Chapter Text
König wasn’t sure who he was anymore. He’d been traded between military contractors like a football player, bought and sold and bought and sold to the highest bidder willing to put a gun in his hands. And his hands were big—attached to a man standing nearly seven feet tall. Well trained by the Austrian Jagdkommando. Many people were willing to pay for his skills.
This time it was SpecGru, a contractor he was certain one of his old gigs pitted him up against—was it KorTac? Or the contractor after? Now he switched teams all together, sought out by some lady named Laswell with the CIA and her lackey Price. Surely that was a security risk, but they stuck him on base after a psych evaluation, pay negotiations, and a rather intimidating interview in which they sketched out where his loyalties lie. His loyalty belonged to anyone willing to feed, house, and pay him to kill—yet another red flag SpecGru didn't seem to mind. They had to know; there was no way they weren’t aware of his history as muscle hired to flatten their forces. Maybe that was a red flag he ignored.
But SpecGru paid for his skills like all the rest. They didn’t pay him to think about what he did or who he fought for, and they certainly didn’t pay him to parse his own identity.
König stood outside the door of his new room, duffel bag thrown over one shoulder under the flickering fluorescent lights. The floor was unwelcoming linoleum leading down a wide dormitory hall, boxed in by cinderblock walls painted dingy off-white. He tripped over cracks and lifted tiles on the way in, ducking through fire doors between wings and slinking around corners. The barracks was a maze. But he was ‘home,’ finally, after a long plane ride, in the hall designated for Taskforce 141. It was located on the opposite side of the facility from the units directly hired by the US, connected to a small common room and gym. To his knowledge, only a few other special force teams and contractors shared it with them. It was hard to find. No one even bothered to get him a map, let alone show him where to go. Old directory signs were his only salvation, though not before sending him on a wild goose chase because of missing arrows.
The bedroom door opened with a creak after it caught on bunched carpeting at the threshold. Inside there were two beds—his own, visible from the entrance, and one the door partially blocked. Two desks sat together at the far end of the room, plus there was a wardrobe immediately to König’s left that funneled him straight inside. The simple wood furniture was stained orange like the 90s all over again, like it was cheap college housing that came with mold included.
He sighed. He was too old for this shit.
Then he noticed an issue. There were already personal belongings placed about. His bed was empty; the other was not. A pair of legs stretched out into view clad in state-issued skivvies and black socks, crossed at the ankles, while the rest of the figure remained hidden. Confirming the room number was correct, a sinking sensation formed in his stomach and his mouth ran dry. Much to his dismay, König had a roommate.
Considering he’d been awarded similar status to a sergeant as a contracted operative, and considering the fat paycheck Laswell was willing to throw his way, he expected the living situation to be… better. Not lavish, mind you, but updated. Maybe something with a kitchenette and an en suite bathroom, if he were lucky. Something private. Fit for an adult. Not half a room with a communal shower and a mess hall he might as well bike to. If not providing for the troops, what else was the American military doing with all that tax money they drained from their schools, healthcare, social systems, and… everything else?
Suddenly, some sort of jet tore past overhead. It shook the base, rattling the window in its frame, a lion’s roar that faded to a hiss as patriotic technology propelled it away at Mach 5.
Great. At least he had headphones.
His new bunkmate stood from their wobbly bedframe and poked his head around the door, jumping back at the sight. The man was average in size and build, around six feet tall. Curiously, the lower half of his face was hidden behind an olive green gaiter, hair tucked under a black beanie (as were the tips of his ears). With wide, black eyes, he stared upward—probably at the spectacle of such an imposing man obscured behind a sniper’s hood.
“…I wasn’t expecting a roommate,” König stated. “Sorry I did not knock.” Then, receiving no reply, continued, “Yeah, yeah, I know; I have heard it all before. The weather up here is not good. You need to dust more. Tall people have allergies, too.”
The man waved after shaking off his surprise and stepped aside so König could enter, not that the fucking new guy couldn’t plow right through him, though König would never. Being stared at made the hair on the back of his neck raise. He squirmed under the heat of it, wondering if his hood covered everything.
