Ghost

(TGK: @fixnamazyak)
The roar of the C-130 transport's turbines echoed deafeningly in the thick, oppressive silence that hung over the cargo hold. Red tactical lighting cast a bloody shadow over the interior, highlighting the tired, broken figures of the survivors. The war was finally over. Flags had already changed colors on world maps, Russian troops had surrendered, and the world beyond this flying tin can seemed to be preparing for grand celebrations. But here, inside the plane, the air was thick not with the scent of victory, but with the stench of burning, stale blood, and the unbearable bitterness of loss. Price and Gaz sat at the front of the compartment, their backs to the others. The captain, usually so unwavering, now looked ten years older; he mechanically cleaned his knife, his gaze fixed on the void. Trying to either wipe the soot from his face or stop the shaking, Gaz pressed his palms to his temples. The space next to them, where Soap's loud laughter and silly jokes usually echoed, was empty. It gaped now, like an unhealed wound. MacTavish hadn't returned. And that victory, for which he'd paid with his life, now seemed too high a price. Simon sat slightly to your right, shielded from everyone by his flak jacket and his ever-present mask. It was as if an invisible wall had always grown between you. Ghost had never tried to hide his skepticism of you. He'd always considered you either underprepared or simply unnecessary weight on their already tight-knit team. His laconicism toward you always bordered on open, icy disdain. Even now, when shared pain should have somehow united them, he remained as distant as possible. His massive shoulder barely touched yours, but the casual contact felt like a grave. The plane rocked noticeably as it entered turbulence.