Chapter 1: When Your Boyfriend's a Thot
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 1 and 2
1. Bar mission. Target, Alexander "wanted criminal." Scarab wears skimpy clothes. He comes onto her. Soap shoots/stabs him. They leave.
2.They leave the bar "before the body can be discovered." Banter filled car ride, Scarab falls asleep. They arrive at the hotel.
Chapter Text
Berlin, Germany
The game plan was simple, really. Scarab would lure their target away from prying eyes by acting down to fuck, and then the rest of them would jump in to apprehend him. Woman or not, Scarab was a member of the 141 and therefore should be up to the task. Captain MacTavish had no reason to believe otherwise.
He and Ghost watched from a table off to the side, casually dressed in order to blend in as regular bar-goers. Although Ghost couldn't wear his mask, he still wore those sunglasses despite them being indoors and in dingy lighting. In some sense, he wished he hadn't opted against the notion himself, it was a lot harder to keep an eye on what was happening from his peripheral vision.
Scarab arrived a few minutes after they did (the less they looked like they were all together, the better) dressed in skinny jeans and a tight v-neck shirt. Her leather jacket concealed her shoulder holster along with her pistol. Dolled up, with her hair in a short ponytail and a tinge of red to her lips, she played up the pouty, bored young woman persona. She approached the bar, ordered a beer, and leaned against the counter while strumming up conversation with the target.
It was difficult to hear what was said, but Scarab seemed relaxed enough as she bobbed her head with a giggle. Alexander downed the shot glass in front of him and got up, closing the distance between them and immediately trapping her between his body and the bar. Her hand came to the counter behind her and clutched the side while Alexander's hands roamed along her sides.
MacTavish narrowed his eyes. "Is he... kissing her?"
"Mhm," Ghost confirmed, his shoulders straightening. "He gets straight to the point, I'll give him that."
If this kept up, Alexander would find the gun on her. The man was an arms dealer, he wasn't stupid. If he found that, then odds were he'd realize what was happening and this whole operation would fall apart. MacTavish got up and took two steps towards them when Ghost caught him by the wrist.
"You'll make a scene," the lieutenant chided. "Let her figure this out."
MacTavish took a deep breath and nodded, taking his seat again. Watching was agonizing though. He was supposed to be in charge of these people, and to see one of his men in such a compromising position was a bitter pill to swallow. Alexander felt up along the backs of her thighs and gave her ass a firm squeeze.
Scarab immediately pushed him back, her lower lip a little swollen and lipstick somewhat smeared. She huffed and held her jacket closed.
"Hey, what the fuck's your problem?" Alexander questioned, loud enough to get just about everyone's attention.
"I didn't ask you to french me," Scarab retorted just as loudly, "what the hell's wrong with you?"
MacTavish met Ghost's sideways glance as this dispute began. This wasn't in the plan. She wasn't supposed to antagonize him like this. She needed to fix this, and fast.
"Nothing," Alexander said, dropping down to a more reasonable volume. He slipped in close again and seemed to whisper in her ear. Scarab's brows were pinched and she rolled her eyes while he wasn't looking. As if nothing happened, he was on her again. Instead of feeling her though, his hands kept hers pressed against the counter, further trapping her.
If she had agency at this point, she did a good job at hiding it. After a minute of this, he pushed her sideways and moved her away from the counter so he could lean against it and hold her back against his chest. He traced along the shell of her ear and then her neck with his lips. One arm looped around her torso while the other untucked her shirt from her pants to feel along her stomach. Whatever annoyance was originally present on her face drained with newfound discomfort.
She hurriedly said something, too quiet to hear this time, but Alexander laughed in response. This very public display only continued, getting more and more involved with each passing moment as he reached up and purposefully took a hand full of breast in his hand. Scarab squirmed in his grip, and at this moment made eye contact with MacTavish as she mouthed "Help."
MacTavish once again stood up and thankfully wasn't stopped by Ghost this time. He made a snap judgement to change the approach. He'd play the white knight here to defend the lady's honor, and hopefully he could piss Alexander off enough that he'd be willing to duke it out outside. He grabbed Scarab by the arm, making a point to squeezing her bicep a little too tightly. "Oi, what the hell are you doing?"
Indignant at this point, Alexander straightened up. "What, man? Can't I have a little fun? Is she your girlfriend or something?" He loosely pointed at Scarab as he asked this, but his glare was firmly fixed on MacTavish.
The Captain didn't flinch though. "No, I just don't like how you're treating the lady."
"How I'm treating her?" Alexander laughed. "Buddy, I'm not the one bruising her arm."
"C-could you let me go?" Scarab asked quietly.
MacTavish pretended to look surprised at his own grip before he let her go. Scarab drew back two steps from them as he turned back to Alexander and shot back, "And you were groping her."
"Who fucking cares? She was asking for it."
"I care. You don't do that."
Alexander jabbed his finger against his chest. "If she's not your girlfriend, then what? Your sister? You care a little too much."
There were plenty of excuses he could've picked from. "She's a friend..."
"Your friend came here and started flirting with me. I think it's pretty obvious what she wants, so why not you piss off." He pushed past MacTavish and grabbed Scarab by the back of the neck to force her into another kiss. Close up, it was clear he forced his tongue in past her lips and dug his thumb in under her ear at the slightest sign of her jaw tensing. She was wide eyed and panicked, but unable to pull away.
MacTavish ripped him off and threw the man to the floor. "Alright, buddy, you and me then. I'll show you how you treat a lady."
Taking the bait, Alexander snapped back, "You're not gonna quit, are you? Fine! Don't expect me to phone an ambulance." He got back up and threw a punch his way. Being heavily intoxicated though, it was remarkably easy to dodge the hit and catch his arm. MacTavish held the limb behind his back, forced him along towards the door, and kicked him out onto the sidewalk. Alexander tumbled head over heels, narrowly missing a couple of passersby, then shot up to his feet and came at the Captain again.
Before Alexander could get another swing in, MacTavish chopped the side of his hand into his throat, which was enough to force him to stop as he coughed and gagged. MacTavish grabbed and pinned him to the ground. There was no hope for Alexander then.
"You and I are going to take a little walk," MacTavish told him lowly, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
As the handcuffs clinked shut on Alexander's wrists, the arms dealer coughed out, "W-what the hell do you want from me?"
MacTavish patted him down and found a glock in a hidden holster in the waistband of his pants. He flicked the safety on and pocketed it. "Right now, for you to get your ass up."
Alexander reluctantly complied, and allowed himself to be lead down a nearby alleyway. Roach and Ozone stepped out from behind a dumpster, fully geared and each equipped with M9s, and secured the entrance to the alley. Ghost and Scarab rounded the corner to join very soon after.
Unsurprisingly, Alexander seemed to catch onto what was happening. "Oh, so you special military are after a small fry like me?"
Ghost approached and flanked MacTavish. "Don't be so modest, mate. We know exactly the kind of men you're doing business with. You should be proud."
"If you're expecting me to break customer confidentiality, you're mistaken," Alexander said, "I got my honor."
"Honor, huh?" Scarab retorted. "Could've fooled me."
Alexander scoffed. "Whatever, girl." His attention turned solely on the two directly in front of him. "So what's it going to be? Are you going to beat me down in this alley for information, or are you taking me somewhere with better mood lighting?"
"We came prepared to handle you here and now," Ghost returned, a smile curled his features. "'Course if you cooperate, we'll make this a lot more comfortable for you."
"I could just scream. You're in the middle of Berlin on a Friday night. Someone will hear me." Alexander threatened.
It was a cute notion, if nothing else. "You think we didn't account for that? The police know we're here," MacTavish told him.
"Fucking..." Alexander glowered at them. "Fine. I'll come quietly."
"That's the spirit." Ghost grabbed Alexander's shoulder to move him away from the wall, when the clatter of metal hit the pavement. The handcuffs lay under Alexander's feet.
It all happened in seconds. Alexander cold cocked Ghost, knocking the sunglasses off his face and causing the lieutenant to stumble back a step. MacTavish tried to restrain him, but Alexander ripped the M1911 from his shoulder holster and jammed the barrel into his own mouth. With a bang, blood sprayed the wall behind him and he collapsed in a gory heap.
Silence was replaced by the sound of startled dogs barking up the street and a few startled words in German outside the alley. The Task Force members were frozen stiff. How had they failed so close to success?
It was too familiar to Victor Zakhaev. MacTavish shook himself from the shock and turned away from the body. "We'd better leave."
--- --- ---
It was important that they apprehend Alexander alive, as an HVI with potentially game changing intel on Vladimir Makarov. So to suddenly be down a lead on the terrorist, Ghost couldn't help but gawk at the body for a moment longer. The back of Alexander's head was a grizzly mess of broken skull fragments and brain matter. His hand was still tightly coiled around the Captain's gun. Ghost slipped it free from his fingers and let it hang heavily in his hand as he contacted HQ.
"... Command, this is Alpha 5. The target is KIA."
"Roger, Alpha 5. We'll send available personnel to collect the body. Are you able to pack him in a bag before you leave?"
"Negative, we don't have body bags on hand." Ghost glanced back at the dumpster. Laid atop it was a musty rug. "There's an old rug we could roll him in."
"As long as the body's wrapped and out of sight, that should be fine. Command, Out."
While Roach and Ozone kept watch at the mouth of the alley, Ghost pulled the rug over beside Alexander and kicked it open. The odor of mildew and dust wafted from this cheap, stained, polyester area rug. Maybe it was pretty, once upon a time, an affordable purchase for some giddy home owner. He wondered where the particularly dark spots came from, since it provided good distraction while he maneuvered the body on the edge of the rug.
Just as he was about to roll the body up, an extra pair of hands joins his. He paused and looked up at the Captain. His eyes were dark with the weight of failure and exhaustion. "Scarab and Roach are waiting by the sidewalk to flag down Meat when he gets here with the truck. Ozone and Royce are going to meet with Scarecrow and Heatstroke to pull out to the hotel as well."
Ghost nodded and with MacTavish's help, they rolled Alexander in the rug and set it against the side of the wall, out of sight from the street. The rug was a couple inches too short, so the soles of Alexander's shoes peaked out from the end of the bulky roll.
MacTavish set a hand on his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his temple. "Sorry. If I was more careful, he wouldn't have gotten free and had the chance to kill himself."
"You didn't know he was picking the handcuffs," Ghost pointed out. To be fair, they knew that he was the slippery sort. But by that logic, Ghost had just as much blame for not checking those handcuffs. Remembering the gun, Ghost got the pistol out and handed it to MacTavish. "Shit happens, love."
MacTavish frowned at the gun and returned it to its holster. Ghost knew that the minute they reached the hotel, he'd be cleaning that thing. He was religious about it, just like Price used to be when it was in his hands.
When the trucks arrived, they piled in. Ghost had every intention of sitting beside MacTavish, but before he could slide into the middle seat, Scarab slipped in before him and took it. Ghost watched her get comfy in what very well was normally his spot.
"You coming in?" She asked innocently.
It wasn't that big a deal. It was a car seat, right? Ghost sucked it up and sat next to her while Roach took shotgun. Meat was driving, which meant they'd be hitting all turns wide. For all of about three minutes, Ghost had sweet peace and quiet before Roach craned his head back and asked, "So, Scarab, was he a good kisser?"
Scarab's initial response was something of quiet shock at the question, so Ghost nudged her with his elbow to help prod an answer. She looked down bashfully, and then shook her head. "No. I didn't enjoy any of it. Frankly, I'm glad he's dead."
"Even though we were specifically told not to kill him," Ghost grumbled, crossing his arms and sinking in the seat.
Scarab bumped him with her elbow, "Lighten up, Ghost. He deserved to die anyways."
There were about a million and one things that you could do and say in the Task Force 141 that you'd get at least reprimanded for in any other division of military anywhere. Much to Ghost's chagrin, this blatant disregard for their objective would probably go unpunished. The best he could do was put on his best chastising tone. "But still, we needed him alive."
"Tell you what," Scarab jabbed, "next time you can dress like a whore, and you can convince the target to follow you out so we can jump him."
The lowest corner of Ghost's eye twitched as the intrusive mental image found itself in the forefront of his thoughts. So many questions to be said for that. Firstly, whore? If those clothes were Scarab's definition of whorish, he hated to imagine how she must be in her day to day life. Did she wear baggy sweats everywhere? He thought the outfit they threw together was pretty tasteful, personally, but maybe a woman's standards were different than a man's. Secondly, he wasn't sure if him in a deep v-neck and skinny jeans would have quite the same effect.
He'd probably wear it better, if he was being completely honest with himself.
Scarab shifted so she could rest while they drove. The "hotel" was an outpost in a town a couple hours Northwest of Berlin on their way to a different outpost in Hamburg, where they'd be able to take a helicopter back to their base in the U.K. Hamburg would be an almost four hour drive, so the driving was being split in half at that outpost so they could refuel the trucks and catch forty winks before hitting the road again. If he didn't particularly care about the prospect of sleeping while Meat drove, Ghost probably would have taken a nap himself.
The car turned left, and Ghost heard the sound of shifting next to him. Sure enough, Scarab moved right and had her head propped on MacTavish's shoulder, eyes still shut and seeming asleep. The Captain met his glance with a confused one of his own. Deciding not to think too deeply on this, Ghost turned his head and ignored this.
Who did Scarab think she was, taking his seat?
Another left turn. Yet again, Scarab moved further right. If Ghost doubted she was actually asleep before, he was sure she wasn't now. Ordinarily if someone were slipping to the side with momentum onto the person beside them, they would slip down their chest from the shoulder and end up in their lap. Scarab pushed further right until she was nuzzling MacTavish's fucking neck!
But, of course, MacTavish didn't seem about to do anything about this either. In fact, he looped his arm over her shoulder. Ghost wasn't the jealous type, but in that singular moment, he never wanted to kick Scarab out of a moving vehicle more since he first met her. She was deliberately (boldly, no shame whatsoever!) cuddling up against her CO. At least Ghost exercised a little discretion when he sought the man's affection. This was just unfair!
And the look MacTavish gave him when he caught him staring? It was some sweet, little look that said "it's not a big deal."
It was over an hour of this. MacTavish attempted to move her back to the middle at one point, perhaps feeling a touch guilty for having her there for well over half an hour, but this whole cycle repeated again at every intersection. The kicker? She didn't even try to pretend to lull to the left when they turned right. In fact, he caught her visibly tense to avoid doing just that. If MacTavish somehow hadn't noticed, then he was a bigger muscle-head than Ghost took him for.
At long... long last, they arrived at the hotel. Meat parked and MacTavish "woke" Scarab up. Ghost couldn't stomach anymore of this bullshit and climbed out of the car. He didn't get a chance to close the car door when Scarab tried to climb out behind MacTavish and watched her fake a fucking trip on her way out just so the unwitting Captain could catch her. Ghost slammed his door with a lot more force than needed, not that either of them noticed.
Were MacTavish's fucking eyes on her cleavage? They'd better be the best knockers he'd ever fucking seen because they'd be the last thing he'll see at this rate.
After a second too long of that position, Scarab easily righted herself and rubbed the back of her head with a bashful giggle.
"Clumsy much," MacTavish asked, decidedly amused.
"Um... Yeah." Scarab retreated to the outpost after that. She probably realized she laid it on a little too thick. As she went, Heatstroke, the other woman in their Task Force, fell in step beside her and they chatted on their way in.
After she was gone, MacTavish slipped his arm around Ghost's shoulder, but the lieutenant brushed him off and started to walk to the entrance. MacTavish groaned behind him. "You're mad, aren't you." It wasn't a question. He damn well knew what Ghost's anger looked like.
"Inside," was Ghost's one word response.
MacTavish nodded and followed along. The outpost itself wasn't impressive. It was pretty small with minimal security. Considering it was in Germany, there wasn't a demand for much more than a chain link fence, security cameras, and a few guards. In the broadest of strokes, the nickname of "hotel" wasn't all that far off either. The team split off in a few different dorms that looked modest but comfortable. They even got a hot meal.
In their shared room, Ghost sat cross legged on one of the beds and stared straight at the wall. MacTavish slipped in beside him and once again wrapped himself around Ghost. "What's wrong?"
Ghost's sickly sweet smile dripped with sarcasm. "Did you really need to snuggle with Scarab the entire car ride?"
"No, I just thought it would funny is all," MacTavish said, pulling him in close so he could rest his chin on the top of Ghost's head.
Ghost's back bent to accommodate the position, on account of him being the slightly taller of the two. Even though MacTavish couldn't see it, Ghost scowled. "What? So annoying me is funny?"
"That's nothing new."
"There's a difference between you smacking chewing gum and this. A big difference." He punctuated his statement by bumping his head up, causing MacTavish's teeth to lightly clack.
"It's not that big a deal, Ghost, really," MacTavish claimed. "I didn't think you could be so jealous over nothing."
Ghost pushed himself from MacTavish's arms to properly glare at him. "I'm not jealous over nothing."
There was a real challenge in MacTavish's eyes, the very same he got with all his stupid bets. "This was nothing."
Chapter 2: Friends of My Friends
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 3 and 4
3. Group is followed, they take Soap, Meat, and probably others (+Heatstroke too I guess). Warehouse to the west. Apparently Soap tried to break out via body slam door. Rest of the group rescues them. They return to the hotel.
4. Scarab wakes up early, balcony scene (TM). Soap has a dead girlfriend? Soap leaves. Heatstroke confused.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sometimes Ghost wondered if he forgave MacTavish's behavior a little too easily. In the moment though, as those large hands gripped at his shoulders and his legs held him in close, the lieutenant found it incredibly difficult to stay mad. His CO didn't look it to anybody else, but in private, he was very physical with his affections. This time, there was an added tenderness as MacTavish peppered his collarbone with kisses and swore up and down that he loved him.
When all was said and done, Ghost was tucked in under MacTavish's arm and the two of them quietly spoke in the dark room. It was normal, and comfortable.
From seemingly nowhere came a loud, booming knock. Both men stiffened with alarm and separated. MacTavish was on his feet in a second, rounding the bed and approaching the door all the while fumbling to pull on his pants.
Ghost sat up and turned his attention from MacTavish's back to the door. "It's two in the bloody morning, who could that be?"
"How the hell should I know?" MacTavish grumbled, reaching for the knob. "But we can find out."
"Wait, you're not going out there, are you?" Ghost hurriedly searched for his shirt (discarded at the end of the bed) and threw it on. "What if it's a trap?"
MacTavish paused and deadpanned, "Ghost, don't be such a worry wort."
They were in a military outpost, albeit probably the least defended one he'd ever seen. Who in their right mind would sneak in, just to bang on some poor sod's door? The notion was absurd. Odds were it was another one of Meat's stupid pranks.
Without further delay, MacTavish opened the door and took a two steps outside. He scanned either direction and turned back to the doorway, bemused. "Well that's weird. It's deserted out here."
His gut had become a disturbed wasps nest. Ghost slipped off the bed. "Doors don't just bang for the fun of it." If it was Meat pulling a prank, they would have heard a door close. Movement caught his eye. It was the shadow cast on the beige wall behind the Captain that gave it away, a hand reaching towards him. "Look out behind you!"
Whoever it was gave up on stealth and threw himself on MacTavish, knocking him one way and out of sight. The sounds of a struggle continued in the hall.
Ghost didn't wait, he charged to the door to help MacTavish, but just as he reached the threshold the door slammed shut in his face. His vision flashed as he tumbled and fell on his back. He lay there in a daze as the sounds of the struggle turned distant. He tasted iron on his lips.
"If you want half your team back," a man with a thick German accent shouted through the door, "then return Alexander to the warehouse west of here. We will be waiting."
His head was pounding as he processed those words. Half the team? Who else did they take? These were probably colleagues of Alexander's. They couldn't trade him back even if they wanted to.
"...Bloody hell..." Ghost groaned and dragged himself up. Standing made everything feel worse as he swayed and nearly toppled on his way to the door. There was a spatter of blood on the wood, a small one. When he finally came into the hall, there was no sign of the kidnappers, or of MacTavish.
However, Scarab, Roach, and Royce were all out in the corridor. Roach was gripping Scarab's arm as he told her sharply, "Don't. We know where they're going, so we can get them back." He turned back towards Ghost, hopeful and trusting. "Right, sir?"
Ghost nodded slowly and rubbed the blood from under his nose. Sure enough, he was expected to carry the team, probable concussion or not. "Yeah. Get your gear."
--- --- ---
"Look out behind you!"
In that instant, MacTavish was tackled sideways by some man in a ski mask. He did everything he could to break free, or at the very least wear this bastard down. Before he could though, this guy's friend drew his pistol and struck the damn thing at MacTavish's head.
Jesus, if that didn't fucking hurt... Thankfully for MacTavish though, he boasted a thick skull and wasn't incapacitated by being pistol whipped. He craned his head back and fixed them both with a furious glare. One of them stammered something, but before either of them could think to hit him again, he broke free and sprinted full tilt down the hall.
He got ten meters when he heard the door slam behind him, along with an added fumble. Was that Ghost? MacTavish briefly looked back to see the two men, one with his hand planted against the door and the other giving chase.
Out of nowhere, something swung out and cracked him over the side of the head, and this time he was out like a light.
It had to be a couple minutes later. He was being dragged. The words that they were speaking around him were either garbled or not English. MacTavish wasn't sure. He'd never really know for sure. He passed out again as quickly as he came to.
When he woke up, it was with such a severe sense of vertigo that he nearly threw up. With an immense amount of willpower, he swallowed the flash flood of saliva and forced his stomach to behave. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was propped in a chair and leaned against the wall. His captors were chattering quietly by the door, casting stray glances his way. Within minutes, one of them left and the other leaned against the wall to keep an eye on him.
This wasn't exactly an unfamiliar situation to him. More annoying than usual, since he was caught wearing literally no more than his pants and socks. And one of said socks was soaked. And his head felt like it was kicked by an ornery mule. But he could figure a way out of this, right? First, he'd just need to collect a little information.
He played it as cool as he could and asked, "What is this?"
Ski-Mask-Guy rolled his eyes. "What do you think it is?" Sweet, sweet English... He definitely had a German accent though.
"A hostage situation?" MacTavish guessed.
His captor dipped his head in affirmation.
"To what end?"
"What end? It should be obvious. Your team has taken our colleague, Alexander. They can have you and the others back when he's returned."
MacTavish chewed the inside of his lip. There was no good way of breaking it to these guys that Alexander was dead. They might take it upon themselves to even the score if they heard that. They couldn't return Alexander, so one of two things needed to happen: Ghost needed to save their asses, or they needed to save their own asses.
Ordinarily, it's advised you wait it out and try not to piss anybody off. MacTavish, however, was not a patient man.
The moment that Ski-Mask-Guy turned his attention off of him, MacTavish sprang to his feet and charged over to the door. Before he could be restrained, he kicked the door wide open and ran out into a larger room full of crates. The guy gave chase, shouting several things in German, which prompted four other guys to come out of the woodwork to help him.
There was a door at the far side of this warehouse, hopefully leading outside, but as MacTavish hurriedly fumbled with the knob, he discovered with sinking dread that it was locked. The five men circled now, and in that moment he took to hopping foot to foot and praying that if he moved as erratically as humanly possible, then he could jouk them and break away.
Really all it did was cause the lot of them to start snickering and jabbering in German, punctuated with a few "Oooo~"s.
What the hell was "Schlong en younger?"
