AS OF OCTOBER 15TH, 2015, THIS STORY IS BEING REWRITTEN.

Please see Chapter 38 of the ORIGINAL "The Ghost That Haunted Me" for the full explanation.

The NEW, REWRITTEN version will appear here once a few chapters have been completed.

Chapter One.

"You can't run away from trouble. There ain't no place that far." - Uncle Remus

"It's like you're addicted to the game, Mickey. You've beaten the campaign, what, four times this week? And you've brought your online time total to three days." With a slap of his palm to his forehead, the teenage boy collapsed onto the couch and trained his eyes on the TV before him. "I'm shocked you aren't sick of it by now, and that your hands aren't sore from playing so much." He glanced over his sister's shoulder to see her fingers rapidly beating against the controller's buttons, and a sigh escaped his lips. "Complimenti, Mckinley, you're insane. Be grateful Mamma's too busy to notice how long you've been playing."

When she didn't respond, he continued. "You know, if Mamma came downstairs right now and saw you wasting away like this on the Xbox, she'd have a fit. Papa would, too." Aidan paused to watch the cutscene as another level loaded. A few firm, older voices blared from the TV speakers during the scene, triggering another thought in the boy's mind. The certain voice he noticed belonged to a British gentleman, and that, alone, was enough to remind him. "… Does this have anything to do with your obsession with that 'Ghost' character?" he inquired offhandedly.

It was this question that finally stirred his sister from her silence. She paused the game, turned around, and met her brother's brown gaze with her gray one.

"It's not an obsession, Aidan; it's a fascination. A genuine fascination with the quality of his character." She spoke matter-of-factly, compelling the boy to crack a smile. "The comic books gave me insight into his background, the background that occurred before the game even started. You can't blame me for taking a liking to him after reading." Shifting her head to the right, Mckinley let her blood-red hair collapse lazily over her shoulder, and instantly a hand was there. With almost surgical precision, she scouted for knots in the tangled, unkempt mess she hadn't combed in days. "I know I've been playing this game a lot lately, but it helps, Aidan." Gently, her tone loosened, brimming on the edge of a whisper. "With Mamma and Papa yelling so much, I needed some place to go to, and Call of Duty seems to be that place."

"Would it kill you to take a shower, though?" Aidan waved his hand in front of his nose. "Before you start playing the next level?" He didn't seem at all affected by the mention of their parents and their quarreling; he'd disregarded it completely, in fact. Mckinley wondered if he'd become accustomed to it by now. Because of this, she smothered a snappy comeback from misfiring in his direction. She knew better. Instead, Mckinley heaved herself up from the carpet and took a deep breath. The Xbox controller toppled from her hand, landing beside her bare feet.

"Yeah, I probably should go wash up," she admitted at last.

"Good. You smell." Aidan leapt from his seat on the couch, following Mckinley to the stairwell.

"And what are you planning on doing?" His older sister froze on the first step. "While Mamma and Papa bicker about nonsense, where are you planning on finding sanctuary?"

The fifteen-year-old scrunched up his face in contemplation. "I think I'll go help Gladys and Paul clean the guest house."

Mckinley smirked. "You just love vacuuming, don't you?"

"It's my favorite hobby!" Lightly punching Mckinley's shoulder, Aidan grinned. "Now go shower, before you stink up the place. The smell is burning my eyes!"

As Mckinley lashed out to counter his playful punch with one of her own, the boy dashed past her, hastened up the stairs, and vanished behind the basement door on his way to the kitchen. Mckinley watched as he did this, for she was unable to suppress a smile as she mused over her brother's incongruous jollity. How could the boy be so lively when turmoil transpired close by? From her spot on the staircase, she could hear the voices of her parents clashing with each other, one rising at some points, and the other countering vehemently at others. Did Aidan not hear the altercation? Would he not acknowledge it like she did? Or was this his way of handling things?

Unintentionally, Mckinley sucked in a thick breath of air as she mused, and instantly gagged. Aidan was right; she did smell. A shower was inevitable. There would be time to chew over her family's predicament while becoming clean. Still weaving her fingers through her hair, Mckinley padded up the basement steps and then up another flight of stairs to reach her bedroom. The door locked, she stepped into the adjoining bathroom, stripped down, and let the water from the showerhead coat her body.