His joke finally landed. Chuckling, the man introduced himself. “Hi, sorry. They told me you’d be here tomorrow, so I wasn’t expecting anyone today! The name’s Roach—er, Sergeant Sanderson, officially. Nice to meet ya! König, right?”
Roach’s voice was strained as if he’d been strangled. He held out a hand to shake.
König sloughed his duffel onto the floor. “Danke, Sanderson. That is correct.”
“Just Roach is fine. I don’t think I’m your superior. That would be our lieutenant, unless Laswell is pulling weird shit. Speaking of weird, uh, I was only given your call sign…?”
“You only need my call sign.”
There was an awkward pause as König looked anywhere other than him. Then he remembered to shake Roach’s hand, which the man still offered.
“Well, our superior is Lieutenant Riley. Simon Riley. But, dear god, don’t call him that. Call him Ghost. Or just L.T. Above him, you’ve got John Price. Captain.”
The Austrian blinked and rubbed his tired eyes, nodding once he realized he was being antisocial. He noticed some of Roach’s things at one of the desks, including a journal and a pair of combat boots (tucked under the chair) as he avoided his gaze.
“I reckon you’re tired then, huh? Long flight? Where’d they cart you in from?”
“Al Mazrah.”
Roach looked confused.
Rolling his eyes, he said, “I’m not from Adal. I’m Austrian. But I was stationed there.”
“I was gonna say: you sound European.”
König opened his bag and searched through everything he owned for a towel, soap, t-shirt, and sweatpants. “How observant,” he replied dryly, cursing when he discovered the cap of his deodorant came loose and coated it all with crumbly white clumps.
Roach either didn’t notice the sarcasm or didn’t care. He said, “They’ve had us stationed in Kazakhstan for the past few months. Brought us back about a week ago to rest and resupply, then they’ll ship us back out in another two. So don’t get too comfy.”
“I won’t.”
Roach finally took the hint. “Well, welcome to the base. Let me know if you’ve got questions or if you want a quick tour. Shower is down the hall to the left. We’re not the weekend crew, so there’s not much going on tomorrow, but our days typically start at five A.M.”
“Thanks.”
The man sounded friendly enough but König was in no mood for pleasantries. Sweat and grime stuck to his skin, bags hung low under his eyes, and fatigue hounded his body. Dread filled him at the notion of sharing his quarters, outcompeted only by the ache in his ass from a cramped plane seat. He needed a shower, a nap, and a smoke before he snapped Roach’s neck, or his own.
He wondered why the fuck contractors wouldn’t get their own room. Absolute bullshit.
Waking up the next morning, and most mornings over the next few weeks (their deployment was delayed by shoddy intel), König hesitantly accepted that cohabitating with Roach was not as bad as it could have been, despite their rocky start. Awkward? Absolutely—agonizingly so, as most of his interactions tended to be. But the painful ones waned in severity and frequency, and it helped that Roach was kind enough to laugh them off and relate with his own blunders.
The sergeant was funny, too. He chose weird words and used odd expressions when he wasn’t signing, which happened more often than not since König was unfamiliar with ASL. He did his best to pick up the movements, but his hands were bulky, uncoordinated; plus his memory was horrible. He was also at the disadvantage of translating German thoughts to British English sentences to American signs—add in specialized military terminology and it was a recipe for disaster. On multiple occasions he tried signing a simple phrase, only for Roach to cackle and shake his head.
There was one particularly horrible exchange where he intended to ask if his squad mate was ready to work. But instead of knocking one fist on the back of the other at an angle, he accidentally used peace signs—he groaned at the memory, tips of his ears flushing red—König asked if he was ready to fuck. He was even trying to be cheerful that morning, as training the night prior knocked the taskforce on their asses, so he signed it with vigorous enthusiasm. Roach laughed so hard he cried. Apparently, facial expressions were a large part of tonal indicators while signing, but neither of them went exposed unless they were showering or changing, or if it was night. Thank god König wore the hood, otherwise Roach would have seen the corny smile on his face as he posed the question. That was his saving grace.
