Chapter Text
DATE: 08 FEB 202?
TIME: 1733 D
The two men were sweating. Their heartbeats pounding hard against their chests, their lungs burning from the abuse that was the frigid, winter air. Their legs ached, begging for a break from the hours of running with pounds of added tactical gear on their backs. But there was little time for a break. They had to keep moving.
The two soldiers made a stop at foot of a small slope where the tree line began, hoping the terrain and trees would be enough cover for them to take quick rest to recover some energy. Like clockwork, Soap and Ghost scanned the area for any threats that could sneak up on them as they were about to make themselves vulnerable to attack.
“Did we lose ‘em?” Soap asked. His heavy breath puffed out clouds of mist.
“Standby,” Ghost said, his steely gaze not once breaking focus as he looked down the scope of his rifle. To their luck, there were no enemies around. They were alone.
“Clear,” Ghost finally announced.
Soap heaved out a sigh of relief, slinging his firearm off his shoulder and plopping down against the trunk of a tree. “Hell’s fucking bells. I don’t know if I can take much more of this,” Soap huffed, pushing his ballistic helmet up slightly to wipe his brow from the beaded sweat. He didn’t bother removing his gear since he was going to have to put it back on once they finished resting up anyway.
Ghost removed the rucksack from his back and kneeled to open it, pulling out two MRE packets and a canteen of water. He tossed a packet over to Soap, who caught it with ease. “Eat up,” the lieutenant ordered as he settled himself against a tree opposite Soap. He lifted his balaclava to his nose and took a swig from the canteen.
Soap groaned as he dug into his MRE labeled Maple Pork Sausage Patty. The sergeant’s stomach churned for a moment as he peeked at the packets’ contents which consisted of a rectangular block of coagulated pork fat coated in a sweetly scented syrup closely resembling dog piss.
“How the fuck do these assholes power through these every day?" he asked as he begrudgingly shoved the patty packet into the provided ration heater.
Ghost, on the other hand, seemed completely unphased at their choice of questionable sustenance as he dug into his share of ration. "I wouldn’t expect terrorists to be choosy about what they ate.”
Soap looked up at the man with a feigned offense, "Are you calling me choosy?”
“I never said that.”
The Scotsman scoffed, shaking his head, “Rich coming from you since you insisted I tag along on this mission.”
Ghost began to busy himself with a plastic packet of almonds, “You’re the one with the name Soap,” he remarked, referring to the Scotsman’s reputation to clean house on missions with impressive accuracy. “It was hardly a tough call.”
Soap tried to restrain a sarcastic laugh. “Aye,” a twinge of bitterness seeped into his voice, “and look at how great that’s worked out for us.”
Ghost didn’t respond, instead opting to take one last swig of water.
The two men sat in silent agreement. Their current situation was, for lack of a better word, fucked. There’s been absolute radio silence from Price for days; not a word from their team or allies if they were going to be rescued any time soon. What should have been an in-and-out intel mission with quick exfil, turned into a survival nightmare. Now the men were stranded in foreign enemy territory, in the middle of the Caucasus mountains, holding precious intel on their target, completely unaware of what may have happened to their team, and had been on the run for days.
At night, the men have resorted to stealing rations and ammo from the ultranationalist camps they happen to pass by. They would loot bodies the enemy has so haphazardly strewn about their path in search for resources – it was gruesome but necessary. Some nights, however, they search for hidden shelter and take shifts while on fire watch.
During the day, the men keep moving searching for anything that may aid in their rescue: A radio tower, a village, anything. Each day was a case of surviving to tomorrow, hoping that their radio would spark with life and Price would be on the other side, or a friendly would cross their path and offer help.
The men were understandably exhausted. Fatigue settled deep in their bones; their morale dwindled with each passing day.
"Is this chewing gum?" Soap asked, holding up a clear, plastic packet containing two small white squares.
"Don't eat it,” Ghost warned.
"Why not?"
“It's a laxative."
“So, it is gum?”
“Yes.”
An amused smirk curled on Soap’s lips as he analyzed his lieutenant, searching for an answer on body language alone. "How do you know it’s a laxative?"
Ghost seemed to shift uncomfortably under Soap’s gaze, but remained firm, "I know these things."
"Sounds like you’ve had first-hand experience, eh Lt.?” he teased.
A couple of uncomfortably quiet beats pass, then it finally clicked in Soap’s mind.
"Oh…"
The air became tense.
Soap immediately regretted prying and attempted to lighten the mood, "S’pose it's, erm… helpful in a pinch,” he said sheepishly, feeling unnaturally warm in his gear.
"If you can call it that.” The bitterness of an unpleasant memory seeped into Ghost’s tone as he tossed the water canteen over to Soap.
Their usual friendly banter grew stale and utilitarian as the days passed. Being in the constant state of survival gave little room for small talk, and the fatigue that came with it wasn’t the best at encouraging “stimulating” conversation. Their thoughts were always occupied with what their next move would be – do they ambush an enemy camp and risk wasting precious ammo or wait out another night without food or water? It came to a point that casually talking to each other was exhausting and they only reserved it when talking about their next strategy.