A shower was just what she needed before confronting her favorite Call of Duty level, Takedown, for the hundredth time that week.

When the shouting managed its way through the walls of her bathroom and even past the roar of the water, Mckinley knew there was no use hiding from the truth any longer. Of course she'd known the dangers of leaving her basement retreat when she'd ventured upstairs; she'd only hoped her parents would restrain themselves for a short while when they noticed the presence of their eighteen year old daughter.

Needless to say, they hadn't.

Sighing, she shut the water off. How long would they continue this noisy activity before they finally split? A divorce was inevitable now, for they had been bickering for months on end, with no signs of surrender or compromise. Was it too hard to pick up the pieces and move on, for the sake of their children and solid lifestyle?

Mckinley doubted they'd even consider a simple separation. No, her parents were too thick-headed for that. Her mother, a popular fashion model in the 80s, had been raised on Italian family values so durable, there had yet to be a divorce in her branch of the family tree. And her father, a respected photographer who spent his childhood in the dark backwinds of New York City, also grew up with strict parents who'd taught him to never concede, to never let anyone take advantage of him. There was no middle ground for them to meet on, no 'halfway' point where conflicts ceased and their love for each other reined superior.

No use denying it.

This was why she had to escape. The cocoon she'd constructed for herself—an enclosure of guns, guts, and glory, thanks to the multiple worlds of Call of Duty—was just enough protection to deflect the outer battles emerging in her reality. When shrouded in said barrier, Mckinley wasn't obligated to reflect on her parents and their ceaseless feuding. While encased, her mind traveled to distant lands and conquered the battlefield.

To her, the brutality denoted an opposing meaning: peace, for peace, in her eyes, was anything that could shield her from the real world, and video games did just that.

Donned in a tank top and a pair of comfy sweatpants, Mckinley bolted back down the two flights of stairs to reach the basement's solace. Once far enough away from any noise, Mckinley took a seat on the floor in front of the game room's television, snatched the Xbox controller from the ground, set her iPhone earbuds in her ears, and turned the console back on. The screen woke with its usual flash of color, and soon the Modern Warfare 2 title screen appeared.

"Back in Black," Mckinley's favorite song to listen to while playing Takedown, blared from her headphones. Bobbing her head in rhythm, Mckinley selected the level she wanted to play, and then her preferred difficulty, Hardened. Quickly, she let herself become immersed in the fantasy of it all while the level loaded, and the bitter thoughts about her parents' fighting disintegrated.

The game, and Mckinley: two entities existing in the same locale, prevailing alongside one another, creating a storyline together. It was harmonious oneness, driven by the incredibly human need to accomplish tasks, receive recognition, and achieve victory.

In Mckinley's eyes, the balance there was indestructible.

The game, however, had other ideas.

"Perhaps third time's the charm, eh?"

"We'll have to hope it is. It could get nasty if they realize we've tailed them for the past hour." There was a pause, but it was insignificant and quickly ignored. "What's it like on your side of town?"

"Nothin' but a few nutters trying to sell us shit and the occasional BOPE." Simon relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. "There's actually a lot of them blokes here, patrolling and questioning some poor Yanks here as tourists. Think it's settled, though. They got let off." He rolled the radio over in his free hand, almost skillfully, as if he'd done the same countless times before. And, frankly, he had. "You wanna go ahead with the rendezvous? Go ahead with Plan B? If, in fact, you don't have the right one this time."

Simon could almost hear his captain smile through the radio. "You know I don't think that far ahead, mate." Sighing, the captain paused. "Yeah, start driving over here. If they don't find him on this round, then we'll rendezvous and come up with a different strategy…"

"'Tavish."

"What?" Another obvious smirk crept into the man's voice.

"You don't seem at all willing to end this now, do you? This search for 'im." It was apparent in the way MacTavish spoke; his dislike of the current situation came off his sentences in evident waves, and Simon was easily able to pick them out. "You wanna keep looking."

"… How in the world did you come to that conclusion, Ghost?"

"You paused. You trailed off. I'm not stupid, 'Tav. I know when you're pissed. When you want to be the goddamn hero." Although they were communicating though the radio, Simon shrugged his shoulders in an effort to feel more involved in the conversation. He felt more secure that way. "I mean, if you wanna be the one going through alleys and whatnot, be my guest."