Maybe he did a better job at distracting himself, because one of those guys ended up behind him in that time and kicked him in the backs of the knees. He buckled and only then did it sink in that he probably just made a bigger idiot of himself than he needed to.
Ski-Mask-Guy grabbed him by the mohawk and said, "That was a cute display. Now I suggest you cooperate."
He was a moment away from complying when the door behind them flew open. Gun shots ripped the air, and before MacTavish so much as blinked, his captors were all dead.
Royce took two steps into the room. "Clear."
Ghost was next into the warehouse. "MacTavish, good to see you're in one piece."
With one good look, MacTavish immediately realized what happened earlier. "They broke your nose, huh?" He had hastily thrown on his balaclava to boot, and now the mandible and teeth were stained red.
The lieutenant shrugged. "Do you know where the others are being held?"
"There are doors on the far side. Could be in any of those," MacTavish answered.
"Alright. Royce, Roach, on me. Scarab, see if you can't get those handcuffs off him."
Scarab scurried over and patted down the bodies until she came across a set of keys in one of these arms dealers' jacket pocket. She unlocked the handcuffs. "They didn't hurt you, did they, Captain?"
"Just a little bump on the head, I'll live." MacTavish got up and stretched his stiff shoulders. His head definitely still hurt, and he was still was mildly dizzy, but there was nothing to be done about that. "Nothing you should worry about anyways."
It was only then that he noticed that she was rather keenly watching him. In fact, as a chill seeped down his spine, he became distinctly aware that he still wasn't fully dressed. With any other person, and in any other circumstance, he wouldn't care, but Scarab followed every pull and squeeze of his muscles. He wasn't bashful, certainly not about his own body. Yet he stopped stretching and crossed his arms.
"What happened to the soldiers at the outpost?" He asked, hoping she'd take the bait and stop focusing on him.
"They're fine. Apparently those kidnappers made a distraction a short distance from the outpost that drew the lot of them out." She answered, but otherwise seemed fully content to keep eyeing.
The moment Ghost returned with the others in tow, the lot of them marched back to the outpost. One of the soldiers stationed in the lobby nervously rubbed his head as they passed. The Sergeant there came up to them and tripped over some hasty explanation and apology.
The brilliant distraction these arms dealers turned kidnappers used?
Sparklers.
Ordinary. Sparklers.
When he returned to his room with Ghost, the two of them more or less collapsed back into bed, both bemoaning their aching heads. MacTavish had to usher Ghost to the bathroom to deal with his nose, because he was starting to stain the sheets. Soon, Ghost came back with a wad of tissues in his now much less crooked nose and they cuddled up and groaned in pain together.
"What the fuck was going on when we saved you? You weren't with the others," Ghost wondered.
MacTavish mumbled into his hair, "I tried to escape. Didn't pan out. I think I made a fool of myself."
"For trying to escape?"
"No. I tried to jouk 'em and they just started laughing and going 'oooo schlong en younger' or whatever."
Ghost turned his head slightly. "Mate, I don't think that's actual German..."
"Are you going to tell me you know four languages now?"
"No."
"Then shhhhhhhhh..." MacTavish nuzzled into his head. "Sleep time."
It was a peaceful couple more hours of rest. MacTavish woke up before Ghost though, at the earliest ass crack of dawn, and decided that now was as good a time as ever to have a smoke. He untangled himself from Ghost, and moved as carefully as he could so as to not wake him. He grabbed the pack of cigarettes and lighter from his tactical vest, tugged on his jacket, then stepped out on the very little balcony shared between his room and the next one over.
The sky was just beginning to lighten and was tinged a faint mauve. Thoughtlessly, he slipped a cigarette from the pack and held it with his lips while he lit it.
He caught movement from the corner of his eye, and only then realized that he wasn't alone out here. Scarab was on the other side, watching the early sunrise. He pocketed his lighter and smokes and decided to break the silence. "Can't sleep?"
Scarab looked his way, initially startled by his sudden presence. Her eyes flicked down at his chest, and he cursed himself for not zipping his damn jacket up. Especially when that faint bit of color flashed to her cheeks. "What are you doing out here?"
"Same as you, having trouble sleeping." Concussions would do that to you. MacTavish took a drag off his cigarette and watched as Scarab nervously fidgeted back and forth in place. Honestly, she made it no secret (or at least no good one) that she had the hots for him. Flattering as that was, he didn't feel the same way about her. She felt more like a little sister; didn't help she was half a decade younger than him and it showed. When she nuzzled up on him earlier that night, he really did only respond to it to annoy Ghost.
She turned to him again, brushing a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. "Actually, I just really like mornings. They're calm, you know?"
General sleep problems. Population: only him, apparently. He shrugged and replied, "Calm's nice and all, but personally I like activity."
"Well I see nothing wrong with that," she agreed. Of course she would. She kept playing with that one strand of hair that she couldn't seem to tuck away. "Uh, Captain?"
MacTavish breathed a cloud of smoke out his nose and gave her a wayward glance. "Yeah, Scarab?"
"I, well, uh..." She trailed off, her anxiety becoming more and more apparent with each passing moment. This was honestly becoming a little... pathetic...
He didn't remember him or Ghost having this sort of weird, awkward pining. Actually, he was pretty sure he and Ghost's relationship started with a mess of drunken kissing a few New Years ago. All the same, he couldn't let this confession stand. He had to let her down here.
If he could just somehow put this someway that wouldn't absolutely devastate her, that would be the best. Last thing he wanted was to break her poor, little heart. He turned towards her and very calmly rested a hand on her shoulder. "I know."
Her face was absolutely red at this point as she looked down at her feet. MacTavish coaxed her to look him in the eye as he continued:
"I like you too-"
"W-wait! You like me too?"
There was supposed to be a "But" in there. This was getting all the harder to squash this problem. She looked absolutely excited, eyes aglow. In some backwards sense, that optimistic energy was painfully reminiscent of his younger sister. He needed to soften the blow, and so he pulled her into a hug. It was something he was very comfortable doing, particularly where his sister and Ghost were concerned. He opened his mouth to break the news that he didn't like her in the same way when suddenly she bounced up on the balls of her feet and kissed him.
This was not in the plan. This was the exact opposite of the plan. He needed to do a full stop and 180 back on track. That kiss lasted five seconds maximum, and only because MacTavish was caught so off guard that he delayed in pulling away. When he finally did, he awkwardly apologized.
"Sorry for what?" She asked.
His arms loosened around her. "I shouldn't."
"Why shouldn't we?" She questioned.
At that point, he let her go and stepped back, crossing his arms. Yes, why was a very good question. One he needed to answer now. "I-I just can't."
Smooth, John...
"Listen. Scarab. I'm not... emotionally available." There. Okay, better. He needed to keep doing that. "There's someone I really care about, and I'm not about to let them down."
Scarab stared at him, in the strangest sense calculating. "You've got a girlfriend...?"
"No. I don't have a girlfriend." The moment he said that, he immediately regretted it. If he didn't have a girlfriend, then the immediate jump is boyfriend and that would potentially land him in a strange amount of trouble.
She laid a hand on his shoulder. "Then what's there to worry about?" Scarab pulled him into a hug, which he was in too much muted shock to break out of. "So why not you give me a chance?"
Soap gaped like a fish. How in the literal fuck did this not work? He practically spelled that one out and she still somehow took his no as a yes.
Next thing he knew, Scarab started kissing him again. He didn't even know what to do at this point. He pulled away, and by some stroke of inhumane luck, Heatstroke just so happened to call out from the other room. He hoped, prayed to the Lord, Son, and Holy Spirit, that she didn't realize that his pulling away and Heatstroke calling for her was a complete coincidence.
Scarab didn't say a word as he quickly slipped back inside his and Ghost's room. MacTavish had every intention of returning to bed as if nothing happened, but the bed was empty.
"What was that?"
Welp.
--- --- ---
Ghost didn't have any intention of spying on MacTavish. In fact, when the man got out of bed, he was pretty sure he was just going to smoke. He got up to join him. At the door though, he noticed Scarab on the balcony as well and them quietly talking.
And then quietly talking turned into a hug and a kiss.
To MacTavish's credit, he did try and explain himself. Ghost even wondered if he would finally step out of the closet. But no. Scarab misunderstood even more and he didn't fix it. In fact, he proceeded to further jam his own foot in his mouth.
They even kissed again!
At that point, Ghost wasn't sure if he should be upset. Clearly Scarab was denser than a fucking brick. In fact, he felt a little bad when MacTavish came stumbling back into the room, flustered as a confused teenager.
"What was that?"
MacTavish was ashen as he faced him. "Ghost, how long were you-"
"Oh I heard every word," Ghost answered. "So how do you plan on fixing this?"
"I don't know..." MacTavish admitted, sinking on the bed. "I was just trying to let her down easy..."
Ghost sat beside him and sighed. He really did forgive this idiot too easily sometimes. "You just have to be blunt. You'll hurt her less if you break things early than if she thinks there's something there."
"Yeah, you're right..." MacTavish agreed. "You're not mad?"
"No. Just disappointed."
Notes:
Another chapter of this insanity. I will say that this was a little difficult to make sense of. My kid brain back then literally had these guys stop at a hotel, get kidnapped for no particular reason (there was a ransom mentioned, but it's never brought up again), and then go back to the place they just got kidnapped from. No logic. It just happens. This literally goes nowhere. They do need to stop for the "Balcony Scene" (TM), but it was hard to justify the kidnappers. Ultimately, they became arms dealers and colleagues of Alexander's who are trying to bail him out via a hostage exchange, not realizing that the guy they want is dead. Because they aren't done here too, these guys dying further encourages more of their friends to chase the 141 to kingdom come.
The "Balcony Scene" (TM) was also a challenge as well since I'm rewriting this with the end goal being SoapXGhost. The issue is that the original way the conversation goes pushes some strange backstory on Soap where he has a dead girlfriend who was "killed by the Russians." It was so left field and played so little a role in the overall narrative that I scrapped that in favor of Soap having a problem with telling her no. Beyond a few changes to the dialogue where the dead girlfriend was removed, the two of them follow most of the same actions as the original version.
On a much less analytical note: I find it so funny that in the original version of chapter 3 (the first part with the kidnappers), Soap and Ghost are both literally sharing a room and are shirtless. Soap even note's Ghost's muscular chest and their exchange until Soap's captured reads like couple banter. Even though younger me was homophobic, I apparently still wrote these boys in a better relationship than what was supposed to be the intended ship.
Chapter 3: To Think or Not to Think
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 5 and 6
5. They leave hotel to go back to base. "Alex's friends" give chase. They crash, try to lose Alex in town. Scarab is separated, then found by Roach. Mild trouble. They rejoin the team. Jump in car, drive away.
6. Return to base. Base hijinx? New mission to Azerbaijan. Stealth assignment, just Soap and Scarab.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Last night sucked. A lot. Half the team got nabbed via a plan so stupid that it worked on principle and they all lost much needed sleep as a result. With the trucks refueled, they split up between the two vehicles and left the outpost at sunrise. The hope was that if they blended into regular traffic, they could avoid further trouble in case any more of these European arms dealers showed up to avenge their fellow sellers.
Did arms dealers have a union? Roach wondered, leaning back in his seat. He flicked his attention between the road in front of them and the side view mirror. They were driving behind Scarecrow and the others, and had only been on the move for about a half hour of the two hour drive. While Meat switched lanes, Roach glanced back and noted a car behind them (a nondescript white van) swap and maintain the same following distance it'd been keeping since they passed through the last town.
"Think we're being followed?" Roach asked finally. "That van's been behind us for a while now."
Scarab was about to glance back, but Ghost dropped a hand on her head and kept her facing forward. "If you look, they'll know we noticed." She nodded in response and nervously fretted with her gun.
"They might've noted our plates back in Berlin and been following us for a while if that's the case," MacTavish mentioned. "Meat, let's put them to the test. Take the next exit off the highway and we'll see what they do."
"Aye aye, Captain." Meat once again changed lanes, which that van did as well, and turned off as instructed.
No surprise, the van followed.
"Captain MacTavish, are things okay back there? We lost sight of you." Royce asked over the comms. He was co-piloting for Scarecrow in the other truck.
"We're possibly being followed and are detouring. Proceed to the nest as planned, but watch for anyone tailing," MacTavish responded.
They soon ended up in another town, and Meat took a series of turns down a bunch of one way streets and side roads. White Van was still behind them. "They're not very subtle, are they?" Meat remarked as he ran a red light that didn't seem to dissuade their pursuers, who also ran the red. A chorus of angry honking faded in the distance.
Roach watched the van intently through the mirror at this point. The passenger of the car rolled down his window and aimed a pistol out the window. "Meat! Swerve!"
Meat did as told and, almost as soon the car lurched right, the side mirror exploded into tiny pieces. "Fuck..." Another gunshot, punctuated by a resounding boom and whoosh of the front left tire popping, the shock wave of which reverberated through the floor of the car. Meat white knuckled the steering wheel as the truck immediately veered left. "Fuck! Hang on!"
They bumped up over the curb, rattling Roach in his seat before the truck slammed directly into a streetlamp. The seat belt barely kept him from face planting against the windshield as he and everyone else jerked forward from the impact. He hastily unbuckled, though the button really seemed to want to stick at that point, and ducked into the foot well. "Heads down!"
The cracked windshield shattered as another bullet tore through the rear window and the head rest of his seat. A second bullet followed and lodged into the brick wall. To his relief, there was no blood splatter.
Behind him, Ghost cursed, "Bollocks! We're sitting ducks in here, we need to leave!"
That was the real conundrum. So much as pick up your head and they'd cap you in an instant. There was no way to leave the car from the right side, since if they so much as opened the door, they'd be totally exposed. Being in the passenger seat though, Roach could slip out, in theory. "I'm going to see if I can't get a lock on them." He tugged the latch and shouldered the door open from the small space he was curled in, then dropped out with his rifle in tow.
Two of their pursuers had left the van and were approaching the truck at this point, the back doors were wide open too. Roach took out one of the two men, which caused the other to jump with alarm. This provided him crucial seconds to take him out.
He banged the side of the truck. "Go! Go!" He then sprayed bullets at the van, in hopes that the gunfire would keep them from breaking from cover. As the sides became pockmarked and the van tires blew, a mess of shouts flew from the car.
The others wasted no time in bailing from the crashed vehicle and booking it down the street. Roach unloaded a full magazine into that van before turning on his heels and sprinting after them. They'd dodged around a corner, but by the time Roach had reached it, he lost sight of everyone.
Hearing the angry shouts behind him, Roach wasted no time in choosing a narrow path between a couple apartment buildings and praying he could lose them. One turn, then several others, and he stopped to plant a hand on the wall and catch his breath. Being totally lost wasn't all that new to him, but unlike most other times, it wasn't like they had studied a map in advance. They weren't even supposed to be in this town.
Staying still for too long may just be a death sentence. With burning lungs, he pressed forward while forcing himself to breathe at a more steady pace. While he walked, he made attempt after attempt to get into contact with the others to no avail. Apparently his ear piece was damaged in the crash. He tried all the same. Before long, he ended up away from this complex alley network and near the road again, where he spotted Scarab passing by, somehow more aimless than he was.
She'd die if she stayed on the streets like that. Roach reached out and grabbed her to pull her into the alley with him, which prompted her to thrash and struggle. If she screamed, it could attract attention. He whispered, "Scarab, calm down!"
Immediately, her fighting stopped and she let herself be turned around. At this point, Roach more or less dragged her along behind a nearby dumpster so that they were out of sight from the road. She crouched beside him. "Roach, where the fuck is everyone else?"
"I don't know." Roach peaked around the corner of the dumpster. Not a soul to be seen. "I lost sight of them when we made a break for it."
"We have to find them. They couldn't have gotten too far on foot."
As much as he appreciated the optimism, he had to squash that notion. "This is the 141 we're talking about. They could've covered some distance."
Scarab sighed. "Point taken. Let's go." She then grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along. Once again, they dove in the spiderweb of alleyways he'd just barely avoided getting lost in the first time.
Now, to be completely honest, technically Roach could have pulled rank and had her follow his lead. After all, he was a Sergeant and she was a Private 1st Class. It was clear she had no more clue where they were going than he did, but he didn't have much better a course of action to propose at the moment. During this time while they turned down one narrow path to the next, he continued to fiddle with his comm and pray he could luck out and get the damn thing working again.
This wasn't as easy as he hoped. Ghost made electronics work look so easy...
"Scarab, have you tried-" Before he could finish his question, the woman shushed him.
"I think I hear someone," she said. Without any other warning, she sprinted ahead and banked a corner. Roach, of course, followed.
He wasn't too good at this leader business.
The voice turned out to be one of the pursuers, donning a light jacket and his face covered in mostly beard. He'd managed to knock Scarab to the ground and had a gun pointed at her head. "Don't move."
Not good. Not fucking good. He pulled the trigger to shoot the guy, only to be answered with a click. He never reloaded from before. He didn't remember to do the most basic action known to gun handling.
Hurriedly, he scanned around for a corner to duck behind while he dealt with his weapon. Before he could get the next mag from his vest, this guy lead Scarab his way. She passed him without seeming to notice. Giving up on reloading, Roach tackled the guy and the two of them collided hard into the wall. As soon as Roach's head tapped back, his ear filled with a cacophony of static and voices. He grabbed the assailant and cracked his face against the wall. Fortunately, this knocked him out cold.
Roach finally finished reloading his gun and turned to Scarab. "Never do that again." Fortunately, she had the grace to be ashamed for the trouble she'd caused. With his comm miraculously working again, he tuned back to the correct frequency. "This is Roach. I'm with Scarab in some alleys a few blocks from the crash. Does anybody copy?"
"Copy loud and clear." It was Ghost. Thank goodness. "Do you see the water tower?"
Water tower? Roach peered around. Beyond the roof of one of the lower buildings, off to the South, he spied one such structure. "Roger. I see it."
"Alright. Head towards that. There's a vacant business space we're hiding in not far from there. It's in eyesight of the tower."
"On our way!" Roach lead Scarab off towards the water tower. From there, just as Ghost had said, there was a string of buildings, one with a sign in the window and the lights out. It seemed pretty vacant. He approached with the Private in tow. "Alright, we're here."
Ghost opened the door for them and they both slipped inside. As Ghost moved out of the way though, Roach noted that he stepped rather gingerly on one of his feet, not even fully planting the foot on the ground. While Scarab passed him, Roach quietly asked if he was alright, which only got him a curt nod.
In fact, Ghost planted a hand on Roach's shoulder and said for the others to hear, "You really saved our skins back there, Roach."
The Captain, who had been in some very quiet conversation with Meat up to this point, acknowledged this with "Aye. Good work." It wasn't that Captain MacTavish's or Ghost's praises were rare, but all the same, Roach found himself mute and bashful.
Scarab sat down on a storage bin, her gun rested in her lap. "I can't believe we got lost... But at least we didn't die."
"Odds are that'll change real quick. It won't take long for them to track us down," Ghost said.
"Yo, Scarecrow, what's your ETA?" Meat asked.
"Five minutes. Traffic got diverted where you guys crashed. If you guys can meet us halfway, we can probably cut out of the town sooner and lose them on the freeway."
Without delay, everyone filed out of the abandoned store to rendezvous with the second truck. As it turned out, they were only a block away, so once they met in the middle, the lot of them all piled into the truck bed and Scarecrow banged out of the town.
"Do you think we lost them?" Roach asked, very cautiously eyeing the cars behind them.
"Maybe," Soap replied, checking his gun, "but we can never be too careful."
No further trouble came, however. At this point, perhaps the rest of that circle of arms dealers decided it wasn't worth it and gave up the chase. Another hour and a half, and they reached the U.S. facility in Hamburg, and then were on a plane back to their own base in the U.K.
--- --- ---
Upon returning to base, the team split up to either find people or catch a bit of rest. MacTavish, on the other hand, caught Ghost by the hand before he could make his getaway. "Let's get that ankle checked."
The lieutenant paused and nodded stiffly. "I was starting to wonder if you noticed."
"Of course I noticed," MacTavish replied, leading him to the infirmary. He didn't carry him or try to pull an arm over his shoulder to help take the weight off. Ghost probably would have yelled at him for being over dramatic about a tweaked ankle. Instead, he walked by his side, just in case he needed help. Ultimately, Ghost didn't. Even though he was limping, he tended to tough out most injuries he got.
When the medic on base took a look, he immediately took note of the broken nose. Doc clicked his tongue. "What the hell did you do to get yourself banged up like this?"
"Door to the face and then I tripped getting out of a car," the lieutenant answered in brief. "It's not that bad, is it?"
The driest, least amused expression MacTavish had ever seen crossed Doc's face as he tapped his pen on Ghost's knee. "Your ankle's swollen. You're lucky you got your boot off without any problems, but you've clearly been running and walking on the damn thing all day. And what the hell is that dismissive 'door to the face?' Did you experience any dizziness, nausea, headache?"
Admittedly, MacTavish found it a little funnier than it should have been watching Ghost flounder through those questions. On top of that, he was hit with a few tests. Ultimately Doc concluded that, yes, he did have a mild concussion and he should take 24 hours to rest before they reassess that. On top of the day to rest, when Ghost would get back to work, it would have to be lighter duties so that he could be easy on his ankle. Thinking that his work was done, MacTavish turned to leave when the medic called him out with a sharp, "Hey!"
MacTavish stopped at the door, escape attempt foiled. "Is there a problem, Doc?"
"Don't think you're sneaky, Captain, I saw those bruises on the back of your head the minute you came in. I know you know concussion symptoms at this point." The medic crossed his arms.
Meanwhile, Ghost was still sitting in the chair with a grin that reached his eyes. Cheeky bastard.
"Aye, I got hit a couple of times." MacTavish sighed and rubbed at the tender spot on the base of his skull. Truthfully, that headache still hadn't gone away and he felt mildly queasy off and on throughout the day. "Lemme guess, you want me to take a day too."
Doc nodded and ran a hand along his buzzed head. "I swear, of the ninety people I need to take care of here and all my years in Fort Sam, you two are by far the biggest hand-fulls I've ever met." After running the same tests, he confirmed that MacTavish would need to rest as well. He shooed the both of them out so he could deal with the necessary paperwork.
At the end of the day, the base would run fine without its Captain and Second in Command. Responsibilities fall on the next senior officer; specifically Lieutenant Jim "Royce" Labbe in this case. If there was anyone MacTavish trusted not to burn the base down, more than even himself sometimes, it was Royce.
There was no rule saying they couldn't spend that day resting together. Ghost made himself comfortable and MacTavish tucked himself in by his side. Before he knew it, the both of them managed to sleep the whole day away. Around noon the following day, they were up and about again. Much of that headache and nausea had settled down by then, with only a very dull ache remaining when the lights were a touch too bright. Doc cleared MacTavish for regular duty. Ghost could, as predicted, resume light work.
It didn't take all that long for General Shepherd to get in contact and relay that they had another mission in the works. Apparently, thanks to Roach's debrief, they were able to trace the crates from those arms dealers back to another in South America, and then again all the way to Russia. Apparently they disrupted a weapons smuggling train that, odds were, spanned through several countries. Each of them sported a painted on logo with AWR printed over a high caliber bullet. None too subtle, but supposing they never went through any conventional cargo checks, regular authorities would've never noticed.