Although Soap enjoyed talking to his superior, he understood wanting to remain in silence in a somewhat vain attempt at conserving energy. The Scotsman couldn’t help but miss their usual banter, however. It would probably help rekindle his low spirits.
“Any luck on Price?” Soap asked, taking a swig from the canteen.
“Negative.”
“What do you think’s happened to them?”
“Not sure,” Ghost said, his voice low. Soap noticed a hint of concern pass across the lieutenant’s features as he appeared lost in thought, albeit briefly. As soon as he spotted it, it was gone.
“Maybe this is payback for that time Gaz and I hid Price’s cigars,” Soap chuckled at the absurdity of the memory. “The man wants vengeance.”
Ghost let out a soft huff in amusement, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his lips, “That’d be a first.”
“Hopefully it’s nothing too serious,” Soap added.
“The cigars?”
“No, I mean why they’ve gone quiet.”
Ghost shook his head, dismissing the sergeant’s concerns. “You need to keep your head on straight, Johnny,” he ordered, popping the last almond in his mouth. “Your priority right now should be your survival. You won’t be much help to the captain or the team if you’re dead.”
Soap rolled his eyes at the physical embodiment of a concrete wall that was Ghost. “Awa' an bile yer heid, Ghost. Have a heart, damn you,” he quipped in annoyance.
The two ate in silence, once again in an attempt to conserve precious energy. Slowly but surely, their bodies start to relax and ease from the constant stress of running and fighting. Their minds were finally allowed to not think about the imminent threat of death for this one moment.
Soap took the opportunity to observe their surroundings as he ate. Taking in how painfully beautiful everything was. The tall, white birch trees that have lost their leaves at the change of the season, the frozen ground beneath them that began to show signs of a promising spring with tiny patches of green poking out from the previous night’s bitter frost. The setting sun shone an orange glow atop the white snow on the branches. It was almost magic how nature can find a way to bring calm to a soldier in the wake of wartimes.
Under different circumstances, Soap would have liked to take some leave here. Maybe even force Ghost to tag along. The poor man looked like he needed a holiday. The Scotsman chuckled quietly to himself at the thought of the stoic and scary Simon “Ghost” Riley making a snowman in his free time.
What I’d give to witness that, he thought.
He took a deep breath in, letting the winter air fill his lungs. The scent of pine and mountainside have made their home in this air from what he could tell, seemingly untouched by the destructive hand of humanity. Although that wasn’t the case, Soap couldn’t help but feel, even if for a moment, at peace.
But war is a hostile home, eagerly waiting to choke tranquility into submission.
Gunfire cracked through the air, snapping Soap out of his thoughts. His body jerked him into an achingly familiar fight-or-flight routine. A bullet whizzed through the air and lodged itself into the trunk of a tree Ghost was settled at, just inches away from the lieutenant’s head.
"Steamin’ Jesus, they caught up with us,” Soap grumbled, scrambling to get up.
More gunfire blasted in their direction. Ghost was swift to retrieve his sniper rifle and immediately perched himself atop the slope, creeping over the edge to get a better look. “Must be patrol,” he said.
Soap’s body moved faster than his mind could process. One second he was resting up against a tree, and the next he was crouched next to Ghost attempting to get a better view, assault rifle in hand. Enemy bullets strike the ground, barely missing them, forcing them to take cover again.
Soap growled in frustration, “Where the fuck are they firing from?”
“Not sure, but they sound close,” Ghost quickly peeked over again and scanned for where the enemy was at. Another bullet whizzed past their heads as Ghost crouched for cover, but he got what he needed. “There’s a whole lot of ‘em, about 400 meters away and closing in. No RPGs.”
“Lucky us,” Soap retorted.
Ghost shot Soap a disapproving look, “Keep it tactical, Sergeant. Your ass is on the line.”
“Is that a promise?”
“Johnny…”
“There he is,” Soap gave a hard pat on the lieutenant’s back, smiling wide at his ability to annoy his teammate even in the worst of circumstances. “I’ve missed ye!”
Ghost shook his head as he loaded his sniper rifle, a deadly focus settling into his posture. He nodded to Soap, “Look alive, Sergeant. On my left.”
“Aye, sir!”
The two men fell into autopilot as they loaded their firearms to fight back. Exhaustion burned in their muscles as they worked, but the adrenaline that pumped through their blood was their remaining lifeline to keep them steady.
Soap peered over the slope, taking in the view for himself. Ghost was right. At least ten to fifteen enemy soldiers – a patrol squad – emerged from the frozen forest and crept their way across the river. Their guns were all trained tightly onto Soap and Ghost’s position. Some were yelling orders in Russian, motioning the others to surround their target.
Soap knew two things for certain: they were frighteningly low on ammo, and they were gravely outnumbered. If they weren’t careful with their shots, they’d be royally fucked.