"Y'know what, Ghost? Fuck you."

Simon laughed. "Hidin' sarcasm has never been one of your strong points, has it, 'Tavish?" The captain only grumbled in response. "We'll regroup with you in a few minutes. Keep followin' the van, I guess, and we'll see where that leads."

"Now when did you become captain, giving out orders and shit?"

"Hardy-fucking-har. We'll see you in a few, ya numpty."

"All right. Over and out."

As the conversation between he and MacTavish ceased, a new one sprouted in the backseat, ever quiet, but steadily rising in volume. Before it got out of hand, Simon turned to face the two men behind him, also addressing the man in the passenger's seat. It had become the appropriate moment to remind the three soldiers in the van with him—Sanderson, Rolls, and Litsch—of their target and the protocol involved with the mission.

Humorous, amicable Simon was gone. Severe, compliant Ghost had comfortably taken over his body, like so many times before.

It was nothing new.

"Keep quiet, the lot of you," he began with a curl to his lip. "Fingers on the trigger at all times, but keep the gats outta sight from civvies. We don't wanna give them any more reason to notice us." With two glove-covered fingers, the man made a concise but clear motion in the air beside his temple. "Remember the plan. Our first objective is to locate Rojas's assistant, and if we're lucky, he should lead us to the dealer himself."

The bearded man in the backseat, Tristan "Meat" Litsch, shifted slightly, perhaps out of habit. "Background information on Rojas?" he prompted in his no-nonsense voice.

"Munitions clerk for the KGB-turned influential overseer of trade between the Far East and South America. Went freelance in the late nineties and then began dealing with terrorist organizations and trafficking." The words effortlessly rolled from Simon's tongue as he recited the information given to him by MacTavish a day earlier. Has it really become this easy? Saying this shit? "Now he's an arms dealer. Supposedly furnished the assortment of weaponry for the massacre."

"A former munitions clerk for the KGB?" the second man in the backseat echoed. "How did we get so lucky?" With an amused snicker tracing the fresh lines on his face, David "Royce" Rolls—accurately nicknamed after the famed car company—ran a hand beneath his camouflaged boonie hat and let his hair fall to the brim of his nose. Because of his evident youth, the man was teased profusely because of this asymmetrical hairstyle and choice of headwear, but he had no objection to this treatment (after all, Simon was one of the main supporters of this brotherly ridicule, and Royce couldn't exactly argue with his XO). He credited his hat to the team's former captain, Captain John Price, and sported the item frequently on missions and while relaxing on the base. This time was no different, as he'd insisted on carrying the hat atop his head while on the mission to locate the Task Force's new target.

"This guy'll be easy to snag," Royce continued confidently, "and when he sees us coming for him, he'll shit his pants and talk. They always do." His fingers latched onto the brim of his cap and pulled it lower on his forehead, as if to give an impression of firm intimidation. "And once he coughs up Makarov's location, we go in and smoke the bastard for everything he's done to us."

"I wouldn't underestimate Rojas if I were you, David," Meat warned him. "A desk job doesn't guarantee a person's inability to hold his own against us. And he has the support of the local militia. It's not going to be as easy as you claim it to be." Much unlike Royce, Meat was extremely structured in his mannerisms and conduct, and this almost polar-opposite factor was enough to create a quiet friendship between the two men. Sometimes Simon understood it, and other times he didn't.

Another voice joined in to the conversation, this one belonging to Gary "Roach" Sanderson," the team's sergeant and surprisingly one of Simon's favorite soldiers. There was something about the man that reminded Simon of his younger years, of how he acted when first enlisting in the SAS, and that, alone, was enough for him to hold the man in high esteem. He was sitting in the passenger's seat, and had been quietly mulling over a Brazilian newspaper for the majority of the time (not that he could read it; the one or two Portuguese words he knew were no help; he only studied the pictures). Now, he let his opinion join the others. "Meat's right. This mission's gonna be a pain in the ass. Why else would the captain have brought so many of us?"