There was a manifest collected at one point earlier that made much more sense. There was an Ultranationalist base in Azerbaijan where one of these weapon shipments was sent. They were potentially components to make SAM sites and long range missiles. Considering the slippery situation in Afghanistan, it was possible that base was just another stopping point before said cargo reached its destination.
"We can, in theory, cut off the supply run there and make the fight much easier," General Shepherd said over the call. "I want you and one other person to sneak in that base and blow the weapons cache. If you can, find any documentation on where the shipment was headed. Any questions?"
"No, sir, but I do have a suggestion," MacTavish mentioned. "As you know, we had an informant codenamed 'Nikolai' in the Ultranationalist ranks five years ago."
There was a brief silence. "I think I recall reading about him in passing. He supplied the intel on the ship in the Bering Strait?"
"Aye. Since then, he's been coordinating with other splintered Loyalist factions to infiltrate Ultranationalist ranks and continue to feed intel on their movements. With the New Russian President's cleaning house to make the party more appealing, they've had an easier time staying under the radar."
"Where are you going with this, MacTavish?" Shepherd asked tiredly.
"Last time Nikolai's reported in, he was heading into Azerbaijan. He might be able to get us in quietly," MacTavish told him. "If things kick South, it could blow his cover, but there are at least fifty others spying as well. It's an option."
"If he can assist, then by all means. We'll offer him sanctuary if this puts him in any danger."
With nothing else to add, the call ended. MacTavish was then left to ponder who he'd take on this assignment. His first thought was Ghost, but he had to dismiss the notion. Ghost was restricted to light duty on account of his ankle, and that probably wasn't going to change in the next few days. Missions were definitely out of the question. The more time he could give him to recover, the better.
All things considered, MacTavish on his own was a demolition specialist. He also knew enough Russian to get by at this point. If anyone was coming with him, it was purely so he could have backup. After much pondering, he decided that the mission was pretty standard as far as covert operations go. It'd be good experience.
As it turned out, following that train of logic, the one with the least amount of field experience was actually Scarab. She'd had limited assignments up to this point, but highly impressive PFT and ASVAB scores, which landed her in the Task Force. In a less... professional sense, this could also be a good chance for him to clear the air with her where that huge misunderstanding was concerned.
Of course, when he told Ghost as much while bringing up the mission and who he'd chosen as back up, the lieutenant flinched away like he'd been slapped.
"You're choosing her?" He exclaimed. "Don't we normally handle these sorts of assignments together?"
"Yes, but you need to take it easy, remember?" MacTavish shot back. "Like I said, it's a good chance to give her field experience."
Ghost glowered him. "There's eighty-nine operators on this base, you could've picked anybody. Why does it have to be her?"
"I already explained myself. Why are you so twisted up over this anyways?"
"Why? I shouldn't have to spell it out. She's been hitting on you, and odds are she still will be on this mission. I let the whole snuggling in the car and the kiss slide, but this is getting stupid. When are you going to tell her no?"
"I don't know, she's a wee lass, I don't want to hurt her."
"She's in an elite task force, she should be able to handle a little rejection."
Jealous Ghost had been an amusing discovery, but at this point, MacTavish was losing patience for it. He combed his hand through his mohawk and heaved a heavy sigh. "Alright. I'll talk to her, but this mission and that situation are completely unrelated."
"Do you think she'll see it that way? No." Ghost crossed his arms. "You're so focused on her feelings that you're not thinking about mine."
"I didn't think-"
"That's right, you don't think! You're being fucking stupid!" Ghost snapped. As those words left his lips, the room turned silent, cold. Much of the anger fled from Ghost's face, replaced with remorse. "John, I..." The words were stuck in his throat.
At that point, he'd said it though, and it was something one apology couldn't totally fix. MacTavish turned away. "I'm going to tell Scarab about the mission."
--- --- ---
After MacTavish left, Ghost sat down on his bed and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. It wasn't like he never called MacTavish stupid before, but it had always been an affectionate prodding in the past for little, trivial mistakes. He never screamed it at him before, and the minute he did, he wanted to jam his tongue back into his windpipe.
He crossed a line.
He crossed several lines, actually.
Here he was, getting angry and showing no faith in the man. MacTavish said himself he would fix it. He needed to give him the chance to, right? Wasn't he supposed to trust the man to do the right thing?
Besides, it wasn't as if MacTavish's reasoning wasn't without merit. As a subordinate, Ghost had no right to question his decisions as Captain of this company.
Tugging on his mask (no way in hell was he showing his face after that display of his), he shuffled to the gym to watch some of the other men working out. Maybe he could get some crunches in and try to take his mind off the whole thing. Hopefully, he'd have the chance to apologize later.
In the little workout room though, he happened upon Scarab. Surprise surprise. She was practicing kick boxing while Heatstroke held up the pads for her to kick. Without exactly meaning to, Ghost ended up watching her reps for a short time. To her credit, she had excellent form and an impressive high kick. Her gym clothes did also place her lean, defined body on display. She must've trained for years to get like that.
As much as Ghost wanted to roll his eyes and pretend she wasn't all that and a bag of crisps, he couldn't quite stoop himself to that level of blindness. Still, he liked to think that if he wasn't nursing a sprained ankle, then he could take her in a spar.
The real blow was when she pulled a standing split while stretching afterwards. He wasn't that flexible. He wasn't sure if most the men on base were remotely that flexible. Were legs even supposed to spread like that? His hips hurt just watching it.
By the time she and Heatstroke had finished their respective workouts, Ghost realized he'd been sitting and stretching one leg through most of it. His knee gave a noisy pop as he bent said leg and stood up.
Maybe he was being just a tad too petty...
... Nah, Scarab needed to stop trying to kiss his boyfriend.
Notes:
This chapter was subject to some fun changes. For one, I expanded on the car chase, since it was originally a couple paragraphs long and kinda glossed over. Instead of Scarab's POV, we get Roach. The mission's gonna be messy, to put it lightly.
Hell, I preemptively dropped a few lines towards establishing what the frick Nikolai is doing there when he pops up seemingly out of nowhere to save Soap's ass in Plan B. I figure the Loyalists need something to do before they come back and become "important."
Chapter 4: Kicking it with the Boys out East
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 7, 8, and 9
7. Fly to mission. Scarab gets caught in a tree. Dog encounter. They sleep in the church tower.
8. Wake up. They enter a building, get caught. Soap is captured. Nikolai dicks with him as an interrogator before relaying the new plan.
9. Scarab trying to save Soap's ass. Nikolai busts Soap out. Scarab is caught, gets in a weight fight. Gets stabbed. Nikolai plants C4 while they escape to the helicopter. Soap tends to Scarab's stab. Nikolai blows the shit up, and flies them out.
Notes:
If you see dialogue inside [ ], then all that means is that it's not in English. I'm not dancing the Google Translate Tango for this. This also applies for all future chapters.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"So Captain, this is your second trip to Azerbaijan?" Hurricane asked from the cockpit.
MacTavish pulled himself from a convoluted train of thought that mainly centered on his current predicament, and looked to the backs of the pilot seats. "Aye, the SAS were sent to collect Al-Asad for interrogation."
For a majority of this time, Scarab had been quiet. It wasn't like Ghost, who simply would rather sit back and relax during a long helicopter ride. She just didn't seem willing to chime in unless other people were talking. So, once there was a hint of a conversation started, she asked next, "How did that work out?"
"Messy. We were in some tiny town, had to fight up hill to find him and hold that position for extraction, only to get told that the LZ had to change to the bottom of the hill where we started." Such a painful assignment. Not to mention Mac... He never made it home and his family never heard the real story. On bad nights, MacTavish sometimes woke in a cold sweat with those last, pained words he'd said over the comms ringing in his ears. He continued, "Al-Asad never left there alive either, my Captain at the time made sure of that."
The topic died after that. They still had time before they reached their destination, so MacTavish thought it best to review the mission details with Scarab before they got there. While they could sneak into the base properly, blow up the weapons cache and steal the shipment manifest, they had a back up plan in case one or both of them got captured. Nikolai would be able to let them loose so they could keep going.
She didn't ask any questions, so he assumed she understood it.
They reached the Drop Zone. While MacTavish landed just fine, Scarab must have listed off course slightly because she wound up stuck in a tree. He regarded her with amusement as she tugged and yanked on the emergency release, but to no avail. "Looks like you're in a snag, eh?"
Scarab huffed. "Yeah..." She pulled out her tactical knife and cut at the strings, finally landing on the ground, where she wrestled off the parachute harness. Together they pulled the chute out of the tree and tucked it out of sight. Landing gear concealed, they went on with their mission.
The first objective was to get into the base. The shipment should be in one of the warehouses.
"Bravo 6, this is Venom 1-2, there may be potential thunderstorms and crosswinds that'll be kicking up over the next several hours. We're going to land in Zone Charlie until it passes. If the storm's still going on by the time you need extraction, we'll be delayed in reaching you."
"Copy that."
The base was four klicks out from the DZ. Roughly 500 meters up a dirt slope was a road, and if they followed that, it would take them straight to said base. Since it was 23:00, there was less activity. Only two cars passed, and they were easy enough to spot and hide from by virtue of their headlights. By no means would this be a challenge for either of them.
About ten minutes into marching, the first droplets of rain fell. With a fitful rumble, the rain immediately picked up from a faint drizzle to a downpour. Another truck approached with its high beams like fog lamps in the heavy rain.
MacTavish pushed Scarab sideways off the road and into the underbrush so the car could pass. As the revving engine faded out along with the red glow of the tail lights, he sighed. His uniform was already soaked through... "Are we having fun yet?"
Having been pushed down to the ground, Scarab propped herself up to reveal her whole front (chest, neck, and chin) covered in mud. "Oodles..."
"Let's go-" MacTavish froze as he heard a very familiar sound just behind Scarab. The low reverb of an attack dog growling. In the dark and rain, he made out the jet black shape of a german shepherd behind her. It's head low and ears pinned as it bore stark white teeth. Scarab peeked back over her shoulder and also gave pause. MacTavish spoke as quietly as he could. "Don't move. The moment we try and run, it'll lunge at us. We'll back up, nice and easy."
If it was a military dog, why hadn't it attacked them?
Actually it hadn't barked either to alert anyone.
Difficult as it was to see, he saw no indication of a collar or a harness on this dog. While he'd seen attack dogs without them before, they were almost never far from their handler. Between that and it not doing more than growl at them, it didn't seem unlikely that this was a stray.
"I have an idea," Scarab whispered and reached into one of her pouches. From it, she produced a pack of peanut butter crackers. The wrapper crinkled noisily as she tore it open and set a couple on the ground between them and this dog. "Okay, back up. Maybe it'll leave us alone if it's got a treat."
MacTavish nodded, at a loss for words. This pooch definitely wasn't a military dog. That much was clear as it stopped growling at them and curiously sniffed the crackers before eating them. The Captain wasted no time in scooting away from the dog, back on the cracked pavement, and got to his feet. "Jesus fucking Christ..." The dog continued to snack away, tail low and ears still back. It definitely seemed more comfortable now that there was a little distance between them and it.
The feeling was mutual.
Scarab left the last of the crackers on the ground for it and got up. "I take it your not a fan of dogs, Captain?"
"Not for a long time, no," MacTavish answered, stepping back to place a little more distance between them. "Let's go, we've still got the mission."
Nodding in agreement, Scarab followed behind him as they continued on their way to the base. As they walked though, said dog tailed them now too. Scarab probably smelled like peanut butter, if he had to take a guess. It didn't want to bite them. Actually, it seemed more curious than anything.
Now that he was able to get a better look at it, he couldn't help noticing that the dog wasn't neutered either. Odds were it was a stray. Friendly, but a stray nonetheless. After a little ways, Scarab had stopped again to let the dog sniff her hand and even managed to get it comfortable enough for her to pet it on the side. MacTavish pinched at the bridge of his nose. "I don't think we'll be able to take that dog home with us."
Scarab glanced up at him with sad eyes. Was she a dog now? What the hell was this? "But he's such a friendly boy."
"That thing'll blow our cover if we try to take it with us in the base. Sorry, but we have to leave it." MacTavish frowned and added firmly, "Just shoo it off."
He didn't know if he would've rather been bit by the damn thing and risked rabies over this. At least it wouldn't be a problem. Scarab nudged the dog away and shooed it off. This only made it keep a marginal distance though...
At this point, MacTavish just hoped that when they reached the base, this dog would be spooked off by all the people and commotion. It seemed skittish enough.
The base was lit with floodlights, making it stand out starkly in all the rain. A patrol rounded the perimeter every couple of minutes. Fortunately, this seemed like enough activity to spook the dog away, as it gave a few startled barks and ran off.
Of course, those startled barks drew attention directly on them.
MacTavish instinctively shoved Scarab out of sight, but it was too late for him. The patrol surrounded him and shouted to drop his weapons. He made eye contact with Scarab, who peaked from behind a tree, pleading for her to stay hidden. She bit her lip and slipped out of sight.
Complying with the guards, he set his rifle down and raised his hands. One of the guards grabbed his wrists and cuffed them in front of him. At least he didn't need to be concussed this time.
At least he had a fallback plan this time.
They marched him into the base, and to a small room where they stripped him of his communicator, side arms, and other equipment. Being soaked through, he left a puddle around the chair they pushed him in. In front of him was a plain white table and another empty seat. No signs of any cameras or microphones, as far as he could see. He slid his hand along the underside of the table, but felt no indication of any devices either.
The door opened and MacTavish nearly choked on his tongue when he immediately recognized the man who stepped in as Nikolai. He schooled his features to total neutrality. There couldn't be any indication anything was up.
"[If it isn't one of the Western Special Forces,]" Nikolai said in Russian. He immediately swapped to English. "We have been expecting you after the trouble in Germany."
MacTavish glanced to the little window on the side wall. A pair of men were observing their exchange. He spoke carefully. "Is that right?"
"[Yes.] Now, if you would cooperate, we can answer a lot of questions pain free." Nikolai took the opposite seat and steepled his fingers. "Tell me, [friend], what was your objective here?"
Nikolai or not, he couldn't answer that question. Not with observers. MacTavish stayed quiet and turned his gaze down to the table. The only sound was a steady dripping of water off his metal chair.
"We captured only you. Surely there were others. Where were they?" Nikolai prodded.
"I can't answer that."
"You can't, or you won't?"
"..."
"I am giving you a chance to make this painless for you," Nikolai asserted. "I strongly suggest you cooperate."
It was at that time that MacTavish felt a tap to the toe of his boot. A steady pattern that he quickly realized was Morse code. It was too quiet to hear, and with the table so close to the window, there was little chance that the two guards observing were aware of this covert game of footsie.
"K-e-e-p q-u-i-e-t. W-i-l-l u-n-l-o-c-k y-o-u a-t m-i-d-n-i-g-h-t."
The tapping stopped. MacTavish acted nonplussed, twiddling his thumbs and keeping his head low. "I can't answer your questions." As he pulled this act though, he tapped back on Nikolai's shoe.
"L-e-f-t o-n-e m-a-n. S-h-e m-a-y s-t-i-l-l p-r-o-c-e-e-d w o-b-j."
Nikolai's foot withdrew as he stood up. "Then I will need to prepare my tools. Sorry it needs to be this way, [friend.]" With that, he left.
If MacTavish had to guess what time it was by the time that line of questioning was up, it was probably 23:50. He sat, cool as could be given his circumstances. The two guards at the window left in a hurry, oddly enough. Outside in the hall, there was a lot of frantic Russian chatter that he couldn't quite make out through the door.
The door flew open, revealing Nikolai with a ring of keys and a box of equipment under his arm. He dropped the box on the table and went straight to unlocking the handcuffs. "We may have a problem, my friend. An intruder was spotted in one of the hangars. All available personnel were called to assist."
All available personnel? To capture one person? Specifically Scarab? What kind of hell was that woman raising in those ten minutes? MacTavish threw back on all the harnesses and gear in the box, then picked up his gun from the bottom of the box. "That's not good. Any idea what kind of trouble she's in?"
"None. The alert was to Hangar 2, where the weapon shipment was being stored." Nikolai equipped a P90 and led the way to the hangar. They were on the second floor, and ended up on a catwalk that overlooked the hangar.
Down by the large stacks of shipment crates, MacTavish spotted Scarab with a large number of enemies surrounding her. One shouted, "Drop your weapon!"
Nikolai did a double take. "Soap, you never mentioned this other man was a woman."
"Pretty sure I said 'she.'" MacTavish aimed his gun. Only then did he notice the soft blinking red lights from armed C4 on a number of the crates. Seemed she was carrying on with the mission and actually managed to plant the explosives. Good thing bullets wouldn't trigger them. That was less the issue and more the fact that there was no good way to thin out the ring of guards without one or more of them shooting her on sight and then turning on them. And if they kill her, they also have the detonator. "This is a fine mess she's gotten herself in though."
Scarab set her ACR down on the floor and raised her hands. One of the guards approached with handcuffs, and got the cuff around one wrist when she uppercut the poor bastard's jaw. His head snapped back and he went down like a fallen tree.
She flipped out her pistol and shot down the first few guards who raised their guns at her, then spun on her heels and kicked another guy in the neck, sending him stumbling. MacTavish and Nikolai gawked for a couple of seconds before firing at the other guards to cover her while she fought off the ones with her pistol and some impressive amount of martial arts prowess. She struck one man in the side of the leg, knocking him off balance so she could smack him with the handle of her pistol. When another guard came at her next, she spun on a dime and roundhouse kicked this poor sod in the face. She moved so fast that the guards who did fire at her couldn't actually get a hit.
Just when it seemed all clear, one guard leaped out from behind the stack of crates, a knife in hand. She took a cut to the ribs, but immediately caught his arm and broke his wrist over her knee. The scream that came from the man was absolutely brutal. She capped him with her pistol and picked up her rifle. Glancing their way, she asked, "You alright, Captain?"
Was he alright? As MacTavish and Nikolai ran down the metal stairs to get to her, he took in her sopping wet and mud covered clothes. The cut on her side let out a steady gush of blood that was mixing with the watery puddle at her feet. She was a mess and asking if he was alright? "I'm fine. We've got to leave before the rest of the base comes around."
"Wait, what about the manifest?" She asked.
Nikolai pulled a folded bunch of papers from his coat pocket. "Got it."
He was glad someone remembered, because given all the commotion, he wouldn't have thought twice about it until they were clear out of the base. "Then there's no need to stay. Out the door, move!"
The three of them ran out of the hangar, back into the storm. It hadn't let up any and made it nearly impossible to hear each other without the aid of their comms. They ducked behind jeeps and kept out of sight of the Ultranationalists headed towards the hangar to provide back up a tad too late. They sprinted out of the base before a proper search could be made for them and made for the treeline, where they couldn't be followed by any vehicles.
"Detonate the C4!" MacTavish ordered. They had definitely cleared the blast radius by now. Scarab fumbled out the detonator and clicked down the button. Behind them, the thunderous explosion sent up a mess of flaming debris and a pillar of fire they could see between the trees. There were probably a mess of grenades and other explosives in that weapons cache that went off with the C4. It was a pretty satisfying boom.
Scarab dropped the detonator and leaned against a tree, holding her ribs. "That was almost crazy bad..."
"Yeah. Once we get on the helicopter, we should be able to take a look at your side," MacTavish said. He then tried to radio in Venom 1-2 for evac.
The response he received was less than helpful. "Negative, Bravo 6. The tail rotor was damaged in the wind while we were flying. We don't stand a chance in this storm until its fixed. Recommend you find somewhere safe to sit tight."
MacTavish groaned. Just his luck.
"They mentioned that after you got caught..." Scarab mentioned.
"Any chance that you happen to have a helicopter stored somewhere nearby?" MacTavish asked Nikolai with the faintest, fleeting glimmer of hope that they wouldn't be stuck out here.
Nikolai shook his head. "I was undercover, and I do not trust our chances going back to the base to commandeer a plane."
It was a long shot.
"Then I guess we'll need to find a place to hole up," MacTavish conceded.
His friend nodded. "If we find the road, we could follow it to the next town. It's about six kilometers, if I am not mistaken."
Almost an hour of walking... It wasn't ideal, but it was better than standing in this is monsoon with their thumbs up their asses. Before they left, MacTavish did a very quick patch job on Scarab's ribs, but the bandage probably wouldn't hold between all the blood and rain. Scarab swore up and down that she'd be fine and able to keep up.
To her credit, she definitely did. Despite having the scramble through uneven forest terrain for a bit before they could reach the road, and the fast jog that was set after the fact, she kept pace remarkably well. While they hustled along, he stayed close to better keep an eye on her. She was breathing a bit rapidly, but seemed fine otherwise. Occasionally, he talked to her, if only to make sure she was still cognizant.
"I knew you had some high PFT scores, but that was some impressive fighting back there."
Scarab swallowed and puffed a couple breaths before replying, "Thanks."
"Was it Muay Thai?"
"Not exactly. It's kickboxing though."
When they reached this town Nikolai mentioned, it looked like about half of it was deserted and parts were utilized as some sort of checkpoint before people drove towards the base. There were a few small patrols, but nothing too difficult to dispatch. They entered one of the empty buildings and set up a small space in a second floor room. While the rain continued to pour outside, MacTavish got Scarab to sit still while he properly addressed the cut with what basic first aid skills he had.
Scarab stripped off the upper portion of her uniform down to a plain black sports bra. The cut itself was a few inches below her breast and wasn't particularly deep, but the knife must've opened something because it was bleeding pretty consistently and was about as long as his hand. The little trauma kits that are issued only go so far, with a small collection of gauze pads, a pressure bandage, and sterile gloves. It'd be enough to hold things shut until they could get a medic to properly stitch the thing shut.
Once he had it cleaned and dressed, he sat back on his heels and assessed his handiwork. He had to loop the pressure bandage around her torso. It'd restrict her breathing somewhat. "It's not too tight?"
She shook her head and tenderly tapped at the dressing, cringing as she did. "No. Thanks."
Outside, lightning flashed and lit up the dark room. There was no telling when the storm would let up. The rain and wind only seemed to pick up. It was going to be a long night.
Notes:
Ho boy. Where to even begin with this one? In the original version, there was not one, not two, but FIVE unnecessary flashbacks that padded the narrative. They included relevant details such as:
-Soap had a dog as a kid who died apparently.
-Literally the last five minutes of MW, specifically that Loyalist giving Price CPR.
-Christmas time with the MacTavishes.
-Halloween with the MacTavishes.
-MacTavish's older brother falling off his bike and skinning his knee.
As quality as that content was, I needed to cut it. For time purposes. Yes...
Chapter 5: Cracking a Cold One with the Boys
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 10, 11, and 12a
10. Getaway subverted. They camp.
11. Wake up. They get to the extraction point. Scarab trips almost off the cliff. They leave.
12a. Pneumonia. At base, there's drama.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"A long night" only scratched the surface as far as this experience was concerned. The actual thunderstorm only lasted about an hour, but the wind and rain kept up for a long while after. All three of them were wet (Nikolai a little less, as his jacket was more waterproofed). The best that could be done was strip off the sopping wet uniforms, wring them out and set them to dry. They did a little searching of the house, and found a closet with a space heater and a couple musty blankets. It was about the best they could do at the moment.
MacTavish wasn't personally cold. The room was hovering at a little cooler than room temperature, but that was comfortable to him. Ghost always said he must just run a little warmer than everybody else. Of course, Nikolai seemed fine as well, but also still had some dry clothing and more time to adjust to the area.
