Pattern Breaker

And So the Pattern of Behavior Continues

Ghost's shoes slammed repetitively against the belt of the treadmill, interrupting the whirring noise with each foot fall. He was pushing himself, probably a little too hard, trying to let off steam in a healthy way for the first time in his life. He was panting against the exertion, lungs burning. He'd have to quit smoking again soon– he had been doing it way too much and could feel the tightness from the carcinogens.

A few new recruits were staring at him, open mouthed as he ran. The light sheen of sweat he had formed was now dripping down his body, deepening the material of his already dark gray short sleeve down his chest and back. The warm material of his balaclava wasn't helping with the heat, either. Despite his size and weight of mostly muscle, he was still an incredibly fast runner– perks of long legs and years upon years of training.

Ghost reached one hand over, trembling slightly from adrenaline and endorphins, knocking his speed up to 20 miles per hour. The fastest a human has ever ran in recorded history was close to 28, and he had a little challenge for himself to unofficially beat that one day. The closest he had ever gotten at this point was 23, and that was after he had stolen a stim pack from the infirmary where he was stationed at the time and jammed it directly into his thigh.

He'd gotten his ass chewed out for that one. Worth it.

Ghost was only able to maintain the speed for another two minutes before he felt his legs beginning to fail. Reaching out to either side, he grabbed the arm rests of the treadmill firmly before pushing up, pulling both of his feet off the belt before bringing them down to the stationary sides. His chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, he glanced up at the group staring at him and glared. They scattered quickly, turning away. He stayed there, head bowed slightly as his heart settled back down to a reasonable pace, the treadmill still running noisily before he slammed his fist into the stop button a little too harshly.

Not an entire barbarian, he wiped the machine down– cleaning his sweat off thoroughly before he started back towards his room to shower. It had cooled down significantly outside, and the brisk air against his bare arms caused goosebumps to form as the sweat slowly evaporated. His shirt was clinging to his chest and back uncomfortably, and he could feel how soaked his hair was under his mask. He was almost shivering by the time he pushed the door to his quarters open, cranking the water to his shower as hot as it would go.

The contrast between the heat of the shower and his clammy flesh burned, but he ignored it, watching as his skin turned an angry red in protest.

His head mostly clear from his cardio and senses sharpened from the scorching water– he plotted.

Price knew something. Alejandro knew something. Neither of them would talk, so respecting their privacy was out of the question.

So he would just have to go looking for himself.

—

Price pushed the door to his borrowed office open roughly, settling himself down in his chair– oblivious to his surroundings. Partly due to exhaustion, since he hadn't slept since they got back. Partly from his mind switching back and forth in fifteen different directions from fifteen different topics incessantly. A thick stack of manila envelopes he had left on his desk waited for him to comb through.

Not much had been discovered. Bits and pieces here and there about drug transports, more possible weapons caches. More involvement from the Mexican Cartel, now made more complicated by the fact they still had Valeria in custody. He knew a bit about her and Alejandro's history together, but he was going to rip each strand of his beard hair individually if he had to listen to them arguing like an old divorced couple in Spanish one more time.