Humiliation aside, it was quite shocking how quickly König fell in line. He ate with the taskforce at the mess hall most meals, listening to Soap, Ghost, Gaz, and Price as they ragged on each other. Unsurprisingly, he preferred to stay silent, but so did Roach! Although the sergeant looked engaged, happy to throw in the occasional sign, whereas the Austrian was better at sitting on the sidelines, watching the crew volley jokes and stories across the table. He briefly wondered if Roach was new as well—then learned all five had been around for years. Years of partnership that König now had to slot himself into, which was no easy feat.
Thankfully, König took comfort in the schedule on-base. Each day brought drills, PT, medical evaluations, and exams that he expected as a new hire. Cleaning duties and night shifts were assigned on a rotating basis. They got three square meals a day, warm ones of mildly dubious quality, a step above some of his jobs prior.
But deployment was another story. Stationed at the safe house in Kazakhstan, König withdrew himself again. With enough rooms for a typical platoon and no one to nitpick who slept where everyone got personal quarters. It was nice; König tasted privacy he hadn’t had in years, free to do whatever he wanted in his own space.
And yet he missed having guaranteed interactions. Even though they spoke over their shitty MRE dinners, König no longer got time alone with anyone on the squad, relegating him back to conversational sidelines as the large group overwhelmed him. Even on missions when they paired off or split into smaller teams, König performed better in the heat of the moment without focusing on chit-chat. There was no talking as he entered the zone, slicing and shooting and pistol-whipping his way through their opposition. Active duty also meant there were no weekends—in enemy territory, work was 24/7. They slept in shifts. The idea of relaxation was laughable. There was little time to familiarize himself with his squad mates.
He missed having Roach to return to each night. They’d grown to rely on each other for a daily debrief of sorts during his short stint at the barracks. There wasn’t much else to do after lights out when neither of them could sleep, so they became fast friends as a result. At least he hoped Roach felt the same way; though maybe not, considering the sergeant’s friendship with Ghost and Soap. With any of the others who had eons to cement their relationships. Hell, maybe they had no space for König in their dynamic…
It wasn’t until the first mission in Kazakhstan that the special bond between Ghost and Roach made itself apparent. König had no clue what happened, but by the way they covered each other during fire fights and cooperated like a machine it was obvious they’d been through thick and thin over the years, and their actions hinted at something big behind it all. Something that hurt them together, fusing them into two halves of a whole in the process. While the specific nature of their brotherhood was unknown, it was deep-seated in the pair of operatives.
Often, that something terrible woke Roach up in nightmares. As König lie exhausted and insomniac in the unfamiliar barracks, he heard soft struggles and grunts until his roommate bolted upright in a fit, panting for help and mumbling for Ghost, shaking like he’d fall apart, coated in sweat that shined in the light from the parking lot outside their window. With great guilt, König offered no comfort. Only two days had passed since his arrival when it first happened, so he pretended to be asleep and undisturbed. It’s what he would have wanted from a stranger: to be spared the embarrassment of being soothed, spared the indignity of revealing his traumas. Even now he heard them on the worst of nights, when the memories were dragged closer to the surface of Roach’s psyche by the stress of the mission and the man’s pleas travelled through the thin safe house wall separating them.
It was a wonder he never woke up like that—König slept dreamlessly during what scant hours he managed. No, his memories plagued him during the day. He saw them in the actions of others, in menacing body language and unspoken disappointments, in raised voices and sudden movements; they came back to him often like cold water to the face. Not to mention the flashbacks following a foul mission, of tending bruises and licking wounds as a child. They had the ability to sour an entire day no matter how pleasant he tried to be.
Maybe he could tell Roach? Make himself safe as a confidant. Set the stage to know him and be known.
…
Who was he kidding? König was the fucking new guy. He had no place there. Soon, another contractor would come along and pay him more cash, offer him better work; then he’d be at square one on the other side of the world with a new temporary team. König wasn’t anything to anybody. He wasn’t even anything to himself.