If anyone was having trouble, it was Scarab. The woman was shivering, despite her clear efforts not to. Considering she was in wet trousers and a wet bra, he couldn't exactly blame her. She'd tried to squeeze the water out of her pants, but there's only so much you can do without taking them off. She was also still wearing that knit cap of hers and that also had to be soaked along with her hair.
In some pitiful way, she resembled a drenched kitten.
MacTavish brought one of the blankets and draped it over her shoulders. "Did you want to move closer to the heater?"
"I'm fine," she claimed. This was immediately followed by a high pitched sneeze.
... Definitely a kitten.
Was that a weird comparison? MacTavish decided it best not to dwell on it and sat down beside her. Across the room, Nikolai had made himself comfortable and dozed off, so they were effectively alone. Maybe now was his best chance to set the record straight with her. "Scarab, there's something I need to tell you..."
She lifted her chin and regarded him curiously. "You do?"
He didn't share her feelings. That was all he needed to say. "I want you to understand, I appreciate you as a good soldier. You've done well this mission, and I'm glad to see it. But I can't reciprocate your feelings."
"Why not?"
Was she really going to make him list the reasons? Shouldn't the simple fact he couldn't be enough? "Well, for starters, I'm your commanding officer. If word got out, it'd spell trouble for the both of us." It was a flimsy excuse for him; extraordinarily weak, considering he was with Ghost and a few of their teammates knew that already.
"Ooh, so you're worried about both our careers." Scarab smiled broadly and winked. "Don't worry, Captain, I can keep a secret."
...
Apparently Scarab liked the forbidden romance narrative. Why didn't he see this coming? She had to have known the rules before she pursued him. Regulations weren't enough to stop her, which meant that he needed to dig deeper. "That's um... Nice..."
Scarab crossed her arms around her knees. "It's that person you care about, isn't it? You're scared you'll disappoint them."
More like he already did. MacTavish turned his attention to his boots. It seemed he wasn't being nearly as subtle as he wanted. Either that, or Scarab was more observant than he realized. "Yeah, I am."
"If they make you feel so insecure, then maybe you should care a little less about what they think," Scarab suggested. "At least, that's my opinion."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I guess you could say that. My stepmom held me to a pretty high standard, especially after my dad and brother died. I cared too much about making things work and I almost didn't join the military because of it."
Her dad and brother both died? MacTavish mentally pulled up what he remembered of her file. It had been months since he'd last seen it, shortly after she joined the Task Force 141. It did list her biological parents and brother as deceased. The stepmother might be the only one in the picture for her. "That must've been rough."
"It was. But I'm here now." Scarab reached out and took his arm. "And you're here too."
His pulled his arm away. His stomach turned end over end with guilt. He couldn't just cut Ghost out of his life. They'd been together through thick and thin for the last four years. Ghost walked him out of a couple of the darkest chapters of his life, changed it in little, meaningful ways. He liked to think he was good for him too. The Lt. Riley who joined the 141 was bitter and closed off until MacTavish got to him. He dedicated so much love and energy into all the time he spent with him.
The argument he had with Ghost reared its ugly head in the back of his mind. Being called stupid did hurt. He never complained about the times it was said as a joke, but he couldn't think of a time when the word didn't sting. What's more, the lack of trust was painful. Maybe, in some way, Scarab had a point. Weren't these red flags?
In that moment, he pondered Scarab in a different light. Sure, she was awkward, a tad ditsy at times, but she seemed nice. She could be assertive when she wanted to be too. Right now, her words resonated with the bitter part of him lingering on the unresolved fight. Ghost hadn't apologized. He had a day to spit it out before they left on this assignment, and at no time did he stop him to say it.
In fact, Ghost made a point of avoiding him all that day. Why? What was he still hung up on that he couldn't apologize for it? When they settled down that night, they didn't utter a word between each other. They kept their backs to the other, and were practically on the edges of that single.
"We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to," she said.
"I guess not." MacTavish looked to her and took in every detail. Although he'd already known it, Scarab was a very pretty woman. Her eyes were warm honey brown, and she had a fair amount of developed muscle tone. He hadn't paid so much attention to it before, but those abs were damn nice too. "So, do you work out often?"
Scarab giggled and scratched her ear. "Yeah, I've got a routine laid out for that. It's all pretty standard, except I have a day dedicated to kickboxing practice and I try and get about fifteen minutes of yoga in beforehand."
"Yoga, huh? I get doing a few stretches so you don't pull something, but you go that far?" MacTavish asked.
"Yup. It helps with flexibility. Otherwise, I don't think I'd be able to do those high kicks." She nudged his shoulder. "Who knows, Captain, maybe I can teach you a few positions to help loosen you up."
The two looked at each other, and MacTavish swore her face was tinged red. The next minute, they were laughing. He nudged her back. "Aye. Lord knows I could use it."
"Give me a month. I'll have you doing splits in no time."
Ghost would definitely enjoy it, that was for sure.
... Ghost wouldn't enjoy this...
MacTavish sighed, and contemplated his next step forward with upmost care. Surely he could spare Scarab's feelings, find a way to let her down easy, and still make Ghost happy, right? There had to be a middle ground. Something he could do or say that could fix the mess he made for himself. "Scarab, I-"
Suddenly, her lips were on his, and much like before he didn't know what to do. Despite his better judgement, he didn't want to pull away. So instead, he engaged her further, wrapping a hand behind her neck and drawing her in close.
He didn't have a chance to contemplate how she kissed back on the balcony, but this time he found himself comparing. Her lips were a different shape than Ghost's; her top and lower lips were roughly the same thickness, whereas Ghost's upper lip was notably thinner. Within a few minutes, she swiped her tongue along his mouth. He'd been so used to Ghost's nipping that this caught him by surprise. None of it was bad, not as she melted into his chest, just different.
When they finally broke apart, MacTavish was speechless. As reality kicked back into gear, he glanced at the window. It'd be his luck that Ghost would somehow be here, hundreds of thousands of kilometers away from base, just to hang outside like goddamn Spiderman and spy on them. There was no sign of him.
Scarab leaned against his arm. "Sorry, you don't mind if I sleep here, right? You're really warm..."
"I don't mind," he replied. Without any sort of real mental input, his arm looped itself around her.
It didn't take long for Scarab to fall asleep, and soon he was left to his chaotic maelstrom of thoughts. As much as he wanted to be mad at Ghost, as much as he wanted to pretend this was a simple jealousy game, he couldn't justify this. He kissed her back, and in doing so validated Ghost's lack of faith.
He deserved better than him.
That singular conclusion settled like a rock in his gut. The thought of Ghost with anybody else was more painful than anything. There had to be a way to fix this. Something.
If he kept this to himself, maybe this would blow over. Tomorrow he'd break things off with Scarab. He'd let her off easy somehow.
--- --- ---
The rain stopped around dawn, and the sun broke through the dark clouds at the horizon. At about 03:00, Nikolai woke up and took the next watch shift so MacTavish could sleep. What sleep the Captain got wasn't restful though. He'd spent a long while contemplating how he could tell Scarab once and for all that he couldn't be with her.
To his credit, he came up with a plan, but the moment he nudged Scarab to wake her up, he noticed an unhealthy amount of heat radiating off of her. Despite her having slept the longest, she was pale, and her eyes dull and dark. "... It's morning...?" she croaked.
"Aye, rise and shine." MacTavish pulled on his partially dry uniform. The damp spots were warm from being near the space heater for hours on end. They clung to his skin with every movement. "The helicopter's coming to pick us up in an hour at the secondary extraction point, so get yourself sorted."
She nodded and took her uniform. Each move she made was slow, dragging. Once her uniform was on, she sniffled and coughed.
"Sounds like you caught a wee cold," MacTavish noted.
Scarab gave him a dead stare and echoed, "A wee cold."
"That's what I said."
She didn't respond further and instead finished pulling her jacket on over her shoulders. A shiver rippled up her back, and she visibly clenched her jaw. "How far away's the extraction point from here?"
"Three kilometers. Not far." MacTavish got on the rest of his gear and picked his gun up off the floor. Despite the small distance, Scarab looked as if she were asked to run a marathon. He nudged her shoulder. "You can rest when we get on the chopper."
They needed to double back towards the base, since the extraction point wasn't far from the Drop Zone. Much of it was uphill and most of the entire way, Scarab was audibly short on breath. Every so often, she slowed and coughed, but brushed off any question or concern he and Nikolai raised. By the time they reached the zone, an empty field, every breath she took had a faint, crackling undertone.
Once more, MacTavish tried to address the apparent problem. "Scarab, how're you holding up?"
"I'm fine..." She turned to face him, but visibly swayed. He caught her shoulder to steady her. She definitely wasn't fine. His attention turned down to her side. The wound could have gotten infected, or she could have caught something after being out in the rain and cold for so long. There was no telling-
From the distance, came a sharp bark. MacTavish stiffly looked back to see that same god damn dog from before running their way. Before he could impulsively draw his sidearm, Scarab took his hand in hers and stopped him.
"He's not going to tackle you," she said and crouched down. The dog slowed to a trot and approached her.
Nikolai stepped in beside MacTavish. "Is that the stray that has been getting into the trash bins?"
"We found it last night." MacTavish watched Scarab get out another pack of peanut butter crackers (how many freaking packs of those did she bring?) and feed the dog. "I think she wants to bring it back to base, but there's no way that'll happen."
Nikolai raised a brow at him. "Is that so? I could take it back to the Loyalist safe house. Kamarov would be fine with it." With that, the Russian approached Scarab and the dog. The stray scampered back as he came close, but with a little bit of coaxing it warmed up to the new face quickly.
"The poor thing's covered in ticks," Scarab noted, gently checking under its ears.
"It will need a very thorough cleaning."
At least the dog wasn't staying in R.A.F. Brook Line. MacTavish had to keep telling himself that as the helicopter picked them up and Nikolai coaxed the animal in with them. He sat a generous distance away while the others got better acquainted with it.
The co-pilot regarded them with confusion, "You're bringing a dog back?"
"It's not staying," MacTavish responded.
There was no relaxing most of that helicopter ride. For the first half, it was due to his fear of dogs. At some point half way through, Scarab took a turn for the worse. She rested her head in her hands and stayed like that a long while.
MacTavish scooted closer. "You alright, Scarab?"
"Yeah, just a headache." She didn't move. "I think I'll get a little rest..."
He touched the back of her neck and noted the heat radiating off her. "Go straight to the infirmary when we get back, okay?"
Scarab hummed faintly. It was probably a yes, but she then immediately followed it with leaning herself against his arm. It didn't take all that long for her to doze off. She didn't stir for the rest of the helicopter ride back, and it was difficult to rouse her when they finally landed. When she did wake up, she got up and immediately fell to a knee. "Just... just give me a minute..."
At this point, he'd seen enough. MacTavish pulled her up to her feet and knelt down in front of her. "Hop on."
"Captain...?"
"I can carry you there, you're clearly having trouble walking," he explained. This apparently was enough for Scarab, as she climbed on his back and he walked off the pave-low with Nikolai at his side and the dog at their heels.
And the first person that he should run into in? As his luck would have it, of course that was Ghost. Though difficult to make out, the lieutenant's brows furrowed behind his sunglasses. "What happened to her?"
It should have been a straightforward answer. As far as him carrying her went, this was innocent. Despite that, his brain made a detour back to the kiss the night before. Cotton mouthed, he answered, "She's sick and might have an infected wound. I'm taking her to Doc."
"That right? I'll come along." Ghost fell in step beside him as they walked off the landing zone towards the main building. "Must've been a tough run."
"Not really. We would've been back sooner if winds didn't mess with the tail rotor." MacTavish shifted Scarab's weight so that he could get a better grip on her legs. She loosened her arms around his neck. "She did pretty well, all things considered."
"Thanks, Captain," she mumbled.
Ghost side eyed her, but didn't comment. Instead, he changed gears. "Right. Once Doc's able to look at her, I think we've got some things to go over."
MacTavish glanced at him, but there was a lack of tension in his posture or any telltale signs of a problem. There was no way Ghost could know about that kiss. Zero. So why did he feel this dread deadening his joints?
"'Course. Did you want to discuss it in my office?"
"That should be fine," Ghost agreed.
They almost never spoke about work privately. The security of closed doors was usually reserved for personal conversations. Unless something classified came up that none of the men could hear, which he supposed wasn't an impossibility, he had every reason to assume it had something to do with their recent dispute.
At the infirmary, MacTavish dropped Scarab off and left her in Doc's capable hands with a friendly "Feel better" then left with Ghost. They diverted straight to his office. As soon as he shut the door behind them, the lieutenant took his hand.
Oh no... He only ever turned to hand holding if it was serious...
"Ghost?" MacTavish's voice was edged with nervousness.
"Listen, about what I said before, I'm sorry." With his free hand, Ghost took off his sunglasses and looked him square in the eyes. Though Ghost normally looked tired, today his dark circles were a touch more pronounced, his eye bags puffy. How much sleep did he lose over this? "I shouldn't have called you stupid. You're just trying to be nice, like always, and I should trust you."
With those words, MacTavish's chest hurt. An apology? Ghost was actually sorry for this? If only he could jump back and pull the plug on that kiss. He shouldn't have. No, he wouldn't have if he realized that Ghost would actually be sorry. Since it happened, he knew it had been a mistake and sure enough, he was right.
Maybe it was best if Ghost never heard about his lapse in judgement. He'd make it up to him by breaking things off with Scarab when she was feeling better. Once that sordid chapter was closed, maybe then their relationship could carry on with a semblance of normality.
"Well? Are you going to say something?" Ghost asked, pulling the lower half of his balaclava off his face.
"I should be sorry too. I was wrong." MacTavish gave Ghost's hand a squeeze.
Just like that, Ghost tugged him in and gave him a soft kiss. It was no more than that, and yet it felt like an assuring "I forgive you." MacTavish pulled him in, smooched his forehead, and held him close. Despite his mistakes and the shit he did, this man remained loyally by his side.
He'd make this right. Somehow, someway.
But how?
Notes:
This chapter was weird to write. I'll be hitting the part where Plan B goes off its rocker soon, and I'm not 100% decided on how I plan on handling it. This chapter had next to none of the original dialogue, mainly because Scarab and Soap swap cringe inducing bullying stories and none of it was relevant.
Originally, Scarab was supposed to be a gymnast as a kid, but the only reason that mattered was because there was an accident where she accidentally killed a classmate on the balance beam. Pretty sure I ripped that nonsense from "1000 Ways to Die" or something stupid like that. She also shares a story where a gaggle of girls harassed her to the point where one of them brought a knife to school and assaulted her - only for none of them to get in trouble. Neither of these angsty backstory points do much of anything (gymnastics girl gets mentioned once way later in a nightmare, but eh...) so I scrapped them. Odds are, Scarab's probably still got a history of doing gymnastics as well. I kinda like the idea of her being a cheerleader in high school as well.
Soap's bullied story wasn't all that inspired. Jocks gave him a hard time, blah blah blah... he hid in the school library. Again, it literally doesn't matter.On another note, Younger Me wasn't good at writing relationships. As I believe I mentioned, Soap sites a dead girlfriend during the balcony scene as why he didn't feel comfortable being with Scarab, who then disregards it. They kiss and I guess are kiiiiiinda a thing if you squint? That came back here originally too. I'm pretty sure Scarab was angsting about dead gymnastics girl, while Soap tries to comfort her. She turns around and says something like, "Well it's easy for you to say, you never watched someone you cared about die!" Soap is reasonably pissed. It's like Scarab only listens when its convenient.
In a whole other level of cringe, Soap doesn't even need the dead girlfriend to be pissed. Gaz literally gets capped right before his eyes before he can do anything about it.
Chapter 6: Surprise! It's Pneumonia!
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapter 12b
12b. At base, there's drama. Ghost is a good b-friend.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Turns out spending half the night running around in the rain isn't all that good for you. Who could've guessed? According to Doc, Scarab came down with the flu, so he placed her on sick leave for the next few days. Hopefully after that, she'd be back to work. MacTavish took this time to plot a game plan for how he could let Scarab down easy. He thought out an entire "it's not you, it's me" speech about how he was gay (it wasn't accurate, Ghost and a couple other men were very specific exceptions) and that he didn't feel comfortable telling her up to this point. Something something, don't ask don't tell, and hope to fuck and back that she believes him.
After a couple days of hanging around on base, Nikolai was given a ride back to the Loyalist hideout in Ukraine, taking the dog, now dubbed Chekhov, with him. Before he boarded the plane, Nikolai patted his shoulder and said, "Good luck with your girlfriend."
"Girlfriend," MacTavish repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face. "W-wait, what gave you that idea?"
Nikolai frowned and tipped his head. "My friend, did you really think I could sleep with the two of you talking? You kissed as well, yes?"
He saw... Christ Almighty, he saw that...
He wanted to correct the man, but his words lodged in his throat. There was no way he could explain the situation he was in. The topic of homosexuality never came up between them, so he had no idea what Nikolai would think. He was a good friend, but this had the potential to be polarizing. Besides, Russia had a reputation as far as homophobia was concerned. The odds didn't look good. Instead, he croaked, "It's complicated..."
Nikolai didn't seem to think twice on that answer. "Like I said, best of luck to you." He gave him one of his bear hugs, patting his back as he did, before taking his leave. Could he be any more cryptic?
The following evening, MacTavish poked his head in Doc's office to inquire about Scarab. The medic was going through a few files in the cabinet at the time. He plucked one manila folder from the drawer and regarded the Captain with a nod.
"Let me guess, did you roll your ankle again?"
You slip on the O-course one time... MacTavish shook his head. "No. I'm just checking if Scarab was cleared for duty."
Doc set the folder down and fished through his pen cup for a highlighter. "Private Macey? I was going to send the report on that to your desk, but alright." He pulled a different paper from under the chaotic spread of files on his work desk, and held it out to MacTavish for him to take. "She reported that her cough got worse and she's having a severe amount of pain in her left side and back. Her fever spiked too. I think it's possible she might have developed pneumonia. For now, I'll be keeping her on bed rest for the rest of the week and put her on an antibiotic and Motrin."
She was still sick. Worse apparently. So much for resolving things tomorrow. MacTavish nodded. "I see."
Doc didn't look up as he ran the highlighter along a couple lines in whatever document he was going through. "She's spirited, I'll give her that. Managed to walk her ass all the way over here from the barracks. I had to call over Brandy to make sure she made it back to her dorm."
Brandy was a different medic. MacTavish encountered him less often than Doc, so he didn't know all that much about him. The guy was from the U.S. Army, and was a Sergeant if he wasn't mistaken. Like many of the men here, General Shepherd personally picked him, but his records were so painfully average that MacTavish had skimmed it. On one hand, he questioned why the medic was pulled at all, but on the other he did his work and didn't stir trouble.
"Was there something else you needed, Captain?" Doc asked.
"Ah, no. Thanks."
He didn't have much of anywhere to go after that, so he meandered back towards the barracks. It wasn't late, but most of the men would probably be off duty. A piece of paper was taped to the door to his quarters. He stared down the scrawled note.
It could only be from one person: Worm. That man's penmanship was so bad MacTavish had to have him retype any debriefs and paperwork he's ever turned in. He kept insisting that it was legible, but when you somehow can mistake "windy" for "vemly" there was a serious problem.
"Ya, Captain..." He squinted. "That's a fucking eight.... Okay, eight scribble ccur dhulhenge? Wait... Did he misspell soccer? Soccer challenge. C... C-uvme? to the friend?" MacTavish rubbed his chin. "Apparently someone wants to play football."
MacTavish plucked the note off his door and shoved it in his pocket. There was only one place anybody played football on base, and that was the field they used for drills. They had a couple of small nets that could be set up and stored as needed, so it was a good pass time for everyone. It used to be rugby until Buck got tackled hard, hit his head on the ground, and had anterograde amnesia for about a week. He ended up off the duty roster for a whole month, Price had to fumble through reporting the incident to Shepherd, and Roach (the best rugby player they had) was too scared to play because he was the poor sod who tackled Buck in the first place.
By context clues alone, he came across a crowd of twenty one people in the field in a mix of partial uniforms, gym clothes, and shirtlessness. Ghost and Roach were chatting to the side when he approached.
"Glad you decided to show up, MacTavish," Ghost greeted. His mask was still on and his sleeves were rolled up over his forearms. "I was starting to wonder."
"You could've picked someone other than Worm to send the missive." MacTavish replied, passing him the note. Ghost took one look and snorted a laugh. The Captain added, "I didn't realize people could write aneurysms."
Ghost shrugged. It was difficult to tell, but with the way the mask shifted on his face, he was definitely grinning. "I was going to send Roach, but I figured it wouldn't grab your attention like one of Worm's notes. You've been distracted these last few days, and I need another person on my team, so be a dear and help me kick Meat's arse."
It was impossible for him not to smile at this. "Just tell me where you want me."
That grin finally reached the lieutenant's eyes as they crinkled in the corners. "Goalie."
The ball came flying in from MacTavish's peripheral and he swatted it down to the ground before it could hit him in the hip. At its point of origin was Meat. "Hey, if you two are done shooting the shit, we can get this show on the road!"
And so began an hour long game, marked by a collection of Meat's dad jokes and Worm getting regularly called on illegal use of hands. MacTavish didn't claim to be the best goalie, but the net was half the size of a normal one. Only a couple of shots got past him, and they were from Archer, who managed to put such a ridiculous spin on the ball that it effectively dodged his hand.
The sun dropped below the horizon and soon the field was only lit by the full moon and the semi-distant flood lights around the base's buildings and barracks. The low light made white shirts and skin appear to glow. The ball blinked in and out of his line of sight between a tangle of legs. On the opposite end of the field, Meat's goalie, Heatstroke, didn't fair so well under the combined tag team of Roach and Ghost on offense. At one point, Roach passed the ball to Ghost, and the lieutenant launched that thing so fast that it was a blur.
It hit Heatstroke square in the chest, and every man in the field was treated to her shout, "Fuck! My tit!"
"You alright?" Ghost asked.
Heatstroke held her boob. "Yeah, I think I'll live."
The game was close, about 4-3, with their team on top. The lot of them went to the mess together, chatting and laughing. Dinner was already served and in full swing. This horde of sweat soaked men took up a whole table. MacTavish sat at the far end with Ghost by his side.
"It's good to see everyone in high spirits," MacTavish mentioned.
Ghost picked at his stew. "I don't think you realize how much of an impact you have on them. These last few days, you've been antsy and they pick up on that. Meat arranged this game to ease the tension."
Down on the opposite end of the table, Meat reached across and snagged Royce's dinner roll, jamming it in his mouth. Royce rolled his eyes, but didn't seem especially bothered by the loss of his roll. Certainly not when Roach simply handed him his.
"You're right," MacTavish said. "If the General allows it, they all deserve a holiday."
"If? Planning on some negotiations?" Ghost asked. "If we're lucky, maybe we'll get an actual Christmas party this year."
Last year, they made a tree out of tires and aluminum bottles outside one of the warehouses. They worked as usual. It was late July now. Maybe if he put the suggestion out there early, Shepherd would be more willing to agree to the idea. "We'll see."
Ghost tapped his knee against his. "Christmas party or not, maybe we can drive to that bar in town when we got a day to kill."
The bar in question was some quaint hole in the wall they discovered a few years back and frequented after missions. They'd have a few rounds, walk the lamp lit streets. If they went in civilian clothes, MacTavish felt comfortable enough to sit close and hold hands and kiss in public.
