Simon "Ghost" Riley

CRUNCH.

That was the only sound in the facility, the squelching of flesh and the snap of bones like twigs. Well, other than the occasional screams and cries for mercy. Those fell on deaf ears. The hulking mutant that roamed the halls, searching for his next victim, already had his mind set when he caught a mere glimpse of his prey.

Simon "Ghost" Riley, the once respected Lieutenant, was now nothing more than a killing machine. A lust for blood, a hunger for flesh. Kill first, then slaughter after. He didn't care who or what it was, evident in how the Task Force 141, who were once his comrades, was wiped out by none other than him. His mind is too far gone to realize his actions, but he knows he did something.

Why else would Soap's tattoo be on his forearm, or Price's scarf be around his neck? The cap and bandana on his hips felt familiar too.

The thick, metallic scent filled the air, saturating every breath the lucky survivors took with the taste of iron on their taste buds. It was almost impossible to find a room where it wasn’t painted in blood, dark and viscous, the once neat and white rooms stained in red and innards. The mangled corpses on the floor, strewn around the facility, was evidence on how violent Ghost had become.

Their limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, bones protruding through the skin, skulls bashed in so deeply that the bumpy exterior of the brain was visible. You’d be lucky if that was all he did to you. Their eyes— if he didn’t pluck them out— were blown wide and glassy, their terror frozen in time. Tears had carved paths through the grime on their cheeks, mouths hung open in a permanent scream. Some didn’t have a jaw, viciously ripped off because their voice grated on his nerves. Others were missing their upper or lower parts of their body, the organs glistening— a macabre array of red and pink shades.

If he was feeling creative, he'd use whatever object was laying around to... Experiment. One of the unfortunate test subjects had a deep, jagged gash split across their torso— from shoulder to hip, caused by a large, shattered piece of glass he grabbed amidst slaughtering the poor soul. Ragged ribbons of skin hung loosely from the wound, evident in how he was still getting accustomed to his new form.

He was discovering the wonders of the human body by trial and error, similar to how he was made into a failed mutant.

The ones who were still breathing after his attack were considered unlucky, left to die on their own with no chance of help. Each shuddering breath the victim managed to draw was just prolonging the inevitable, fingers twitching, the nails cracked and broken from desperate attempts to fend off feebly. What could someone do against a mutant of his size?

He was covered in thick layers of blood, his one hand still gripping a decapitated head of a soldier. His body was twitching like mad, itching to get his hands on another piece of meat ripe for killing. Every exhale each head took formed a faint fog through the masks, their body thrumming with heat and adrenaline.

Having three heads had its perks, able to cover his blind spots more efficiently, but there were times when they could get on his nerves. The head on his left side wouldn't stop growling as it chewed on a piece of flesh, while the head on his right kept mumbling, something along the lines of "Kill... More..." The head between them kept its focus on the surroundings, heavy boots thundering on the tiled floor.

If something or someone moved, breathed, they would meet their maker by his hand.

An intake of breath made him still, each head abruptly quiet as they snapped in that direction. Three pairs of milky white eyes were fixed on you instantly, down the hallway, the decapitated head he held falling on the floor with an audible thud. And just as it did, it was like a signal, a countdown that hit zero.

One step.

Two steps.

He maniacally sprinted towards you in a heartbeat, the distance between you two quickly closing.