Royce, annoyed by the counters against him, crossed his arms across his vest and directed his gaze out the window. "My mistake," he groused. "Just trying—"

"Ghost, the plates are a match," came MacTavish's voice from the handheld radio, interrupting Royce's grumbling and allowing the focus to return to the situation at hand. Meat, Royce, and Roach went silent, while Simon instantly spun around in his seat, placing one hand on the steering wheel and another at the device on his shoulder.

"Copy. Any sign of Rojas's right hand man?" Simon glanced back to again meet the eyes of his companions. "Ready your weapons. This could be it, lads."

Roach, now fiddling with his ACR, lowered his eyes. "Where is the rendezvous point, sir?" he asked, almost a bit hesitantly.

Simon, still awaiting a reply from MacTavish, snatched the unfolded Rio de Jainero map from the dashboard and handed it to the sergeant. "As of right now, we meet at Hotel Rio, but it's not set in stone. Depends on if this is, in fact, the guy we're lookin' for."

MacTavish spoke again. "Negative. They've stopped twice already. No sign of him." He paused, and Simon felt himself holding a breath, riddled with anticipation. The radio still buzzed beside his ear… until MacTavish came back, booming and furious. He sounded slightly distant, as if addressing someone on his side, but his words rang loud and clear. "Hang on… hey! What're you doing? Close the door! Driver, what's she doing? Driver!" Another moment of static gave Simon—and perhaps his fellow soldiers, as well—a chance to analyze what was going on. "What is she—Queen! Close the damn door before… wait, Ghost, they've stopped again. Standby."

Simon sat up in his seat, his eyes wide behind his sunglasses. The name that had been mentioned was not one he liked hearing. If that woman had somehow compromised the mission… "Fuck, 'Tavish, what the bloody hell is going on? One minute you're—"

"Got a positive ID!" MacTavish exclaimed, ignoring the lieutenant's outcry. "Whoever these guys are, they're not happy to see him." A rustling was heard through the speaker. "Driver, hurry up and pull her back inside before they see her. She can upchuck later."

"Upchuck?" Simon grabbed his M4A1 Carbine from the dashboard, unlatching the safety. "Shit."

"Maybe Queen got sick?" Royce suggested, also going for his gun.

"She was feeling fine this morning," Meat said quickly, rolling his eyes. "If something were wrong, she'd have told Doc or Chemo about it."

"I don't think she's sick." Biting his lip, Roach cast a glance at Simon, and Simon returned the gaze, peering over the rim of his glasses. A glint of understanding wove within their eyes.

Allen. Damn woman had to make relationships in the Rangers.

Royce, however, was oblivious to their mutual recognition. "Then… why is she vomiting all over the street?"

Before anyone could answer, or even reply back in a way that would shut him up, MacTavish hollered again. This time, warfare's theme music thundered behind him, brisk shots ringing into the air. Multiple voices, tinged with Portuguese, screamed battle cries, while the sound of a pistol rocketed near the receiver.

Simon could only pray that the fired bullets were not hitting home.

"Ghost, we have a situation here! Driver! Queen! Get your bloody heads down!" At these words, Simon motioned to the three men in the car. He readjusted the sunglasses and balaclava on his face, fixed his headphones, tugged his backpack onto his back, and in mere moments, the squad of men had exited the vehicle and begun a hurried jog down the alley where they'd parked, heading towards Hotel Rio, their guns clutched between gloved hands. When they emerged into the streets, Simon noted the wide eyes and fast feet of nearby civilians, men and women who scurried past them with fear on their faces.

Christ, they must've heard the gunfire. That's problematic. Nothing good can come when there are civvies lurking about.

MacTavish continued to shout. "He's getting away! Queen, Chemo, Rocket, let's go!" More gunshots screamed, some closer to the radio than before. "Ghost, our driver's dead! We're on foot! Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can!"

"Roger, we're on our way!"

Simon was livid behind his mask. He knew exactly what had jeopardized the mission. As he ran, he could feel a violent type of rage seethe into the crevices of his insides, flooding his lungs and encompassing the powerful muscles that formed his heart. Yet, despite the fierce tantrum vying to escape, Simon remained mindful of the other emotion targeting his core. For it, too, was not to be underestimated, and like the woman that had caused this lethal pandemonium to ensue, he would continue to loathe it as long as he lived.