A few times, they crashed at a motel for the night and relished in the additional privacy. Away from base, the pair of them were willing to be a lot more adventurous than in his quarters. Despite paper thin walls, noise didn't feel like so much an issue.
MacTavish idled with his spork. He didn't realize he was nearly this much a romantic until Ghost. If they weren't around other people, if his image didn't matter, he'd kiss Ghost on the head and hold him close. "I'd like that. I can treat you, if you want."
"Something tells me you could use the treat more than me, mate," Ghost remarked.
Up to this point, MacTavish had one of his hands in his lap. Ghost's stealthily slipped over and locked their fingers together. This was as much as they could get away with without drawing attention to it. It was so small, and yet it meant so much. When dinner was done, Ghost had no choice but to let go.
Only when they returned to the privacy of MacTavish's quarters were they able to act further. The bed creaked as MacTavish straddled over Ghost and pulled his mask up to kiss his jawline.
Ghost laughed lightly, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "You're being extra affectionate today, aren't you?"
"After everything, I think you deserve a little spoiling." MacTavish pecked his lips and drew back just to watch Ghost push his head up for more. "Whatever you want this time."
"Anything?"
"Mhm..." MacTavish slipped his hand up Ghost's shirt and felt along his chest. He gave one of his nipples a gentle twist, the lieutenant gasped. "Well, Ghost?"
Ghost tugged the mask off all the way at this point. His short hair was matted from being contained for so long. "For starters, don't call me Ghost."
MacTavish hummed against his neck, amused by the request. "And what would you like me to call you, Lieutenant?"
Before Ghost could answer, he traced his finger down his abs. This elicited a shudder. "N-not that."
"Oh? Riley then?" He reached the tented fabric of his pants. Camouflage didn't do a whole lot of good hiding it. Pressing down with the heel of his palm, he came up to Ghost's ear and asked, "Or would you rather I call you Simon?"
There were goosebumps all up Ghost's arms, and he felt the perked hair brush against his neck as Ghost embraced him. "Please. Simon's good."
--- --- ---
Heatstroke returned to her dorm after the soccer game and dinner. It was a high energy match, and she was pleasantly tired. Thankfully her boob stopped stinging after Ghost's kick. She thought it'd bruise for a sec.
Tucked under a couple thin blankets and propped up with her pillow, Scarab finally seemed to be sleeping. Heatstroke sighed with relief. The last few days had been rough. Nothing but coughing and wheezing and Scarab complaining that she couldn't sleep whatsoever with how much pain she was in.
Maybe she just got so tired that she couldn't stay awake.
Thinking little on the matter, Heatstroke changed out of her sweaty clothes and crawled into her bed on the other side of the room. Being here now, with Scarab, was absolutely surreal. Once upon a little over a decade before, they met in school and became fast friends. In a lot of ways, she joined the military because the way Scarab talked about it inspired her.
Who would've thought that they'd both be here together? If it were a dream, it was one she didn't want to wake up from.
Before she could fall asleep, Scarab woke with a fit of hacking coughs. She clutched her side and groaned once it subsided. "...Riley...? What time is it?"
"Ten past 21:00. Did you need something?" Heatstroke sat up and crossed her legs.
Scarab shook her head. "Don't worry about it, I don't have much of an appetite anyways."
"Pneumonia must be kicking your ass."
With a faint nod, Scarab drew a short, wheezing breath, and tapped her head back against the wall. "I feel terrible."
Notes:
This chapter was weird to write, since I had literally about only half of Plan B's chapter worth of material to work with. It's only about 500-700 words worth of material that I somehow had to expand into a full chapter. This ended up being shorter than the others, but it's mostly a breather episode. Nice because the next one is where Plan B goes ape shit. Scarab develops pneumonia as a result of her flu, and people around the base are trying to get MacTavish less anxious in their own ways.
Originally, Roach tries to get him to join a game of rugby and gets turned down. Then Meat and Royce tag team and abduct him for a walk on the hiking trails. Now, because I'm a sucker for wholesome family moments, I changed it to a soccer game where more of the characters could get involved. I guess in theory, they could have a mini soccer tournament, since they have enough for four teams with a couple people left over. Probably more if they use smaller teams. I'll need to consider that for an Extra.
Also, Younger Me didn't know how pneumonia worked. Sure enough, last year, I came down with it and got misdiagnosed about 2-3 times. I reread this chapter and the next after that, and it's laughable how wrong I wrote it. I'm not writing it from Scarab's perspective, but I'm keeping it a lot more in line with how that actually works.
I'm not looking forward to fixing the next arc of this story...
Chapter 7: Cigarette-Dumpster Fire
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 13, 14, and 15a
13. Scarab's still sick. Medic thinks they should put her out of her misery. Ghost is still a good b-friend. Scarab recovers.
14. They question the medic on wanting to euthanize Scarab. He's Russian now! He tried to shoot Scarab but bulletproof vest. Interrogation with Ghost. He works with Makarov. He dies before he can out General Shepherd.
15a. Enter Shepherd. He says stupid thing, Scarab hears and cries traitor. He sends her to an asylum.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Several years ago, MacTavish had a two week assignment in Texas for a military training exercise. Long story short, he stepped in a fire ant nest and the swarm got in under his boot and pant leg to sting him up to his thigh. The pain of all those stings kept him up for a couple days. The way the company was darting every which way felt oddly reminiscent to that swarming behavior. He couldn't go more than ten minutes without someone approaching him for something or some problem and asking how he wanted it addressed.
The reason behind the sudden activity was simple. General Shepherd said he'd be coming at the end of the week to inspect the base. A bit of housekeeping and maintenance work was needed to make the place presentable (there was still a hole in the rec room wall that needed spackling after Roach's birthday party). The General was a notorious perfectionist, so any slight crack, paint bubble, and dead light bulb got scrutinized. MacTavish had a mess of things to worry about between the odd list of repairs and paperwork, so maybe that was why he completely spaced on Scarab still being on SIQ status.
He probably wouldn't have thought about it at all if he hadn't run into Heatstroke one day. The woman had oil stains on her clothes, a couple spots on her face. Odds were she got pulled to help strip and clean every gun in the armory. Heatstroke waved a filthy cleaning rag as she flagged him down. "Hey, Captain!"
MacTavish shifted a stack of paperwork in need of filing under his arm. "Hey. Been keeping busy, I hope."
She nodded and rested a hand on her hip. "You know it. I'm just glad Ghost didn't assign me to inventory the warehouse."
That usually fell on Scarecrow or Rocket, the former being good with crunching numbers and the latter kept earning himself off record wrist slaps due to minor infractions that MacTavish didn't feel were worth writing up. "Aces in their places. He probably put you there because your rifle was the cleanest."
"Probably," she agreed. "So, uh, I don't mean to pry or anything, Captain, but I overheard Brandy mention that Scarab might need to be sent to the clinic. Do you think that's something that'll have to happen?"
... Now that she mentioned it, he recalled Brandy saying as much to him. Unfortunately, the Captain was on day three of skipping sleep to catch up on paperwork and Brandy confronted him during one of his brief breaks (10 minutes of resting his head on his desk with his eyes shut). The conversation went in one ear and out the other. MacTavish gave a couple bewildered blinks as the exchange was refreshed in his head. "Right... he did say that, didn't he. I'm no doctor, Heatstroke, so if he and Doc think that she needs it, then I'm not going to argue."
Heatstroke's blue eyes turned stormy as she looked down. "That's fair. She hasn't gotten much of any sleep in a week now. I'm worried."
"She's spirited," MacTavish said, repeating Doc's earlier words, and patted Heatstroke on the bicep. "Let's just do what we can to make sure she's taken care of, and I'm sure the situation will sort itself out."
"I've gotta get some more solvent. Thanks for your time, Captain." Heatstroke hurried past him, but she lost much of the spring in her step that had been there before.
The two of them were close, he knew that much already. Where one was, the other was often times nearby. He wished he could offer more definite assurance than this, but General Shepherd's helicopter would be landing noon tomorrow and that had to take priority.
By that evening, he finally got the rest of the paperwork filled, sorted, and filed. Much of the small tasks assigned around the base were taken care of too. A cracked tile in one of the latrines wasn't addressed, but he could find a way to steer General Shepherd away from that. He went back to his dorm to get some much needed sleep.
Ghost was already sitting on his bed, cross legged and reading a book. Wordlessly, he flopped in beside him, causing the lieutenant to bounce on the creaky mattress. Turning the page, Ghost continued reading. "Long day?"
MacTavish dropped his head into the pillow and mumbled, "A wee bit.."
He felt a hand smooth down his mohawk. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Truthfully, he wanted to sleep. He shifted his head to one side so he could speak clearly. "Brandy's considering sending Scarab to a clinic. I ran into Heatstroke and she's worried. Said she's barely sleeping."
"Sounds familiar."
MacTavish glared at him from the corner of his eye. "Cute. My work's done."
Ghost lowered his book. "Yes, but remember how the last time you pulled three all-nighters, you slept in a whole day and were tired for another four? How do you plan on keeping up once General Shepherd arrives?"
"Coffee and self denial. Next question?"
"I'm just worried about you is all. Things have been kicking up and you work yourself ragged." Ghost continued to pet him. Feeling his thumb brush along the buzzed down hair on the side of his head, MacTavish shut his eyes and yawned. "If you need me to, I can deal with the General so you can rest."
The best MacTavish could formulate for a response was a grunt. Ghost clicked his tongue and the bed creaked as he moved around.
"Could at least kick your boots off before you decide to pass out."
If MacTavish weren't so dead tired, he would've helped in some way as Ghost untied his laces and pulled his boots off. They hit the floor with a couple soft clacks and Ghost tangled himself up around him. Warm and comfy, he was out.
--- --- ---
Every single gun had needed to be cleaned in the armory. Heatstroke, Ghost, and Roach tag teamed the job over the last two days and managed to finish up with time to spare. At this point, she was convinced she'd smell like gun cleaner and lubricant for weeks. Her fingertips were peeling from so many rounds of solvents and oils and then hand washings. Her pinkie nail even split pretty close to the nail bed.
When she returned to her and Scarab's quarters, it was to the woman having yet another coughing fit. Heatstroke sat by her bedside and passed her a cup of water. "How you feeling?"
"Like shit." Scarab barely got a sip in before she bowed her head and coughed again into the crook of her elbow. Due to the violence of her hacking, she spilled a bit of water on the blanket.
Not knowing what else to do, Heatstroke took back the cup and tentatively rubbed her hand along Scarab's back. She didn't know how much good this did, but it seemed to offer a little bit of comfort. "Not feeling any better at all?"
The coughing subsided. "My ribs don't hurt as much, I guess." Scarab rubbed her eyes. "Fuck..."
It was a loose answer, hardly anything, but it made Heatstroke hopeful. Maybe it'd be enough that she'd be able to properly lay down and sleep.
That night, her hopes were dashed, as Scarab coughed through the night and was still in too much pain to catch more than an hour of rest. Heatstroke was kept up most of the night as well by the noise. The next morning, she was nearly passing out in her cereal.
Roach tapped her shoulder, snapping her back to alertness. "Did you hear what I said?"
"Mm? Sorry." Heatstroke would have added more, but she cut herself off with a loud yawn.
He sighed. "It's fine. I'm just a little worried about the Captain. He's been up for few days getting all this work done and General Shepherd's coming today."
Oh, Captain MacTavish hasn't been sleeping well these last few days? Considering Scarab's been up for the last week, and by extension Heatstroke was also losing a lot of sleep, she found it a little hard to feel sympathetic. He could go to bed if he wanted. If he found a better balance between his paperwork and other duties, he wouldn't have to work three days straight to get all that clerical work caught up.
Better yet, he should just get a fucking secretary.
He'd better not get a desk job ever.
"You're spacing again," Roach noted.
"What kinda secretary do you think the Captain would get?" She asked.
Roach gawked. "Umm... I don't know. He's pretty stubborn about doing his own work himself."
"He looks like a red-head sort to me."
"Sure, Heatstroke. Whatever you say." Roach tapped the bowl on her tray. "Finish your breakfast will you? Your oats are going to turn to mush."
She huffed and scarfed the rest of her cereal down. Breakfast made her marginally more awake, at least enough that she was able to drag her sorry ass through drills and demonstrations and then her regular duties. Throughout the day, she spotted General Shepherd, either flanked by MacTavish/Ghost/both, as he toured the base. Along with them were a couple of soldiers garbed in full black uniforms; a patch on their sleeve was a spade, and a different one was a rook with the writing "Umbra Catervae."
"Shadow Company...?" The name was unfamiliar. The patches more so. Maybe these were special forces so special that Shepherd kept them extra secret. Dudes were wearing all black after all. This read like a secret family type situation.
That evening, she found Ghost in the rec room reading and decided he'd be a good person to ask. "So what's the deal with those guys in black with Shepherd?"
Ghost lowered his book. "Them? PMCs. The General wanted a separate force available that could work in tandem with us. So odds are we'll have a few joint ops with them in the near future."
They were a new bunch of toys for the man. Suddenly those patches seemed fitting. Heatstroke left Ghost to his reading and retired for the evening. On her way back to her quarters, she spied Shepherd and Brandy talking in the otherwise empty infirmary, but didn't think twice on that. Old man probably had back pains.
Interestingly, Scarab's cough had died down significantly since that morning. What's more, she was finally asleep. Heatstroke heaved a sigh of relief and hit the hay as well.
When Heatstroke woke up, it was to an all too familiar bang. A single gunshot: Desert Eagle, if she had to guess. The sky and room were dark, but in the shadows she could just barely make out the outline of the other bed. Empty. Heatstroke's heart dropped.
Where was Scarab? There was no going back to sleep now. She yanked on her boots and in her haste tucked her laces in under the tongue of the shoes, and raced out of the barracks. There were a few other stray men awoken by the gunshot and in various states of tired confusion who milled in the hallway.
The armory wasn't too far from the barracks themselves. Heatstroke sprinted over, grabbed the handle, and threw the door wide open. Dark spatter painted the far wall. Peeking out from behind the counter, was a limp hand and the edge of a blood puddle.
She'd been deployed in Afghanistan a couple times, went on anti terrorism assignments with the Task Force, and saw a lot in her eight years of service. Death was no stranger. There was a disconnect though. When it was enemy militia running at you guns ablaze, you stop thinking about the fact that you are taking lives. But this wasn't a war zone. This was a base, the safest place any of them could be, and one of their own was lying dead.
Her blood erratically pounded in hear eardrums. She couldn't move, her legs refused to step forward into the room or turn and run. She was queasy, dizzy. The floor felt like it was crawling beneath her. Her tongue lost all feeling.
Suddenly, the armory fell away into a black sea.
--- --- ---
MacTavish woke to a loud banging on his door. A frantic voice shouted, "Captain! Captain! It's an emergency!"
Was that... Scarab...? Wasn't she still on sick leave? Why the bloody hell was she of all people here notifying him of an emergency?
Ghost was also sitting up in bed at this point and wore a similar look of confusion. MacTavish waved for him to stay down and he got up to answer the door. Scarab was in the hall, dressed lightly and shaking. Her face was ghostly pale. For two seconds, he felt like he was staring at a banshee.
"It's the middle of the night, Scarab. What's wrong?"
"Brandy, he- he's dead!"
Banshee apparently wasn't inaccurate. It was a combination of extreme exhaustion and shock that prompted MacTavish's unhelpful response of "...huh?"
She grabbed his hand and tugged him out of the room with a frantic, "Come on! COME ON!"
He had no choice but to follow. "Alright, alright. Do you know what happened?"
Scarab didn't let him go for a second, so he felt her hand tighten as she said, "Brandy broke into the armory and- It looks like a suicide..."
This didn't feel real.
It couldn't be.
Of all people, Brandy? He was reclusive and all, but MacTavish hadn't exactly pegged him as the type.
Then again, he barely knew him. The warning signs were probably there and he just didn't see them...
When they reached the armory, there was a mess of activity there. Royce kept a number of other curious onlookers away from the room. Near the wide open door, Roach and General Shepherd were crouched beside an unconscious Heatstroke.
Scarab paused and dropped MacTavish's hand. "Shit, Riley?!" She tried to run over to the other woman, but Royce stopped her with an arm.
"Please, just stay back for now, we don't want too many people near the scene."
"I found the fucking scene. Now let me through." Scarab slapped his arm out of her way and rushed over to Heatstroke's side.
Royce made no further move to stop her. "I sent Meat to get you, Captain. You didn't happen to see him on your way, did you?"
"No. Why the hell's the General here?" MacTavish asked. "And Heatstroke for that matter?"
"Hell if I know. They both must've heard the gun shot like the rest of us. General Shepherd was turning Heatstroke on her side when I came over. Roach was with me too, he'll say the same thing." Royce sidestepped to let him pass. "Anyways, you should go talk to him."
MacTavish nodded and approached the growing horde around Heatstroke. "She responsive?"
"Yeah..." Heatstroke herself answered in a small voice, and waved a hand.
"She tried to sit up and nearly fainted all over again." Roach explained. "I could carry her down to the infirmary, Captain. Get Doc to have a look."
"Go ahead."
Roach helped Heatstroke up and offered his shoulder for her to hang off as her legs quaked like a baby deer. Heatstroke was notably shorter than him, so it looked a little awkward. Scarab got up and started to follow them as well.
"Scarab, you stay here." MacTavish ran his hand through his mohawk. "You said you were the first person to find the body, so I've got questions for you."
The woman nodded grimly.
It was about then that Meat and Ghost appeared. "So I couldn't find Captain MacTavish, but I did find Ghost- Oh shit, he's already here?"
"Been here for a few minutes now," Royce confirmed. "Scarab fetched him."
"General Shepherd, you wouldn't mind answering some questions as well?" MacTavish asked.
The General didn't seem remotely bothered by the question. "Seeing as I've become a witness, I will need to anyways."
"Good." MacTavish waved Ghost over. "Mind checking the scene?"
"Will do."
MacTavish turned back to General Shepherd and Scarab. "Alright. Scarab, apparently you were the first one on the scene?"
"That's right. I was getting some fresh air outside the barracks when I heard the gunshot. I came running, and discovered the lock was broken on the door. Brandy was in there. There was a note he'd left on the counter. I didn't read it, since it was a couple pages and I didn't feel like there was time, so I went to get you."
"You didn't see him go in the armory at all?"
"No, sir. I would've stopped him if I had."
"And what about you, sir?" MacTavish asked.
General Shepherd glanced at the doorway. "It was late and I was having a smoke when I heard the shot. I was closer to the offices, so it took me longer to get here. When I turned the corner, I noticed Corporal Jays collapsed just outside, so I checked if she was okay and then went inside the room to investigate. Sergeant Brandy was dead, of course. I didn't notice a note though."
MacTavish leaned into the armory. "Oi, Ghost, do you see a note on the counter?"
Ghost's head popped up from behind the counter. "No." And like a gopher, he vanished from view again.
Nothing like the mystery of the disappearing note. "Okay. The only real issue I'm seeing with both your accounts is whether or not Brandy left a note behind. Maybe Heatstroke went in and picked it up?"
"Seems unlikely," the General said. "Why would she go in, pocket it, and then faint in the hallway? I'm pretty sure she didn't step foot in the room."
Scratch that. MacTavish went to the next logical answer. "Scarab, did you take anything in the room, the note or otherwise?"
"No. I looked, but I didn't touch anything." To further her point, she turned out her sweatpants pockets to show that they were empty.
That left two final explanations and he didn't like either one. "If neither Heatstroke nor you took the note, then that means that General Shepherd would have had to or else there wasn't a note in the first place."
"I don't have the note," Shepherd stated. "If you feel you have to, you can check."
Better safe than sorry, right? MacTavish patted the General down. If there was a two page thick note folded up in one of his uniform pockets, he would have felt that. The pat down turned up nothing. "Scarab, are you sure you didn't happen to see some other document on the table?"
Scarab's eyes flashed and she continued to allege that "The note was there, it has to be somewhere." Although he'd already noticed it, in her frantic and alarmed state, she had a very sickly pallor and dark circles so pronounced that she almost looked like she had a pair of shiners. He stopped being able to keep up with her attempts to rationalize how the note could exist, in part because she was talking so fast that she was spitting on every other word. The first words he definitely understood was when Scarab jabbed a finger at General Shepherd. "You! You're a traitor!"
This caused just about everyone in the hallway to gawk at her. Ghost had even stood up and spectated with his sunglasses hanging low on his nose.
General Shepherd pushed her hand down from his face. "Okay now, I'm not. What the fuck are you talking about, Private?"
"Don't play dumb!" She snapped. "If you don't have the note then you must've hid it somewhere, right? Why? Brandy must've known you were up to something and wrote it in his note!"
What. The. Fuck.
"It's been a long month..." Shepherd sighed, shaking his head. "I know Brandy was primarily taking care of you this last week, and the situation now must be distressing for you. If you need to take a few days to sort yourself out, that's fine. But-"
"But nothing! I know I saw it! It was there!" Scarab then looked to MacTavish and the others in the hall, seeking back up on the matter. His stomach lurched. Clearly she had no idea how manic she sounded right now. Her brows pinched with frustration.
MacTavish stepped in and set a hand on her shoulder. "Scarab, this is a hard time for everyone. Maybe it's best if you do just relax for a bit."
"But, Captain-!"
"Scarab!" He shouted. It was enough to make her clamp her mouth shut. "Listen. You're not in the best frame of mind right now. I'm relieving you of duty for the next three days. See the councilor in that time. Am I understood?"
Scarab lost much of the hostility in her posture, replaced with defeat and visible helplessness as she answered with a faint "Yes, sir..." and dragged her feet on the way out.
General Shepherd patted MacTavish on the shoulder. "You did the right thing, son."
Notes:
This chapter was an absolute time and a half. My beta reader had to do a double take because this reads so differently than how this plays out in Plan B.
Originally, Brandy was a nameless medic who was suggests euthanasia when Scarab doesn't seem to be recovering from pneumonia in a week. That's not even an exaggeration. I wish it was. Scarab gets better out of nowhere, and she and Soap question him about why he wanted to have her killed (valid concern to bring up to one's physician). He flops through a shitty explanation before switching to a Russian accent and revealing that "SURPRISE" he was working with Makarov all along. They get Ghost in on the party and interrogate this guy. Then Shepherd "leaped into the room" asking what happened (for added stupidity, he had no reason to be there either, he just was). They sass their CO a bit and Shepherd grumbles about wanting to kill them under his breath, at which point Scarab screams about him being a traitor. He tries to let her off easy, like he's way more reasonable about this than he needs to be. And then she attempts to assault him and he has Meat and Royce send her to an asylum.
Did you lose any brain cells yet?
I sure as shit did trying to figure a way to make all that make sense.
Ultimately, I wanted the medic to still die, and I wanted it to be ambiguous whether or not the note actually existed so that I could keep a large amount of the general conflict here intact.On a separate note, I'm adding the Plan B chapter summaries I have jotted down in the chapter summary section so that you guys can get a clue what the source material had and I can cover the more minute details in my end notes.
Chapter 8: The Open Can of Worms
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 15b and 16
15b. Soap visits, they fight.
