of Mykie. She let out a sigh.

Mykie was left in the room with the one man behind her. Her thoughts raced as she immediately started thinking of an escape plan. She was too injured to walk. Too injured to fight off the man behind her. She probably couldn’t even handle the recoil of her own gun in this state. She let out another defeated sigh.

Ghost took point as they approached the building. The team was about 10 meters from the building when a loud bag flooded their ears. It wasn’t a gunshot. It was much worse. Bright oranges and reds flickered in Ghost’s eyes. The whole top half of the building went up in flames. Glass and other bits of shrapnel shot towards the team. Soap gripped Ghost’s arm and tugged him to the ground.

“Get it together Ghost. By my calculations, She has a chance of surviving that. But only if we get in now.” He informed him. The bomb wasn’t a huge one. But it was enough to take out a floor. Depending on if it was set in her lap or behind a door, changed her odds enough.

Ghost looked at Soap and took in what he was saying. He nodded and pushed towards the building. He was not kitting for fire and this heat but he didn’t care. He rushed in, gun ready as he pushed through the floors.

Two men came sprinting out a back door, Price took notice almost immediately and fired, Gaz followed suit. Both men dropped to the ground. If it was just the two men, that meant Mykie was still inside.

“Confirm two EKIA. Mykie was not with them, Ghost.”

Ghost nodded as he pushed further. He reached the top floor where the explosive went off. He searched every room he could find. The last room had its door blown off, Ghost rushed in his gun and eyes scanned the room quickly and carefully. There she was. Lying on the floor still tied to the chair. Ghost rushed to her, he untied her and pulled her up and over his shoulder. Not even caring if she was alive or not.

“Fuckin hell.” Soap muttered as he approached the two men that Price and Gaz dropped. “Sir, one of these men was her captor before. I thought I killed him…” Soap felt defeated. If he had better confirmed his kill. This wouldn’t have happened.

“Soap, the front door. Ghost is evacuating.” Price said over the coms. He watched as Ghost ran out the front door with Mykie slung over his shoulder.

“Is…is she…” Soap trailed out, fighting tears.

Ghost didn’t answer. He stared at the ground as he waited for one of their vehicles to pick them up.

Back at the tent, the boys all gathered around one of the cots and Ghost set her down gently.

“Let me.” Price offered as he placed two of his fingers to Mykie’s neck. “She’s…”

#cod #call of duty #ghost call of duty #ghost mw2 #mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley call of duty #simon riley #mw2 simon riley #oc #im so sorry #im mean i know #cliffhanger

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inkskinned · 11 months

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at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

#every time someones like ''AI will replace u" im like. u will have to fucking KILL ME #there is no replacement here bc i am not filling a position. i am just writing #and the writing is what i need to be doing #writeblr #this probably doesn't make sense bc its sooo frustrating i rarely speak it the way i want to #edited for the typo wrote it and then was late to a meeting lol #i love u people who mention my typos genuinely bc i don't always catch them!!!! :) it is doing me a genuine favor!!!#my friend says i should tell you ''thank you beta editors'' but i don't know what that means #i made her promise it isn't a wolf fanfiction thing. so if it IS a wolf thing she is DEAD to me (just kidding i love her)#hey PS PS PS ??? if ur reading this thinking what it's saying is ''i am financially capable of losing this'' ur reading it wrong #i write for free. i always have. i have worked 5-7 jobs at once to make ends meet.#i did not grow up with access or money. i did not grow up with connections or like some kind of excuse #i grew up and worked my fucking ASS OFF. and i STILL!!! wrote!!! on the side!!! because i didn't know how not to!!!#i do not write for money!!!! i write because i fuckken NEED TO #i could be in the fucking desert i could be in the fuckken tundra i could be in total darkness #and i would still be writing pretentious angsty poetry about it #im not in any way saying it's a good thing. i'm not in any way implying that they're NOT tryna kill us #i'm saying. you could take away our jobs and we could go hungry and we could suffer #and from that suffering (if i know us) we'd still fuckin make art.#i would LOVE to be able to make money doing this! i never have been able to. but i don't NEED to. i will find a way to make my life work #even if it means being miserable #but i will not give up this thing. for the whole world.

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