"What are you made of?" a Ghost x reader fanfic.

Not how I expected this to go.

The rain was relentless, a steady drumbeat on the canvas roof of the jeep as it jostled along the muddy path to the 141 base. Y/N sat in the back, their breath fogging up the cold air, eyes tracing the droplets that raced each other down the window. They tugged their jacket tighter around them, the military emblem on the shoulder partially obscured by the strap of their duffel bag. The casual uniform felt stiff, new, and a stark contrast to the weathered seats of the vehicle.

Y/N's short hair was a practical choice, tied back to keep it out of their face, but the dampness in the air teased a few strands loose. They weren't sure what to expect from the new team, especially after the cryptic comments from the recruiter—something about being the best and also the most unpredictable.

The driver, a man with a face as rugged as the terrain they were navigating, had offered no conversation, just the occasional grunt or nod. Y/N appreciated the silence, using the time to mentally prepare for what was to come. The jeep's tires splashed through puddles, sending arcs of water into the air, and Y/N couldn't help but feel their stomach tighten with each mile that brought them closer to their new reality.

As they neared the base, Y/N caught sight of figures moving efficiently despite the downpour—operators whose faces were hidden beneath their hoods, their movements precise and deliberate. Y/N straightened up, a mix of nerves and determination settling in. This was it, the beginning of their journey with the 141, and the moment they would meet the infamous Ghost.

As the jeep came to a halt, the storm seemed to acknowledge Y/N's arrival with a gust of wind that rattled the vehicle's frame. They stepped out, boots splashing into a rapidly forming puddle, the chill of the water biting through the fabric. The escort, a silhouette against the raging elements, gestured hurriedly towards a building that loomed in the distance, its lights flickering like beacons in the murky morning.

Pulling the jacket's hood over their head, Y/N leaned into the storm, the rain pelting them with an almost personal vendetta. It plastered the fabric to their skin, and they could feel the weight of their soaked clothes with every step. The wind howled, a fierce symphony that muffled the sounds of their escort's shouted directions.

As they made their way, Y/N's senses were overwhelmed by the storm's fury; the taste of rain on their lips, the sting of it against their cheeks, and the relentless roar in their ears. They squinted, trying to shield their eyes, but it was futile—the storm was inescapable.

Finally reaching the building, they were ushered through a heavy door that cut off the chaos outside with a solid thud. Inside, the air was still and tasted of metal and electricity. Y/N's heart was racing, a drumbeat to match the storm's, as they stood there, dripping onto the concrete floor, the storm's effects lingering like an echo on their skin.

The building's interior was a stark contrast to the chaos outside, spotless and meticulously maintained. The walls were a uniform shade of gray, unadorned save for the occasional framed commendation or map. It was functional, utilitarian, lacking any personal touch or vibrant colors that might suggest life beyond duty.

Y/N's gaze swept over the area, taking in the bareness, when the sound of approaching footsteps redirected their attention. A man with a short Mohawk and a confident stride made his way toward them. His presence seemed to fill the room, his frame solid and his eyes sharp, taking in Y/N with a measured glance.

"Welcome to the 141," he said, his voice as steady as his gaze. "I'm Soap MacTavish."

Soap's face was weathered, not unlike the driver's, with lines that spoke of battles past and a resilience that seemed unyielding. His uniform was crisp, the patches and insignia denoting rank and experience, and he extended a hand, calloused and firm.