16. Shepherd has Scarab's memories erased. She is returned, remembers shit within a day. Shepherd threatens her, then shoots her. She's found and tended to.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Brandy's death left the base shaken. For something like this to happen, here of all places, it was unsettling. With no final words, there wasn't any definitive way to know for sure exactly why he chose to take his own life. The mystery presented a host of speculation from the rumor mill, guesses and assertions about him. Contradictions mainly. There were warning signs. There weren't any. Brandy tried to reach out. Brandy didn't try. He was depressed. He was getting better...
Reviewing all the photographs of the scene and the Sergeant's file, Ghost's windpipe constricted. There wasn't any doubt that this was a suicide. The pistol was in his hand, and every detail of the scene was consistent with him having shot himself and collapsing. His body was packed and sent back to his parents in the States. His files were unhelpful. MacTavish had said it in the past, the kid was unremarkable. He flew under the radar, lacked presence, and was often times easily overlooked. The only thing Ghost was able to glean from it was that his father was a Major.
In an effort to retrace the medic's steps that day, he went through security footage, compiled a list of people he came in contact with that day, and started interviewing. Though he didn't want to, he went to Doc first.
"No, nothing he did that day struck me as out of the ordinary," Doc told him. The buttons of his uniform weren't aligned properly and his reddened eyes hinted that he must've been crying recently. "Brandy reported in, went to check on Scarab like he'd been doing all week, and came back. It was quiet that day, so I let him take over the infirmary after that and told him to call me if anything serious came up."
"And nothing did," Ghost deduced.
"Nothing important." Doc rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Apparently only two people came in, and he filed reports on treatment for them."
Ghost lifted his chin. "Mind if I see them?"
"Sure. I already looked 'em over." Doc got up from his chair and rooted through the filing cabinet to pull out two papers and passed them to the lieutenant. "Bearcat came in around 17:00 with a cut on his arm he got while fixing one of the trucks. The other one-"
"Was General Shepherd." Ghost scanned over the document. At 19:34, he came in because of back pain. According to the report, it was just a strained muscle, so he gave the General two Motrin and sent him on his way. "Wait a tick, I already knew the General went in, but the security footage showed that he stayed for half an hour."
"I guess the General stuck around to chat with him. He's close friends with Brandy's father, you know."
"Really?" This was news. Ghost passed the files back to Doc and stood up. "Then by that logic, he and Brandy were probably on familiar terms. Thanks, I'll talk to him."
Ghost had figured that General Shepherd would be reluctant to discuss the subject, but he was remarkably open about it. "Major Brandy and I have been friends for almost as long as I've been in the service. Sergeant Brandy... Ian was like a nephew to me."
"I'm sure this must hit you pretty hard then, sir."
General Shepherd sighed. "It does."
"If you don't mind me asking, you spoke with him when you went into the infirmary that night. What did the two of you talk about?"
"We were just catching up. He wanted to know what I'd been up to. I asked him how he felt in the Task Force, and he admitted to feeling inadequate compared to everyone around him." The General looked Ghost dead in the eye and continued, "In some ways, I'm responsible for Ian's death. I pushed him here and thought he'd rise to meet the challenge. I was wrong."
"Don't be too hard on yourself. The lot of us were with him day to day and didn't see this coming." It was all he could say.
--- --- ---
In all of MacTavish's thirty years, he never exactly liked the phrase 'opening a can of worms.' In his mind, if it was a problem, it should be pointed out so that something could be done about it. Nothing can be fixed if everyone "ignored" the issue, right? Right.
He vastly underestimated this particular can, however.
The intention was to talk Scarab down from the outlandish concept of General Shepherd being a traitor. He gave her a day to rest and hoped that a night of sleep would have gotten her to some semblance of normality. When he knocked and she answered, however, he was met with an entirely different reality. Scarab somehow looked worse than before. Her hair was unkempt and tangled. Her eyes were lightless, yet sharp with aggression. Behind her, scattered about on one of the beds were torn out papers from a spiral notebook and a collection of pens and markers. Crumbled sheets littered the floor and a few sticky notes with sloppy writing dotted that wall.
...Was she starting a conspiracy wall in here?
MacTavish pretended not to notice. "Hello, Scarab. Have you been resting?"
The answer was a slow, drawn out blink, as if to say "Does it look like I have?"
"I'll take that as a no," he said. For reasons he couldn't quite explain, all his hair stood on end. This felt less like a dorm and more like a mine field. "I should leave you be then-"
"What's this about, Captain?" Scarab questioned. Her nails started to dig into the wood.
In all the months he'd worked with this woman, he never saw her with quite the murderous glint in her eyes she had now. This went beyond a person suffering from extreme exhaustion. If there was a landmine in this room, it was her. If they were going to get anywhere though, he needed to step on it. "I wanted to speak with you about your outburst the other night, but if you're still exhausted, it can wait."
"I'm fine," she claimed. "Go ahead. Am I getting punished for stepping out of line and accusing the General of betrayal?"
"Not exactly. General Shepherd was very understanding about the whole situation, especially after he heard about your current condition-"
"My current condition? Captain, I feel fine. Better than I have all week."
Her physical appearance begged to differ. MacTavish tried to disregard her interruption. "The point is, he and I both believe you're just not in a good state of mind at the moment. I didn't confine you to quarters as a punishment. It's just so you can get some sleep."
Scarab's head turned down, casting eerie shadows from her brow line over her eyes. "... If that was the case, then why do I need to see a councilor?"
"Simple. It's just to make sure you're okay to resume your duties. We're not against you, despite how this must feel on your end."
"You say that, but you took his side without any question!" She snapped and stormed into her room.
Ah. There was the landmine. MacTavish didn't flinch. "Scarab, settle-"
"Don't tell me to settle down!" She grabbed the pillow off her bed and whipped the damn thing at his face with just enough force that it slightly hurt. "He's suspicious! Why can't you see that?"
He picked up the pillow from the floor and came in to replace it on her bed. "What would you like me to say? There's no evidence that there was a note. You're asking me to accuse my CO of tampering with a scene with zero basis."
"Then what do you know?!"
"You thought you saw a note, Scarab. You yourself said that you didn't read it. That's what I know." He took a deep breath and went to leave. "Just think about that, alright?" Tempting as it was, he didn't slam the door shut. he couldn't afford to get mad and further isolate her.
If he had to guess, Scarab got to a point where she lost so much sleep that she simply couldn't. Whether or not that was a real thing, he wasn't totally sure, but he decided to talk to Doc about it. What he didn't expect was not even two hours after he brought this up, the medic came into his office nervously and planted a single treatment form on his desk.
"You gave her a sleep aid?" MacTavish inquired, studying the queer expression that painted Doc's face.
His discomfort visibly grew. "Yes, sir. I, um, I slipped it in with her antibiotic without telling her."
Was it underhanded? Yes. Could it land Doc in serious trouble if it was ever brought up? Probably. Did MacTavish feel like it was necessary at that point? 100%. MacTavish promptly threw the file in the shredder. "This doesn't leave this room."
Doc stood stock stiff and took several seconds before he found the voice to respond. "Y-yes, sir."
Evidently, the single pill was all she needed. Scarab slept through that day on it and then the next without needing a second dose. It was welcome news. After three days of rest time, all that was left was for the company's councilor to take a look at her. If she was in a better head space, then this whole ordeal would be over. If not, then he feared how she'd react to being told she needed to take more time off.
MacTavish hadn't seen or spoken to her since the short argument, so he had no context about what she looked like now after her two day hibernation. Imagine his surprise when Dr. Joyce gave her the green light with a single notation that she was suffering from over exhaustion.
"Really? That's all it was?" He asked.
Dr. Joyce nodded. "Don't get me wrong, Brandy's death has her rattled. It has everyone rattled. When I spoke to her today, she seemed tired, but not paranoid at this point. I think what happened that night was an isolated episode, Captain MacTavish."
An explosive one at that. "Did... she mention anything about a note to you?"
The councilor locked his hands behind his back. "She did. Said that she was sure she saw it at the time, but figured she was probably mistaken."
Problem solved. At least, that should have been, so why did he have this sick feeling that this was far from over? He left to take all this and relay it to Ghost. His Second was much better at sifting through this sort of information than he was.
Finding the lieutenant turned out to be a harder task than he expected. All the usual spots were vacant and nobody had seen him for half the day. He found Ghost in the rec room, attentively reading over a file that evening. MacTavish sat beside him on the sofa. "You know, there are better places for desk work, mate."
"Didn't know if you needed your desk today." Ghost hadn't taken his eyes off the page. "Did you need something, MacTavish?"
He took that prompting as a chance to tell Ghost about all this nonsense on his end, glazing over Doc sneaking a sleeping pill of course. Despite being absorbed in paperwork, he had the courtesy to nod along. Somewhere over the course of storytelling, they shifted so that Ghost was resting his back against MacTavish's chest with the Captain's chin propped on his head.
"Would you relax? It's past curfew, nobody's coming in here." Ghost flipped the paper he'd been reading over. "You're the worst pillow..."
This was also a public space. He supposed Ghost had a point and tried to ease up a little. "Aren't your eyes sore after reading that same file all day?"
"Somebody has to."
MacTavish wrapped his arms around Ghost and sighed. "I don't think the answer's in his file."
Ghost's hand clenched the folder, causing it and the 2 cm thick stack of papers to bend. "It has to be."
"I know you want one. We all do." MacTavish hugged him tighter. "But you've upturned every stone. Maybe something will come up later, but right now, you're just burning yourself out."
Ghost took a sharp, hitched breath.
As gently as he could, MacTavish worked Ghost's hand off the folder and shut it, setting it aside on the coffee table. "Talk to me."
"..."
"Simon, please."
"We've got a social lot, but somehow Brandy fell through the cracks." Ghost took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. "It took him killing himself for any of us to start listening. It's sick."
Back when Ghost had joined the Task Force, he'd been quiet too. It was little wonder why this was affecting him so much. At its core though, there was a fundamental difference. Ghost was reserved partly because he was introverted and partly due to recent trauma. Sure, it took time, but once he warmed up to everyone, he stopped isolating himself and talked about his problems. Brandy came across as more anxious and socially awkward. Maybe he wanted to be with other people but struggled to reach out.
"Maybe we all could've tried harder with him," MacTavish said softly. "This isn't something you should beat yourself up over though."
"'suppose not... I actually talked to General Shepherd yesterday. He wanted to gather everyone up on the green before he leaves in a couple of days, observe a moment of silence for Brandy and give everyone the rest of the day off."
MacTavish felt a growing knot of tension in his temples. "Oddly generous, coming from the same man who only ever approves half the base for a holiday off at a time."
"I think it's what everyone needs right now."
"I agree with you, it's just a little amazing coming from Shepherd of all people."
--- --- ---
It was the final day of July, and the last thing Roach wanted was to be standing out in the field late morning listening to General Shepherd talk to the company. Nothing against the man, it just felt like this moment of silence was coming a little late. He understood that part of the delay came in the long investigation process. He also knew that a different, more hushed part of the delay was because of Scarab's outburst. If he had to guess (and if Royce's hunch was correct), the General was probably keeping a low profile on base the last number of days to let that whole thing settle.
To Shepherd's credit, his speech was mercifully brief. They even got the day off afterwards.
He got to enjoy it for all of about three minutes before he watched Scarab march straight towards the General. He wasn't there for the outburst itself, but the story he heard from Meat made it sound ugly. Fearing the worst, Roach fell in step beside her in case she did anything reckless.
General Shepherd looked puzzled by the pair of them approaching, but he didn't move away. "Can I help you, Sergeant Sanderson, Private Macey?"
Scarab glanced over her shoulder at him, completely nonplussed at the realization that he followed her. She shook herself and turned her attention square on the General. "I wanted to apologize, sir. I spoke out of line before."
Roach exhaled the breath he'd been holding.
"Apology accepted."
"I'm sure you understand how I jumped to that conclusion, though. If there was a note, you and I are the only two with the opportunity to get rid of it."
The Sergeant nearly choked. Was this woman sane? Seriously? She lost the first time and she planned on chancing this AGAIN?! "Scarab, that's not-"
Before he could stumble out some feeble attempt at chastising her, General Shepherd cut him off with a barking laugh. Since when did this guy ever laugh? "You're stubborn, I'll give you that, Private. I'll play your game this time. Tell me, do you know why, even if I had the opportunity and means to get rid of this note, it couldn't have been me?"
"No. Why?"
"Because, believe it or not, Sergeant Brandy's father is close friend of mine. Why would I erase the final words of my friend's only son?" General Shepherd was barely taller than Scarab, yet in this moment he felt as though he towered over her. "So, even though I had the opportunity, I had no reason to do so. Your theory falls short."
Amazingly, Scarab actually smiled. "You got me there, sir. You're right. I don't know why."
Everyone in the 141 was crazy... Roach was sure of it now. "I'm sure the General has things to do, Scarab. Let's go."
Thank god, she came willingly. Neither of them seemed even remotely bothered by the interaction either. How was it that she got away with labeling Shepherd a traitor and then pushing that button again?
It just didn't make sense.
"Scarab, are you crazy?" Roach questioned.
"Maybe I am. I'm in a weird predicament, Roach." Scarab rubbed her chin in thought. "I know I was severely sleep deprived at the time, but I can't shake the possibility that the suicide note existed. It felt real enough. There's no proof that it wasn't there. He said he was smoking when he heard the gun shot, so in theory, he could've burned it, but there's no way of confirming that. Plus, I don't have a motive that I can prove either."
Roach groaned. How the hell could he talk this much crazy down? She was talking like someone out of an Ace Attorney game. The difference was that this wasn't one of those outlandish cases. "You know, there's a good reason they don't make cases on based on speculation."
"This isn't speculation. I saw that note," Scarab insisted. "It's just... I'm the only one who did apparently."
Ordinarily, the rational argument would have been that if the note had been touched in any way, it would've appeared on the security footage. The camera in the armory snapped photos with a motion sensor every half minute it catches movement. He heard from Ghost that while there were three photos of Brandy breaking into the room, walking around, and loading the gun, there were no photos after that. When he shot himself, blood got on the sensor and the camera stopped snapping pictures. "If, and this is a very strong if, he did leave a note, he would've had to have placed that within thirty seconds of his death because it's not shown on the security footage either."
"For a two page note? That'd suggest premeditation." She pressed her lips into a thin line.
"Yes, if there was a note," Roach retorted. "My point is there's no proof that it existed. It's only your word. You might not want to admit it, but the easiest and most likely answer is that you imagined it."
Scarab scoffed. "It's the easiest solution for everyone else."
Notes:
If the summary of the chapters this one came from don't make it clear enough, the source material some special kinda cursed content. I don't know what Younger Me was thinking, but in Plan B Chapter 16, I introduced a plot device called a mind probe. You plug a fucking wire on someone's head and then you can view and delete memories (and later do some coding so someone can have PTSD triggers, apparently). To my own credit, the characters do get a lot of mileage out of this stupid thing. It's kinda laughable, tbh.
The plot device was stupid though, so I've been sitting here for three chapters scratching my head trying to write it out. Ultimately, it really does come down to extreme exhaustion being the answer. It's interesting how this chapter ends up mirroring the source material, specifically with how Scarab was supposed to fall unconscious upon losing memories and wake up back on base with no recollection of her earlier freak out. That became Doc's sleep pill.
However, since Scarab's supposed to end up remembering anyways, in this case it's a matter of her simply not dropping the issue.
Chapter 9: On a Crazy Train
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapter 17
17. Medic tends to her. Nobody believes Shepherd shot her. Shepherd hallucinations. Everybody's going on a mission without her. Scarab's suddenly in the interrogation room.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Scarab was on a mission, and Heatstroke, for better or for worse, was along for the ride. Let's rewind and touch base on how exactly she managed to get dragged into this fine mess. It was on the day off that Shepherd gave the company that Scarab approached her and pointedly asked, "Riley, you were there before Shepherd. Do you remember seeing a note on the counter?"
Heatstroke was taken so thoroughly off guard by the question that she slapped her laptop shut. Sorry, dad. "What?"
"The note. Did you see it? You're the only other person who can confirm that it was there."
Ghost had already asked her this while she was being held up in the infirmary, and she assumed that it'd be the last time she would need to answer it. Assumptions were like assholes. "I don't know. I wasn't looking at the counter top at the time."
"So it could've been there," Scarab said.
With one weary glance from her friend to the sticky notes littered on the wall, Heatstroke gave a noncommittal shrug. "I guess, but I thought that you gave up on the note idea, Alex."
Scarab crossed her arms, her fingers tapping against the inside of her elbow. "I second guessed it, sure, but just because other people are telling me it wasn't there doesn't mean it wasn't real. Besides, I don't think the councilor would've cleared me if I kept insisting that it was. I can't investigate if I'm confined to quarters."
As much as Heatstroke didn't like it, she knew exactly where this was going. Her shoulders sagged as weariness sank in. "Ghost already closed the investigation. I don't think they'll let you touch this with a fifty foot pole."
"They probably won't let me review any of the data, sure. But there's gotta be something." Scarab took to pacing the small living quarters as she continued, "When I talked to Shepherd, he said some things."
"You talked to General Shepherd?" Heatstroke questioned, "When was this?"
"After his speech. Just hang on a sec." Turning on her heels, she made her way back towards the door. "He said that even if he had the opportunity and means to get rid of the note, that he had no reason to because he's friends with Brandy's dad. Specifically, he added in means, even though I only mentioned that he had the opportunity. By saying that, he's acknowledging that there was a way for him to do it."
Heatstroke laid back at that point and stared at the ceiling. It seemed she'd need to play soundboard while Scarab went on this tangent... "And there's a way you could've done it. Hell, I could've gotten rid of it too, technically. I didn't, but nobody checked me for it and I was taken straight to the infirmary."
"It's a locked room mystery, in a way. That note couldn't leave the room or else the security camera in the hall would've been able to capture it. And you're not a suspect because if you did actually go into the room, those same cameras would've proved it and you would've been questioned a lot more than you were. Even if I can't see the pictures themselves, the way everyone's reacting to them is telling."
This girl liked her mystery novels and crime shows a little too much. As great as being able to put herself in the mindset of solving an escape room was in some circumstances, this wasn't an episode of CSI. "You sure you're not overthinking this one?"
"I think everyone's under-thinking it, Riley. I'm sure he burned the note. He said he was smoking, so whatever ash he got on him from burning the paper and discarding the rest could be overlooked."
Heatstroke rolled her eyes. "Didn't he also say that he had no reason to do it because he and Brandy's dad are close? It'd be pretty shitty if he torched his friend's kid's suicide note."
"All that means is that he needed a really good reason to do it," Scarab retorted. "If Brandy wrote something that would've ruined that friendship Shepherd had with his dad, then maybe he'd want to get rid of it. By giving that much information, he gave a reason why he'd do it."
"Didn't realize today was opposite day."
"I'm being serious." Scarab huffed and paced a little faster. "If we're going to gather more intel, we need to find some sources. Ghost handled the investigation, so odds are he shared what he found with the Captain. Roach also seemed to know a bit about the security footage when I talked with him earlier, so if I had to guess then he probably helped at some point. Royce is third in the chain of command, so it's possible he's been informed on a few things. Doc might be able to tell us about how Brandy was doing that day, if he and General Shepherd came into contact or anything."
Heatstroke's forehead creased. She already knew the answer as she saw them talking that evening in the infirmary. So in terms of contact, it was there. If she told Scarab though, she had no idea what sort of bomb she'd be setting off. "That's assuming anyone's willing to divulge that information. Odds are, they won't want to talk to you about the investigation."
"I know. And that's why I need your help, Riley."
Reflexively, Heatstroke sat up and looked at her. "My help?"
"Yeah. They won't talk to me. So I need someone they'll be willing to talk to." Scarab smiled. "And you're as cute as a button, so I doubt they'll want to let you down if you just ask nicely."
Like it or not, Heatstroke's face burned from her words. "You really think so?"
"I know so. You and Ghost get along super well, so maybe he has a soft spot for you."
Immediately, the bashfulness that torched Heatstroke's cheeks dampened. Of all people, Scarab thought that Ghost would be attracted to her? Ghost, the guy who didn't seem to like anybody? The only person who Scarab could've said that would've been a bigger stretch was Roach - the man was pretty open with his preferences and she didn't exactly have the equipment.
Heatstroke only met the notion with an awkward chuckle. "Yeah, maybe not."
"Don't be modest, of course he does," Scarab insisted. "I'd bet he'd be willing to tell you a lot if you butter him up first."
Somehow that led to Heatstroke in her current situation, side by side with Ghost doing target practice on the range. He was training with an M9, not that he needed to. His aim was remarkable. Even she, a distinguished sniper in her own right, paused to admire the skill he displayed.
Magazine emptied, Ghost set the fire arm down. "Something's on your mind."
Firing the last few rounds, Heatstroke lowered her weapon and tittered uneasily. "What makes you say that?"
He pointed down range to her target. Several of the holes had listed out further and further from the center. Heatstroke's heart dropped. She prided herself on her accuracy. This was a pitiful display, easily mistakable for an amateur.
"I know you're better than that, so why the mess up?"
Unconsciously, she toyed with the rim of her goggles. It wasn't like she agreed to help Scarab on this bizarre quest of hers. If anything, she wanted nothing more than for it to drop. Scarab's position was turbulent at the moment though, and if the higher ups knew she was investigating without authorization to do so, it could land her in a heap of trouble. Job be damned, the only way Scarab was going to let this witch hunt go was if she was suitably convinced that she was mistaken. With how this was going, the only ways to do that were to either let her investigate until something suitably proved Shepherd's innocence or Heatstroke got help breaking this down to her.
Ghost leaned against the stall's frame. "Is it something you don't feel comfortable discussing with me as your superior officer?"
Scarab may be willing to stake her career on this, but Heatstroke didn't share her passion for this cause. She didn't get here by covering for people. If anyone could help, Ghost did seem like her best bet. "It's not that. You're right, I'm uneasy. Scarab's still focusing on whether or not that note of hers existed. I don't know what to do."
Behind his sunglasses, his brow arched. "Yeah, I heard about as much from Roach. Did she say anything especially alarming or dangerous?"
"Besides still suggesting that General Shepherd got rid of the note?" Heatstroke sighed, bringing about the acidic taste of gun smoke over her tongue. "I don't think so, but she's probably being careful to avoid trouble this time."
"Hmm. So she'll being trying not step out of line. Blatantly at least."
"Right. She wanted my help gathering information on what the investigation turned up. She knows nobody will tell her, so she thought I'd have better luck."
Ghost tipped his head. "She's smart, I'll give her that. I'm sure if we were able to turn this attention on something productive, then she could get a lot done."
"The only way she's gonna let this go is if she's made to understand how unlikely this actually is," Heatstroke said. "I'm... really betraying her trust right now, but Ghost, I'm stuck. As long as I don't have the facts to dispute her theories, I can't stop her. You handled the investigation, so maybe you could talk to her?"
"You want me to sit her down and chat?" Ghost's expression was hidden away, his eyes unreadable. "She's not owed an explanation."
"I know..."
He stood up straight and rolled his shoulders back, bringing about a couple of faint pops. "It'll be a pain trying to justify it to MacTavish, but I'll see what I can do."
The nerves settled in her chest as she clapped her hands together. "Really? I- wow. Thanks, Ghost!"
In the back of her mind, Scarab's earlier remark echoed. Even now, having been granted this huge favor, Heatstroke couldn't disagree more. This wasn't a man with a soft spot for her, let alone some unprofessed attraction. But maybe, just maybe, she underestimated how nice Ghost could be.