Ghost immediately began to open fire on the enemy, cutting through them as though their multi-day trek was just a memory of the past. Soap figured there must have been some kind of magic powder in the MRE almonds because he was having worse luck at taking a decent shot. His arms and hands sustained a tremor as he struggled to aim, missing some crucial shots – his body was screaming at him that he was low on energy. However, once he managed to hit a soldier straight through the chest, his spirits lifted, improving his aim.
Just as he was starting to feel cocky in his abilities, his M4 suddenly made an unsatisfying clack sound as he pulled the trigger. Soap cursed under his breath, crouching to take cover and reload his gun. He slapped the new magazine in and prepared to take aim, spotting one particularly distracted enemy soldier at one o’clock of him that hasn’t noticed the target on his head.
“You’re mine, fucker,” he drawled devilishly as he pulled the trigger.
Clack!
No shot came out.
Just his fucking luck.
“Shit!” Frustration and panic began to seep into Soap’s stomach as he took cover to fix his gun again, discovering that the damned thing was jammed.
"Soap, what the fuck are you doing?! Shoot your fucking gun!" Ghost yelled. A flurry of enemy bullets slammed against the ground next to them, spraying dirt and mud onto the two men.
"It’s jammed! Hold on-" Soap was about to go through the motions of dismantling his firearm with a multitool until he was abruptly stopped by the lieutenant.
"There’s no time! Use this.” Ghost shoved a handgun into Soap’s hands. “Now move it!"
"Yes, sir!" Soap’s heart was in his throat as he moved back into position as fast as he physically could. He reloaded the handgun and perched over the slope, once again taking aim at two enemy soldiers that were coming towards them. Their rifles were aimed in his direction, ready to fire.
He stared down the barrel of their weapons, forcing himself to take a controlled breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.
Ba-dum.
The air stood still, the smell of gunpowder and fire filled his lungs. The smooth, cold metal of the handgun fit perfectly in his hands, molded just for him.
Ba-dum.
Mind focused, he breathed out hot air. Steadying his hand, he aimed for their heads. A bullet flew past his face, sending an excited chill down his spine.
Ba-dum.
It was only him and the target.
Ba-dum.
Make every shot count, a voice in his mind whispered.
Ba-dum.
He fired once. Twice.
The bodies of both soldiers crumpled to the ground.
“Boom baby,” Soap grinned at his clean headshots.
“Bloody good shot, Soap,” Ghost praised without breaking his focus. “There’s more of ‘em on the way-” The lieutenant was cut short when he spotted movement on the sergeant’s side in his peripheral, "On your ten, there!"
Soap’s mind was racing, all the motions in his body felt natural as he swung his aim to the left of him, spotting his next target.
A newfound confidence starting to build in his chest. Maybe they’ll get out of this one without any problems. Maybe with this last effort, they’ll be able to find a way back home. Sleep in a normal bed and eat normal food that didn’t smell like a sugared rat’s ass. Get to see the rest of the team and go out for drinks. Celebrate with everyone and soak in their warmth…
That’s what he had to fight for, and he’ll be damned if anything gets in the way of his goal.
He pulled the trigger.
Click!
Soap’s heart sank, his hopes sinking with it.
"Fuck, I'm out of ammo!" he yelled to Ghost.
A shot rang out next to him, and the soldier in front of him dropped dead - blood seeping from their forehead. Ghost lowered his sniper rifle and nodded to Soap, "I've got your back.”
Man, oh man, how Soap loved that skull-faced man.
“Get down!"
Soap was barely able to process what had happened. Even if he could recall it, there are parts that are fuzzy. One moment, the Sergeant was struggling with his empty handgun, about to get down and take cover. He watched as his superior officer take down one soldier after another without breaking a sweat.
Suddenly, a splitting crack! rang through the air.
A bright blast of white shot through Soap’s vision. His head whipped violently to the side forcing him to stumble backward. A loud ringing assaulted his ears, muffling the sounds of the firefight. His blood pumped loudly in his head, and his body felt distant. The world tipped sideways as his knees gave out from under him. His breathing staggered. A fiery pain pounded heavily in his skull.
"Ah, shit-!" Soap cried out before he crumpled to the muddy ground.
The world around him going dark.
Ghost’s head snapped at the familiar sound of a sniper rifle going off, scanning to see where it originated from to neutralize it. There. Behind a tree. A couple hundred meters away. He spotted an enemy’s head poking out from behind a tree trunk, preparing to take aim. But Ghost was quicker, aiming directly between the bastard’s eyes, pulling the trigger, and cutting them down with ease.
He noticed the Scotsman was no longer crouched by his side.
Shots continued to speed past his head.
"Are you hit?" he called out.
No response.
“Soap, answer me, are you hit?” he tried again.
Still nothing. An uneasy chill began to creep up his neck.
“Sergeant – “
The lieutenant stopped when his eyes noticed drops of crimson delicately decorating the patches of white snow on the ground next to him.
His eyes met with Soap’s motionless form on the ground.
His blood ran cold.
God, no…
"Johnny!"