Chapter Text
Waking up to an unfamiliar room isn't one of the oddest things Soap has experienced– but it's certainly up there. Though, oddly enough, under closer inspection, it's certainly his room, just… different. Different orientation of familiar furniture, different bed throws, different pillows. But the journal on the desk was certainly his, as was the felt tip pen settled next to it.
Soaps' brows furrow.
"What the fuck…?"
He looks around, cautious, guarded. Limbs are functional, not tied up. He's most certainly on his base, right? Either he's dreaming, or Gaz succeeded in making the most mind boggling prank to date. If that's true, Soap is ready to tear him a new one, already knowing he's going to have to put his room back correctly, all without Gaz's help. The bastard.
Settling socked feet on the chilled linoleum flooring, he's set out to find the man, heading towards his bedroom door, just to open it up to be greeted by a different – yet still somehow similar – hallway. He looks around, perplexed, a headache starting to form at the base of his skull.
"M'losin' 'm heid," Soap mutters, scrubbing at his temples. Before he can so much as take a step forward, a very familiar and pointed click is heard by his ear, making Soap freeze up, unmoving, but hands darting up to show that he's unarmed.
"What the hell is your authorization to be on this site?" comes a young, yet still masculine, sounding voice, making Soap's brows furrow, trying to rack his brain to come up with a face to the voice, but comes up empty.
The silence seems to only irk the man, gun pressing fully against Soap's temple, making his heart jump to his throat. "What's your authorization?" the voice asks again, though with intent behind it– 'if you don't answer, you'll get a bullet in your skull'.
Soap's jaw tenses.
"I'm Sergeant John Mactavish, alias Soap. Part of the 141. Do you treat every person y'don't know like this, or am I just special, ye fookin' numpty." Soap starts off professional, though can't exactly help the bitten out insult.
There's a pause, and then the gun darts back from kissing his temple. "...Captain Mactavish?" weakly asks the man, making Soap's brows furrow in confusion. He opened his mouth to answer as he tilted his head. But, when he was greeted by the sight of sunglasses, and a skull balaclava, all words were stolen from him.
What's up with the whole 'different but still similar' bullshit that's happening?
Soap blinks dumbly, a thoughtful frown on his lips as he looks the man over.
"...Ghost? Did'ye shrink?"
Soap can see the exact moment maybe-Ghost's jaw drops behind his balaclava, obviously floundering for a response. For some reason, it makes a little grin appear on Soap's lips, to which he struggles with smothering it down. The reaction the other man had was so un-Ghost like, and hrm, color Soap intrigued.
Maybe-Ghost's jaw clicks shut, body tense.
"...We need to go find Captain Price."
-
Again with the similar but not familiar. Like John Price but a little to the left. Soap has the fleeting feeling he may be going insane or something because what in the fresh hell is going on?
And at the strange look the Captain has, it's obvious the older man is thinking the same exact thing. Soap awkwardly watches as Price bites at his cigar, unsure what to do. Or where he is. Or even, really, who the people in front of him actually are.
The next couple hours are filled with many. many questions. Some benign, some intrusive– but Soap seems to pass with flying colors, as both (confirmed) Ghost and Price seem to relax around him, even if just the slightest bit.
"...Christ, y'really are Mactavish, aren't you, son?" Price asks, the look on his face understandably perplexed. At Soap's answering nod, Price huffs out a puff of smoke, face oddly grim. "We can't seem to reach Captain Mactavish. It's as if he disappeared off the face of the earth entirely. But if you're somehow here, from supposedly years into the future, then… Who's to say he's not where you're supposed to be?"
Soap can see Ghost tense from his peripheral, wisely not saying anything about it. Instead, he leans back in his chair, eyebrows furrowed, worry curling in his gut. "Then how the fresh hell am I supposed to go back? I have missions, people I care about, I have to find some way to go back home.", He stresses, picturing Simon – his Simon – at the forefront of his mind.
Price offers a bit of a stern nod, face contemplative. "There's no saying when that'd be, son," he offers simply, face offering no sympathy, but voice betraying that he, too, cares deeply about this. This John Price very obviously has a soft spot for this universe's Captain Mactavish.
Price looks over at Ghost, to which the Lieutenant stands at attention, ready for instruction. "You keep an eye on him, until we find some way to… correct this.", the Captain orders, to which Ghost dutifully nods.
Soap opens his mouth to argue before thinking better of it and clicking it back shut. Really, if anything were to happen to him, who knows what'll happen back on his own timeline. With this scenario, Soap supposes it's better to be safe than sorry.
"Yes, sir."