--- --- ---
Shepherd was finally gone, but that didn't mean that anyone was going to be allowed to rest any time soon. The morning before the General left, his parting words to MacTavish were, "I'm heading out to Fire Base Phoenix. Now that we've eliminated the supply train, we should look into where it was going. I want you to assemble a team and meet me in Afghanistan. We'll discuss it further there."
They had two days before they'd need to ship out for that. He had a very simple line up for it. Sixteen people. Whatever they'd have to deal with, it could be taken care of no issue. He had yet to tell them.
On his way to start giving his team the heads up, he just so happened to run into Scarab. He wouldn't have thought twice about it, except that she was in the armory. At this point, the room had been scrubbed clean and the lock was fixed, but seeing the way she looked around made him uneasy. "Scarab? Did you have something you needed to do in here?"
The woman froze and turned to look back at him. "Ha ha, hey, Captain. I just finished some target practice, so I was putting my weapon away."
Please. Her lie was shallower than a shot glass. If she were just returning a gun here after firing a few rounds, she would've had to clean it first. The cleaners and solvents they used were pretty strong smelling, so they were impossible to miss. There wasn't a whiff of that in the room. "I'm not up for playing games today. You wanna try that one again?"
Scarab huffed. "Alright... I was just taking a quick look around."
Surprise, surprise. "I thought you said you weren't sure you saw that note."
"I wasn't. Can you forgive me for wanting to be sure?"
"At this point? You're starting to push your luck," MacTavish warned. "Nobody likes being wrong, but you have to call a quits somewhere."
"That's the thing though, I don't think I'm wrong on this one." Scarab rounded the counter and approached him. The look in her eyes wasn't like the dark, cold one he'd faced in her quarters. In fact, demeanor wise, she seemed totally normal. "I've been wrong before, but I've got a feeling that there's something seriously fucked up going on."
"It could just be a feeling, you know."
"Of course. What'd I expect? You still don't believe me. Nobody does."
MacTavish frowned. "Scarab, are you sure you're not being a wee bit paranoid?"
Instead of that icy glare he'd expected, he was met with a frustrated scoff. "I got some sleep, the councilor cleared me for duty. What'll it take to convince you that I'm not crazy?"
"Dropping this matter to start," he deadpanned.
Scarab scowled, the corner of her mouth quivering as she bit back, "I can't do that."
The only other person he could think of who willfully clawed back against orders like this was his former Captain. Even then, Price usually had a good reason. Scarab thought she did, but it was clearly misguided. "Brandy's death was already investigated. There's no evidence that the scene was tampered with. This incident is closed."
"But, Captain-!"
"Scarab, drop it! That's an order." He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but he couldn't keep tolerating these outbursts from her. MacTavish took a deep breath. "You were cleared for duty, so get to your actual duties. Do I make myself clear?"
His jump to pulling rank did two things: the anger drained from Scarab's face and it was replaced with shock. Her mouth tightened into a flat line as she gave a stiff nod and fled the armory. Once she vanished around the corner, he massaged his nose with a couple of fingers and went the opposite direction.
It wasn't how he wanted to handle this situation, but her persistence afforded him zero alternatives. In fact, these disputes they'd been having over this imaginary note probably also fixed his first problem with her interest in him. No way in hell would she want to snuggle up to him now that he did this. He'd meant to let her down easy, but now it seemed he'd be stuck with awkwardness around her.
Still a better solution than the "I'm gay" excuse, he decided.
Cold as it was, MacTavish decided to go on with his day as if that dispute never happened. He rounded up the team he planned to bring and gave them a very, very small briefing on the situation, as far as they knew at this point. They were a good lot, pretty eager to fly into this new assignment if Rook and Meat's loud enthusiasm was any indication.
When he dismissed everyone, only two people stuck behind. Ghost and Heatstroke. MacTavish shut his laptop and slipped it under his arm. "Did you need something?"
Heatstroke seemed anxious, for one reason or another. Not a good sign. When it was clear she wasn't about to start this conversation, Ghost replied, "Actually, Heatstroke here-" he clapped a hand on the short woman's shoulder, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin "-wanted to know if you'd let me share the Brandy investigation findings with Scarab."
MacTavish processed and double processed Ghost's words, and then a third time for good measure. Once he was certain that he didn't mishear him, MacTavish succinctly responded with "Why?"
"Because we think that the best way to get Scarab to drop the issue is if we sit her down and explain things from a more factual perspective." Ghost took his hand back and continued, "That, and if we give her something way more pressing to focus on, maybe we can keep her off the problem."
Why the bleeding hell didn't they come to him with this sooner? Maybe he wouldn't have had to throw his weight around if this had been an option. He cleared his throat. "I... don't think that's necessary at this point."
Ghost's brows furrowed. "Why's that?"
"I gave her orders earlier today to drop the subject," MacTavish explained.
"So that's why..." Heatstroke murmured. "Captain, I don't think that'll stop her. I encountered her before I came here and she was drawing out a map of the armory. She's not dropping it."
That's how it was? MacTavish was more stunned than angry. Actually, in a backwards way, he was a little impressed. She had stones if she was going to keep this up. "If that's how it's going to be, then I think we'll need to kick this up a couple more notches than a simple talk. Clearly she doesn't see anything wrong with her conduct."
"What do you have in mind?" Ghost asked.
"We'll give her a little scare."
--- --- ---
Ghost collected the investigation files, even picked up Scarab's for good measure. He looked up over the desk at MacTavish. Of all the solutions, he never expected this from him.
"Are you sure about this, mate?"
"I am. If you're not comfortable doing it, I could ask for someone else to step in."
Glancing back down at the files in his hands, he couldn't deny that he was tempted to take him up on the offer. He shook his head. "I can handle it."
"Good luck then." MacTavish leaned over the desk and kissed him through his balaclava. It was sweet, and about as drawn out as you can get with a barrier of fabric in the way. "I owe you big time for this."
"We'll talk when this is wrapped up," Ghost told him and left. They had a room prepared for this, an old, unused office that saw very little foot traffic. Better to keep this away from prying eyes and ears.
When he reached the office, out came a short, fully geared figure. As the door shut behind them, Ghost met their gaze. With one tug, the black balaclava came off and Heatstroke went straight to fixing her bun. "She's ready for you..."
Ghost took in the poorly contained worry on her face as she released her kinky, blonde hair from its tie and went straight to twisting it back up. "You don't need to stick around at this point. I'm sure you got plenty to do."
The tie gave a small snap as it sprang taut. Heatstroke nodded. "Don't be too rough on her, alright?"
"She'll be fine." Ghost waved her off and stepped into the room. Inside was a table with a couple of chairs, and in one was Scarab. Her wrist was handcuffed to the armrest. Now, in all seriousness, that handcuff wasn't going to do all that much since the chair wasn't bolted to the floor and her other hand was free, but actual restraint wasn't the aim here. That handcuff was a message more than anything.
Scarab whipped her head around as soon as the door clicked shut, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. "G-Ghost..."
He was grateful for his mask and sunglasses. The less she could read him right now, the better. Ghost set the stack of files on the table. "Let's have a chat, Scarab."
Notes:
Yeah... This is an extra special kinda strange. In Plan B, Scarab doesn't get started on investigating like she does here. What she does get is a hallucination that Shepherd's about to shoot Heatstroke on the range, so she tackles Heatstroke and there's a lot of confusion. She then gets another hallucination of Shepherd being a creep by her ear and saying "Yo so I can, like, make you think that I'mma kill your friends and you can't do shit about it." She then gets into a convo with Soap, who more or less straight up tells her that everybody's got a mission to wherever the fuck but she's "Not Invited (tm)" and she freaks out because "OMG Shepherd's trying to get me alone so he can kill me!!" At this point, Soap is thoroughly convinced she's paranoid and that he might've lost several brain cells. Shepherd then orders Ghost to fix the problem with the mind probe.
Now, because that all sounds absolutely stupid and I stubbornly refused to write any of this from Scarab's perspective (read Plan B for her account of all this), all the hallucinations got replaced with her obsessing over the note she swears up and down that she saw. There was supposed to be a lot more investigating on her part, but there's only so much she can get away with.
So a different funny bit from Plan B (and a bit of a long haul one that progresses through the whole fic) was that Heatstroke and Ghost are supposed to get interested in each other. Since Ghost is with Soap, that's obviously not going to be a thing. Still, I'm giving the original fic a nod by having Scarab reference a nonexistent attraction to Heatstroke.
Another fun part about this, technically the reveal that Ghost is gonna pull an interrogation on Scarab wasn't something that would come until the next chapter. I liked the idea more of him stepping into the room as Roundabout softly starts up in the background and he drops his one liner.Fortunately, the "Scarab is Obsessed" arc will be wrapping up in a couple of chapters.
Chapter 10: Occum's Hole Puncher
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 18 and 19
18. Ghost is here to interrogate Scarab via mind skimmer. Sees her memories, realizes she was right. Shepherd bursts in to do clear up. Neither remember this bullshit. [Rewrite completely so it's a basic interrogation]
19. Shepherd's cleaning house. Gets to Soap, spills the beans, deletes memories. [REDACTED]
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Let's have a chat, Scarab."
This wasn't a real interrogation. As far as weight goes, this was getting marked down as an NJP on Scarab's paperwork, less so for conspiracy and more so for disobeying a direct order. She was getting off easy, as far as Ghost was concerned. For that, he wanted to make sure this act of his that he put on was as convincing as possible.
After the initial shock, Scarab found the bravery to ask, "What's this about, Ghost?"
Ghost planted one boot on the seat of the empty chair and leaned on his leg. "You tell me. Why do you think you're here right now?"
"I stopped looking into Brandy's death. This is not necessary." She lifted her hand, but the handcuff stopped her after some centimeters.
"A little bird told me otherwise. Best you not lie to me, I have eyes and ears on all corners of this base." He flipped her file open on the table. "From what I heard, our Captain gave you a direct order to drop the issue, and you disobeyed that. Does that sound about right?"
Scarab turned her attention to her pants. "Yes."
"Now Scarab, you listen good. You and I are gonna brush up on the facts uncovered by the investigation. Understood?"
She gave a curt nod.
"Brandy broke into the armory to get his hands on a pistol. He shot himself. The shot woke up half the people in the barracks, and you happened to get there first. Care to explain what you did while in that room?"
"I found the body, and quickly looked around for clues. That's when I saw the note. I didn't get a chance to read it, since I left right away to get Captain MacTavish." Scarab thumbed at the handcuff. "That's it. I didn't touch anything. I think I was only in there a minute tops."
"Do you remember there being any other papers on the counter?" Ghost asked.
There was a short pause before she reluctantly admitted, "There were."
"Then what made you think that the papers you saw were Brandy's suicide note?"
"..."
"Surely something made you think you saw it, right?"
Scarab sighed heavily. "I was tired at the time, Ghost. I don't remember why I thought I saw his suicide note, just that I thought I did. I was sure of it."
In terms of details, this sounded crucial if he wanted to crack her suspicions. If he could ride this line of questioning out, maybe that's all it'd take to get her to give up. "Your basis for doing all of this is that you thought you saw a note that mysteriously vanished sometime between you showing up on the scene and me getting there. Correct?"
"That's right."
"Alright. I'll put a pin in this and we'll address it later. You went and got MacTavish. In that time between you leaving and coming back, Heatstroke came on the scene. She fainted just outside the room, and never set foot inside the armory. Then the General was next to the scene where he found Heatstroke unconscious and Brandy dead. He claims that he entered the room to investigate before going back out into the hallway to aid Heatstroke. Shortly thereafter, Royce, Roach, and Meat came on the scene along with several other operators before you returned with MacTavish." Ghost rested his arm on his knee and continued, "The gunshot happened at 23:58. How long do you think it took you to arrive at the scene in that time?"
"A minute, two at most. The barracks aren't far from the armory and I was just outside, so I sprinted over," Scarab answered.
"Then we'll say you came on the scene at about midnight. You left within a minute of finding the scene. How long did it take you to run and get MacTavish?"
Scarab considered the question for several seconds. "I think it was about seven or eight minutes before I got him over there."
"That tracks. Heatstroke just barely missed you, according to the security camera in the hall. Two minutes after she got there, Shepherd arrived. While that sounds like he had a window of five minutes to get rid of a note, it's a lot less than that. Not only were the next people on the scene about three minutes after he was, but he was also in the room for two of those."
"Two minutes is plenty of time," Scarab remarked.
Ghost snorted. "I'd agree with you if it weren't for the wrinkle that this suicide note you described was apparently two pages. He would've needed to read the note before he decided to dispose of it, right?"
Scarab lifted her head and glowered at him. "He could've skimmed it. If there was something that Brandy wrote in his note that could've ruined him, then he could've made the impulse decision to burn it."
"If." Ghost went ahead and counted off on his fingers: "If there was a note. If Brandy wrote something nasty. If Shepherd skimmed it. If he burned it. Are you starting to see the problem here?"
"It's all I got to work with!" She snapped.
Before she could get on a tirade, Ghost kicked the metal folding chair over. The resounding clatter was more than enough to shut her up. "Don't raise your voice at me. I think I'm being pretty bloody reasonable right now. You've got a brain, so do me a favor and use it. Your entire argument is composed of assumptions."
Scarab grit her teeth and punched at the arm of the chair. Amazingly, she reeled her tone back from openly hostile to poorly contained aggression. "You're not giving me the chance to defend my reasoning."
Maybe he misjudged her. Maybe this entire thing was one big temper tantrum because nobody wanted to hear her outlandish theory. Ghost crossed his arms. "You want the chance to defend it to me? Fine. Give it your best shot."
Judging by the way she shrunk in that chair somewhat, she clearly didn't expect to get this far. "Alright. Well, first off, there had to be some reason I remember seeing that note. I think it had to be there."
He didn't expect to be back on this so soon, but it seemed she wanted to cover that. "You think so. Isn't it also true that you were also extremely sleep deprived at the time?"
"I was. You're gonna use that to cast doubt on my account. I saw it though, I know I did. Why the hell would I remember clearly seeing it?"
"Clearly? You don't though. You can't tell me why you thought you saw a suicide note, and you want to know why?" Ghost went ahead and picked back up the chair, snapping it open and setting it back where it was. "One side effect of extreme sleep deprivation is hallucinations. I can tell you from first hand experience that your brain's the biggest arsehole you can deal with."
"It could've been real," Scarab denied. "You don't know if I was hallucinating."
Ghost sighed, took a seat, and picked through Scarab's file. From it, he slipped Brandy's assessment out and laid it in front of her. "Hate to break it to you, but I do. Brandy was the one primarily taking care of you and he detailed several instances where you responded to sounds and voices that just weren't there, or completely misidentified him as someone or something else."
Scarab picked up the file with her free hand, her eyes flicking over the document and widening with increasing alarm. "B-but..."
"It's not what you want to hear, but that's just how it is," Ghost said. "It's entirely plausible that you thought you saw that note in the moment."
"This... this just isn't fair." Scarab dropped the file on the table and shook her head. "So now it's okay for you to assume shit?"
Ghost had to process that one. In some reversed, backwards logic, he supposed she did have a point. He did just tear into her for making assumptions, and his single argument against her so far was based on an assumption as well. Just as it was plausible for her to hallucinate and think she saw the note, it was also a possibility that she did genuinely see something that looked like Brandy's suicide note. It wasn't his fault though that she jumped straight to the only point that forced him to make such an assumption.
"You said there had to be a reason you remembered seeing that note. I'm merely pointing out that there could have been a different reason." Ghost folded his hands on the desk. "But, go on. What's your argument for Shepherd getting rid of the note? I want to hear exactly how and why this would happen."
Scarab narrowed her eyes at him. Clearly she knew he was talking her into a corner with this. "Fine. Here's my theory. Brandy and Shepherd seemed friendly on the surface, but something went down between them. Brandy's final act was an attempt to disparage the General's character in some way, by siting him as the cause for his suicide. Shepherd wouldn't need to read the full note. In those two minutes, he could have seen and read the most damning parts and burned it. With it gone, he could pretend it never existed."
"And what, pray tell, could Brandy possibly write that'd make him act that irrationally?" Ghost questioned.
"I don't know. Some crazy dark secret? Maybe Shepherd's some power hungry extremist and had an agenda that Brandy wanted to stop at all costs."
"By taking his own life?"
"Maybe he couldn't bring himself to confront him head on because Shepherd's like family, but still wanted to do the right thing."
Again, there was that thread of logic that he could see her following. "The only thing I have to say on that is that the General was the last person to speak with Brandy, however it was a trip to the infirmary."
"That could've been the trigger," Scarab asserted.
"Could have, if your theory held water." Ghost decided to move on to her next point. "There's a bigger issue here than you accounted for though. I don't know if you were made aware of this, but blood spatter covered the motion sensor of the armory's camera. Because of that, we only got photos of the room up to within thirty seconds of his death. In all those photos, no new papers are added to counter."
"He could've taken the note out of his pocket just before he killed himself."
"Even if that were true, there's an issue. Neither you nor Shepherd knew about the lack of security footage past Brandy's death. That was something we didn't learn until we reviewed it the following day and discovered it hadn't been taking any pictures since. At the time, Shepherd thought that the camera was functioning. Why would he even so much as pick up the note if he thought that he would've been seen?"
"He could've planned on covering it up and realized he didn't need to. It's not hard to have those photos deleted," Scarab retorted.
Props for tenacity. "Essentially, you're proposing that he burned the note, realizing that it could leave a trail, and then planned on just deleting the evidence later? Scarab, no offense, but let's think about what would've happened if blood hadn't gotten on that sensor and the note was there. Not only would Shepherd be caught burning the note, but we would've had photographic evidence that it existed from when you and Heatstroke both appeared before he did. He would've had to delete every picture up to before Brandy put it out. As soon as we checked that the camera worked fine and was snapping pictures like normal, we'd know that there was something being covered up. There's no way the General would do something that blatantly obvious."
Once he said this, Scarab clenched her hands and stewed. She didn't have an answer to that, clearly. Not a good one anyways. If she wanted to push her argument, then it became a question of sheer dumb luck. Shepherd couldn't have predicted anything, so they needed to assume that he would've acted in a way that made sense for someone without all the facts they had. Shepherd had to know where the camera was and how it worked as he received a tour of the base that day.
"...What if he placed that blood so that the camera appeared to have gotten hit by blood spatter?" Scarab finally responded.
... Somehow, someway, she was still gonna argue this. Ghost heaved a sighed. "Where the spatter is on the wall and the camera lines up with the exit wound. So, no. I doubt he planted that blood."
"But could he have?"
Technically speaking, yes, but Ghost wasn't about to let her yank this argument another direction. "If he dabbed the blood on, it would've left an impression of either his skin, cloth, or whatever material he used to do that. If he flicked the blood, it'd make a secondary spatter and it wouldn't necessarily hit the sensor. So no. Probably not. Remarkable as it is, the initial blood spatter did just happen to hit the sensor."
Scarab sighed heavily and sank in the seat. "Alright... I give up. I can't explain it. My theory's reliant on guesswork and some stupid amount of luck to make sense."
Finally... Fucking. Finally. Ghost took off his sunglasses and nursed the steady throbbing behind his eyes. "I'll be honest with you, I could care less whether or not you like the General. But if you plan on pulling this bollocks again, you'd better have a watertight case to back it up."
"Understood." Scarab lightly tugged at the handcuffs again. "We done here?"
"About. Just so you know, this isn't on record as anything more than an NJP. Don't discuss this with anyone." Ghost stood up and went to undo the handcuffs when he realized with an indescribable amount of shame that he never got the key from Heatstroke. He forgot to ask.
Well. This was awkward.
Scarab noticed his pause and sat back up. "What's the matter?"
Oh yeah. They should've thought this one through. "Eh heh heh heh... Funny story. I don't have the key..."
...
... "You're kidding..."
"I'm not..." Ghost rubbed the back of his head. "You know, just sit tight. I'm gonna get them. I'll be right back." With that he retreated from the office and made a mad dash to find Heatstroke.
It must've been ten minutes before he did eventually come across her in the gym with Meat. As one can expect, she was no longer in full gear, having changed into a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. She turned her uniform pockets inside out in the locker room, swearing up and down that she put it somewhere. When nothing turned up, they were left in dumb silence.
In a weird stroke of negligence, Scarab was locked to a chair in an office and it'd take hours to search for the tactical vest Heatstroke was wearing to find that key. Especially since Heatstroke wasn't totally sure anymore what pocket she put them in. Honestly, it was comical, and Ghost struggled mask the amusement in his tone.
"Mind if I borrow a couple of bobby pins?" Ghost asked.
Heatstroke nodded and picked a couple from her bun, which instantly loosened with the loss of support. "Don't tell her I forgot..."
"I don't think she knows, mate. Don't worry about it." Ghost rushed back to the office. Sure enough, Scarab was still there vegetating. He avoided eye contact while fumbling around with the lock.
This fumbling continued for a lot longer than he cared to admit. It got to the point where Scarab bitterly asked, "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
Ghost glared at the stubborn lock. He was pretty sure he was doing this right. This wouldn't be the first time he'd been asked to pick a pair of standard issue handcuffs. He wasn't totally sure why this wasn't working. "The lock's just being tricky." Just as he said this, the bobby pin snapped in half. "Well, fuck."
Scarab clicked her tongue and her cheeks strained with a tight, fake smile. "Nice work."
At this point, he was tempted to give up and get the bolt cutters. These stupid things weren't unlatching. Hell, now there was a piece of metal stuck in the lock and he was pretty sure it wasn't coming out with any persuasion. He'd figure this out. Somehow.
Notes:
It's amazing how much Shepherd was allowed to bungle things in Plan B on account of him having this bullshit plot device that made cover up work hassle free.
I will say, this is probably going to be the most changes that I do to any single arc of the story solely because of how off the rails it goes before everything suddenly becoming relatively normal again. From here on, we start to follow the narrative of Plan B a little more closely again.When I was outlining Plan B on paper so we could shuffle Plan B's tiny chapters together into longer ones, I had three full pages worth of notes written out. We're one chapter away from hitting the bottom of the first page and I'm hype. We're about a third of the way in!
Chapter 11: Sendmeonmyway Onmahway
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 20, 21, and 22
20. Scarab morning dead dad. Soap talks to her about grief, more bad backstory. Shepherd sends Scarab and Heatstroke on a bullshit mission, they leave.
21. They go to wherever for that intel. Soap and Roach have a smoke.
22. Lockpicking hijinx. Heatstroke does Scarab's job. Price has a weird chapter.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Fire Base Phoenix, Afghanistan
Ghost wasn't kidding when he mentioned giving Scarab shit to do. Much to MacTavish's astonishment, the lieutenant pushed as far as insisting they take her along on this stint in Afghanistan. His logic was simple: Get her off the base and away from all that shit so she has other shit to think about. Simple enough. From what MacTavish saw in Azerbaijan, she could handle herself on missions alright.
The base itself was chalk full of Rangers, many of whom gawked at them as they rolled in. It was enough to get Roach to uneasily shuffle closer to their group and awkwardly ask, "Why're they staring at us?"
MacTavish stifled a chuckle. "We're an elite task force."
Beside him, Ghost snorted. "No offense, mate, but I think it's because we look bloody ridiculous."
Or that. It could- no, it definitely was that. They'd hit a point of elite where they didn't conform to regulations. In the most obvious way, uniforms weren't as strictly enforced. That's all well and good on base, where it's just them there 99% of the time, but here they stuck out. A number of them were only in half the desert uniform and not dressed to the nines with their gear. Compared to these guys in their ACUs, they looked unprofessional.
Tack on the fact that Ghost was still wearing his usual skull balaclava in this heat, MacTavish himself was sporting a mohawk, and they had two women in tow where there didn't seem to be one in sight. Back in his SAS days, when he had a lot less freedom to let his hair grow how he wanted it, MacTavish probably would've been thrown for a loop too.
This was awkward.
He banished this to the mental filing cabinet of stupid things to fuss over at 3 in the morning and led his men to the briefing room so Shepherd could fill them in on what was going on. With a grand total of eighteen people, the room was cramped and quickly became balmy with everyone's combined body heat. The little oscillating fan continued its futile mission to combat the heat in the corner.
They were stuck waiting there for bordering on a half an hour. In that time, amazingly, Ghost actually pushed his balaclava up to free his nose and mouth. The lower half of his face gleamed with sweat and one corner of his mouth twisted down as he continued to tap his fingers in the crook of his arm.
By the time Shepherd arrived, the General gave pause when he was clearly hit with that rush of heat that'd been building in the room. "You know there's a window."
"We tried it. It's stuck pretty good," MacTavish explained.
Shepherd made a point of propping the door to get a little bit of air circulation in and went on with business. Apparently, whatever he needed from them wasn't so confidential that he'd be concerned about prying eyes or ears. Always a good sign. He apologized for being late (apparently some accident happened with training the local militia) and moved on to reestablish the facts for everyone concerning the weapons cache, arms dealers, and oodles of fun they'd been having trying to track enemy assets down.
"We're still working on it, but it's been narrowed down to nine locations." Shepherd pulled up a map with a cluster of buildings in the nearby city individually circled. "They're scattered throughout the Red Zone, and if we hit one and get it wrong then we run the risk of our target destroying valuable intel."
This sounded way more elaborate than something he'd bring eighteen men for. MacTavish crossed his arms and reiterated, "So you're saying we'll need to spread out and hit all these locations at once? That'd be two people for each location. You sure that's smart?"
"It's not ideal," Shepherd agreed. "If I could, I'd pull more assets and give you back up, but as it stands, I'm dead locked with people who think the problem got solved in Azerbaijan."
Ah, so there was the real problem. No love from the top of the ladder.
They proceeded to go ahead and iron out plans from there: who was with who and going where and what have you. Nine teams of two, and once a place was cleared then the team would move to assist the nearest team that had yet to clear their location. This would create a domino effect where they'd hit everything simultaneously and weed out the dead ends so that they could move wherever needed.
The game was set and the operation would commence the following day. Before they were allowed to leave, Shepherd had one last thing he wanted to bring up. "I'm having everyone run The Pit to pull a new member for the Task Force. Since you're here, do you want to show them the performance I expect out of them?"
Ghost had yet to pull his mask back down, so his smirk was on full display. "What's the standing record?"
"29.45 seconds," Shepherd replied.
Lord only knows how Ghost managed to look more sinister without that skeleton grin. "Lovely." He said nothing else and pulled his mask back down over his features.
Did the lot of them proceed to embarrass these Rangers on their own course? Just a tad. Did MacTavish end up making a bet with Ghost whether the lieutenant could match or beat his record with an M9? Yes. He hadn't exactly expected Ghost to get within a couple hundredths of a second of his time while matching his accuracy with a pistol, but somehow the cheeky bastard pulled it off. He owed Ghost one "favor" to be determined later.
He was also met with the interesting discovering that Heatstroke was in some ways familiar with these guys. The man stuck running times and taking care of the firearms was some Corporal Dunn. Heatstroke gave pause at the entrance to The Pit and stammered through a greeting of, "Eli? Hey, um, how've you been?"
The Corporal clapped his jaw shut with such force that his teeth clacked. In an instant, he stopped leaning against the crates and fixed his posture. "Shoot, Riley! What're you doin' here?"
MacTavish and Ghost exchanged looks and shimmied towards the stairs as these two caught up. Neither of them sounded upset to see each other, but something clearly went on between them at some point if all the start-stop ahem-uh-ums were any clue. They left The Pit and MacTavish asked quietly, "Do you think they...?"
Ghost gave a shallow nod. "They definitely did."
Small wonders. On that note, they split up to take care of things before the operation. Ghost mentioned double checking their weapon load out. MacTavish went to check on how Meat and Rook were doing with lorries too. For the most part, his men were being productive and getting ready. There was one person he didn't see around for a while, and that Scarab.
"Yeah, I dunno, Captain," Meat said from beneath the truck. "She's somewhere, I'm sure. Probably just wanted to be alone."
Maybe, just maybe, he'd regret this, but he decided to go find and check on her. Last thing they needed was one of their team unable to carry out the mission. Scarab ended up hanging around the firing range, observing rather than shooting. For the briefest of moments, MacTavish hesitated. He wasn't sure if he and her were okay after everything that happened, if she'd want to talk to him at all. If he could maintain a professional attitude, then it should be fine, but he wasn't fond of treating his men coldly. Mustering his courage, he approached.
"Hey, Scarab. How are you feeling about the mission tomorrow?"
She was propped against a post, but the moment he spoke up, her back stiffened. "I should be okay, Captain."
Her tone was off, fainter and less spirited than normal. He opted to do some gentle prodding. "And in general?"
Scarab pressed her lips and pulled a pair of dog tags from her pants pocket, tossing them his way. MacTavish caught them and briefly glanced them over.
MACEY
ALEXANDER R
918 34 6122 USN O+
NO PREFERENCE
His heart sank. These weren't hers. If he had to guess, they were probably her father's. They were weathered from at least a couple decades of time, parts tarnished and some of the letters worn down as if repeatedly swiped over like a worry stone. "I'm sorry. Did you want to talk about it?"
Her answer was a half-hearted shrug.
Maybe he should've left things at that. Instead, he pressed the dog tags back in her hand. "Has it been a while?"
"Fifteen years today," she answered, closing her fingers tight around the pair of metal tags. "He had lung cancer for a while, since I was born pretty much. In hindsight, I know it was a matter of time before that caught up to him. He lived a lot longer than the doctors said he would. I didn't get what death was when I was ten though, so it was rough."
"He might've hung on for you," he guessed. In his head though, he was doing the mental math. Scarab had a stepmom, and if he had cancer since she was young, it was possible that her birth mother walked out due to the emotional or financial demand of caring for a baby and a seriously ill spouse. The stepmom was probably brought in as a way to ensure that someone would be around to care for her and the slightly older brother. In a lot of ways, it was sad. He couldn't imagine living like that. "I'm sure he's proud of you, wherever he is."
"Mhm..." Scarab returned the tags to her pocket. "Do you believe in heaven?"
It was a hard question. He wanted to say he did, after all, he was born and raised a Roman Catholic. Over the years though, he was hit with so many mixed messages that threw him between wanting to renounce his faith and attending a confession. "I think some of us have someone looking out for us."
"Captain?" Her voice cracked on the last syllable.
Did he say something wrong? "Aye?"
She sniffled and faced him with watery eyes. "Thanks."
--- --- ---
The location Heatstroke and Scarab got assigned to was on the opposite side of the Red Zone. While Heatstroke drove them there, Scarab gave directions. Because they were the furthest away, it also meant that the operation couldn't kick off until they arrived to infiltrate the building. Heatstroke's nerves were rapid firing as she clutched the steering wheel.
"Take a left. The target building should be around this corner."
Heatstroke glanced into the rear view mirror to make sure the road was still clear before following through with the instruction. The place was deserted. Not a soul to be seen in this dusty city. Civilians had long since left the zone or hid deep in their homes. To think this used to be normal place with regular lives being played out was chilling.
I'm being stupid but... "Scarab? Do you feel like something's off?"
"Off?"
"Like this mission's about to kick South any minute?" Heatstroke elaborated.
Scarab hummed. "Nope. Can't say I do."
It was just her then. Good. She could chalk this up to the chaos that the base has been in and call it a day. This morning started so normally too with her writing an Email home to her folks. There was no way she should be feeling this anxious, not when the final words she wrote were simply "Talk to you soon! <3"
Once she parked the car, they got out, readied their weapons, and made their way down the street. The area continued to be dead silent. It was as dusty as knickknacks pulled from the old trunk in the attic. It hinted at a time when people walked these streets, when shops were open and kids might've run to the school building several blocks away. Several years from now, would life return to this ghost town? People were stubborn, but it was difficult to picture life picking up where it left off someday. The building itself was a bunch of offices. She couldn't read Dari, let alone speak it, but what was left of the chipped away lettering suggested a law firm in her mind.
"This is India 1, we're in position outside Building 9," she informed over the comms. "We're ready when you are, boys."
Ghost responded, "Roger. Alpha team's in position. All callsigns, confirm." This was followed by a chorus of confirmations from the other teams.
"Ignis copies all," Command answered. "141, you're clear to engage the target buildings."
Heatstroke reached for the knob and gave it a testing wobble that ultimately became a simple turn as it ended up being unlocked. Slowly, she slipped the door open and entered the main lobby with Scarab behind her. The first thing she noticed was the dirt tracked throughout the area. At one point of another, there was a heavy amount of foot traffic.
"Looks like someone's been through here with a dolly," Scarab noted, gesturing to few sets of wheel tracks that followed along one of the clearer paths.
The question was how long ago? Heatstroke passed the front desk and mailboxes, then led the way up the stairwell. At the landing, she paused. "Scarab, you smell that?"
"Yeah. Cigarette smoke."
"Someone's here. Stay sharp." Heatstroke continued up the stairs and with a great measure of caution, entered the second floor hallway. Her heart picked up faster. At the end of the hall was a man with his head wrapped in a shemagh and a lit cigarette in his hand. An AK-47 hung off his arm. His back was to them, his attention fixed on the window.
Scarab stepped in front of Heatstroke and drew her sidearm, a silenced Five Seven. "I've got him." On the next beat in the Corporal's chest, the man smacked his face into the window with a noisy thud and collapsed.
Much like a cat, Heatstroke bristled from the sound. Hopefully no one heard that. "We'll clear these rooms one by one. Nice and easy."
They proceeded down the hall, opening rooms and confirming that they were empty. Aside from the single man at the end of the hall, there was no sign of any other targets. It was possible that they encountered a scout. Their upturning did reward them with a single locked room. Heatstroke shot the lock on the wooden door.
"Watch the door. I'm checking this out."
Scarab nodded. "Go for it."
At around that time, Teams Alpha, Golf, Echo, and Charlie reported in that their buildings were deserted. Alpha would divert to Bravo Team's location, Charlie was headed towards Delta, Echo to Foxtrot, and Golf to Hotel... Them, Team India, remained alone.
Inside, Heatstroke came across a small weapons cache. "Ignis, this is India Team. We've found a small munitions cache. Nothing big, but it could be linked. I'm checking it out now."
Guns hung on the wall, and there were a few crates stacked on top of one another in the corner. Printed on the sides of those crates was a logo: a 51mm bullet with AWR on the casing. It seemed that the arms dealer train reached the station here. Heatstroke pulled out her phone and snapped a couple of pictures of the logo on the crates.
"India 1 confirming that these weapons are linked to those arms dealers. The logo on some of the crates match." Heatstroke turned and noticed an old fossil of a computer. "I'm looking for any records or intel written out."
"Copy that, India 1. Do what you can."
Scarab spoke from the doorway, "How much is in there?"
"Plenty," Heatstroke said, flipping the chair around and checking the console. From the looks of it, it must've died ages ago. It refused to power up, and even if it did the dust inside it would probably cause the whole thing to spontaneously combust. "The computer's trashed. I don't think I could get anything out of this without a floppy disk."
The desk drawers had nothing new to contribute either. A lot of them were empty and sad, with the single exception of one that was stuffed to the brim with packs of cigarettes. Probably the community smoke stash. There wasn't much else in the way of clues to be found.
Heatstroke readied her gun. "Alright, let's get out of here-"
On the last word, the loud booming of an explosion within a mile of their position cut in. Over the comms, Bravo Team reported, "They rigged a thermal in floor above us! I don't know if this was a booby trap or if there's hostiles nearby."
"Rook, are both of you alright?" MacTavish questioned.
The answer came with a series of coughs from Meat. "We're still in one piece, Captain."
"Find some place to hole up, we'll come to you." The Captain advised. "ETA two minutes."
Scarab and Heatstroke shared a look. Without needing to be told, Heatstroke chimed in. "This is India Team. We've just finished up here. We'll head your way." She returned to the hall with Scarab and they went down the stairs. That was when they made the unfortunate discovery that the lobby they'd come in from was now swarming with hostiles.
Notes:
I know I said I'd be following Plan B more closely. I'm a liar. This has some very weird differences and things cut out that didn't need to be there. Don't worry, you don't miss much, but let's talk about these changes, shall we?
The biggest change was moving things to Afghanistan. I planned on starting the fic with this, but opted to do it later. They're here now partly because the 141 needs to flex on the Rangers with The Pit and also because the way that the mission gets described sounds like something inside the Red Zone at the beginning of the mission.
Soap and Scarab's conversation was pretty shitty originally. Scarab starts talking about her dad, Soap mentions how his brother's paralyzed from the waist down and his sister has been severely ill for a long time. Then Scarab goes on a tangent about her dead brother while Soap makes some highly inappropriate and insensitive remarks. I felt the need to rewrite it so that it wasn't terrible and remove some of the shitty backstory.
Plan B has the mission be just Scarab and Heatstroke. No particular reason for it. I elaborated more on what's going on while keeping the two isolated from everyone else for reasons.
Soap and Roach's smoke scene was not even 200 words of them wondering what Scarab and Heatstroke were up to on their mission. I cut it since it does literally nothing narrative wise besides pad the word length (Younger Me even admitted in the A/N that it was basically only for that).
When I wrote in the summary "Heatstroke does Scarab's job", that's referring to a detail on Scarab's original reference sheet. Her designation was a hacker while Heatstroke was a sniper. Amusingly though, I forgot my own reference sheet because whenever any sort of tech is involved, Scarab's never thrown at the problem in favor of Heatstroke or Ghost. Ultimately, for Plan A, I scrapped the designation entirely as placed her as a standard rifleman. She really never does ANYTHING that would nod to a specialization, aside from snipe one time and be super good at CQC.
Another piece of cut content is a scene where it's Price in the Gulag getting bullied by other prisoners and guards. It's stupid. The only detail of relevance is the off handed mention of his wife and son. He was supposed to get several other Gulag Scenes (TM), but they're also getting cut because, again, they don't do anything narrative wise.Man, I really didn't think about how much I changed until I typed all this out.
Chapter 12: Hell in a Hand Gun
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 23, 24, and 25
23. Scarab and Heatstroke are going to leave, encounter terrorists. Scarab remembers!! They make a get away. Scarab calls Soap. Shepherd cuts in, they walk, Soap remembers.
24. Heatstroke dies. Shepherd beats Soap up. "Unless..." and then erases memories. Scarab still escaping.
25. Makarov encounter. Shepherd is suddenly there too. Bit of a tussle. Shepherd doesn't confirm the kill, he and Makarov bicker like a married couple. Scarab calls Nikolai. Shepherd fakes a bear attack on Soap. Ghost is a concerned boyfriend.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There had to be about three dozen hostiles clogging the lobby; waiting for them to come down from the second floor. Heatstroke and Scarab had no way to leave the way they came, not without extreme difficulty. Like mice, the two of them sprang the trap. That tiny stock of weapons was just bait. All they could do was stand on either sides of the doorway, out of their line of sight.
One of the men in the mass of militia called out in a heavy accent, "Come out, Americans! Surrender or die!"
Heatstroke met Scarab's startled look with one of her own. That accent was a far cry from an Afghan native. It sounded Russian. These guys had help.
"We know you are there! Let's not play this game."
Scarab gripped her assault rifle like a vice. "What now?" Just outside, the voice swapped to Russian and barked out what sounded like orders.
"I'm thinking..." Heatstroke glanced up the stairs. It was true, they couldn't leave through the lobby. The only way they could go was up, but what then? The best they chance they had was to hold their ground until back up came, if back up came.
As if in slow motion, a flashbang sailed through the threshold.
No...!
The flashbang hit the edge of a step, and at the very same moment, Scarab jumped to her side of the doorway to push her against the wall. The room went white, and all sound was lost to a harsh ringing. Robbed of her sense of balance, she wobbled and probably would've fallen if she wasn't temporarily wedged between the wall and Scarab. Her hand was squeezed and pulled. Without any sight to rely on, she blindly followed as she was yanked along up the stairs.
Five steps later, her vision came back as a blurring afterimage of the flash grenade hitting the stairs, fading steadily to the dragging and uneven sight of her feet rushing. Her ears continued to ring. If she spoke, her words were lost to the temporary deafness.
Scarab turned into one of the rooms and kicked the door shut behind them. She let go of her hand to throw open the window. "We're gonna have to jump!"
Jump? It was only the second story, but all it'd take was a twisted ankle to doom them. For that reason, Heatstroke hesitated.
When she didn't follow her to the windowsill, Scarab snapped her head back. "What are you waiting for? They'll be here any second!"
Just outside the door, the voices of the enemy were approaching.
Fuck it!
Heatstroke hurried over and they both leaped from the window to the street below. She landed and rolled on the asphalt, got up and grabbed Scarab by the back of her shirt to haul her to her feet. "We've got to get to the truck."
They parked around the corner from the building, but the window they jumped from was on the opposite side. In order to reach it, they had to loop around. This seemed to throw their pursuers off somewhat. Grossly out numbering them though, there were enough tangos readily available to stand around their vehicle. There were several other cars parked and left running. Probably drivers in them, ready to speed off. They wouldn't be getting out of here at this rate.
Scarab unhooked a flashbang from her tactical vest and hurled it. With the three enemies by their car stunned, they took them out and raced over. Heatstroke dove into the driver's seat and turned the key with so much force that the car gave an indignant sputter before it started up.
A bullet broke through their windshield. Heatstroke went into drive and slammed on the accelerator. "Scarab! Shoot these assholes!"
The Private grabbed her assault rifle and turned in her seat to shoot at the other cars. While Heatstroke couldn't watch, as she banked and weaved through the largely empty streets in a futile effort to shake them, she heard a tire pop behind them followed by the fading echos of a crash.
"Shit, we got more of them joining in off that side street!" Scarab exclaimed.
Heatstroke white knuckled the steering wheel. "They know the layout better than we do, I'm gonna try and get us out of the city."
Her knowledge of the city's streets was limited, but she was able to navigate her way to an exit that'd get them out of the city proper. The road they ended up on led to open flat lands with less obstacles to dodge but less places to turn behind for cover. All the while, Scarab was firing almost nonstop behind them. Bullets clipped and grazed their car.
The rear view mirror exploded with one of the shots. Heatstroke thanked her lucky stars that she had her goggles on as she felt a few pieces of glass cut into her cheek.
"India Team, we heard a few crashes from your general direction. What's the situation?" MacTavish asked.
It was too late, a last stand out here would be suicide. Scarab replied, practically screaming, "Captain! The mission was a trap! We've got-"
"Whoa, calm down! Your voice is blowing out your mic!" MacTavish interrupted. "What happened?"
Scarab took a breath and reined in her volume. That was replaced with seething frustration. "We've got twenty plus tangos riding our asses. They were waiting for us. Heatstroke and I are trying to outrun them in the truck but we can't shake 'em."
"Activate your emergency transponder and we'll come to assist," the Captain ordered.
Another bullet pinged off the front column of the car. It was at that moment that a burst of pressure and then burning ripped from the back of Heatstroke's shoulder through and out below her collarbone. In her singular experience getting shot in the past, she learned one thing: don't look at the wound. Her ear was hot, and it was only then that she realized that blood was leaking down the side of her neck.
How many bullets hit her? She wasn't sure anymore. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Scarab gawking. Heatstroke gripped the wheel tighter, but the tension brought a tingling sensation down her arm that felt worse than the wound itself. "Fire on those trucks, Scarab!"
"R-right!" Scarab turned and continued to lay down covering fire that was met with more gunshots to their already pock marked car. Heatstroke's foot pressed down on the accelerator, letting their speed climb in a last ditch hope that they could outrun these guys.
Next thing she knew, the truck was stopped and she was draped over the steering wheel. They must've run off road into a ditch, because in front of them was a wall of dirt. Hands tugged at her seat belt, but that wasn't coming off. From the corner of her eye, she watched as Scarab gave up and kicked the passenger door open. She climbed out and ran...
As Heatstroke watched her childhood friend's retreating back, her blood ran cold. She couldn't feel a thing, but she knew her injures must've been serious if Scarab couldn't take her along. If Scarab stayed to save her, they'd both die. For the good of both of them, one man had to get left behind.
The faint piddle of tears hit the dashboard, mixing with a forming puddle of blood, and Heatstroke wheezed and choked as her body convulsed from her sobs. It was noisy, and although she wanted to stay silent and play possum until help found her, the spasmodic whining was beyond her control. The enemy would hear her. They'd finish her off. She'll die.
She had six months left before she could go home. Six months! Her dad would've picked her up from the airport; she would've been back for New Years and they would've celebrated Christmas late together. Her mom even promised to keep the tree up for her. She would've caught up with her old buddies back before she even joined the Rangers, in the regular Army. Probably go to that Thai place Harris was always raving about with him.
She didn't even get a chance to tell Scarab -to tell Alex- just how she felt about her. For years and years, she harbored this persistent crush, stuck by her side the only way she ever knew how, and this was the pay off? She really kept this to herself and now she didn't even get to spout it off as some final words? If this was a movie, she was robbed.
How long Heatstroke spent in that car was unclear. Long enough that blood loss from her cumulative injuries left her edging on the brink of unconsciousness. It came to a point where she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Cheek pressed to the wheel and dazed, she had no choice but to wonder what would happen after this. Eventually her teammates would find her, if not dead then very damn close to it. Captain MacTavish would have to make a condolence call to her parents. The last time he had to, he harbored an air of mourning for days after. Even though he didn't shed a tear, he clearly wanted to. Would it be the same for her? Her body would be packed in a bag and shipped home. She'd get a military funeral: stars and stripes on her coffin and punctuated by gunshots. Twenty-six and killed in action. She'd become another statistic. Her parents would sort through her things, probably read her old diaries that she kept in a shoe box. Maybe she'd be awarded another Purple Heart posthumously.
Distantly, she caught voices approaching the car. With great difficulty, she focused on them in hopes that she'd recognize the people speaking.
She didn't.
Her heart sank. Did that mean that Scarab died? Was she next? Heatstroke made one effort after another to move, to escape, but her arm lost all strength and refused to lift her off the steering column. In the process, more of her blood spattered on the dusty plastic of the console.
Dari. They were speaking Dari, from what few words she recognized. They were probably local militia.
Boots appeared just outside the open passenger door. Three people. One crouched to peer inside. His face was covered, but the words he spoke next made her freeze with terror. She didn't know much of any Dari, but she knew a lick of Russian.
"[Get this one out of the car.]" He said.
The driver side door flew open and, after a flick of a knife that split the seat belt, a pair of hands yanked her sideways and out of the wreck with very little regard for her injuries. While she couldn't muster the strength to fight with her arm, she kicked and twisted in a last ditch effort to break their grip. Her efforts were rewarded with a boot to the ribs that sent her rolling on her stomach to cough and choke on the sand. In all the chaos, her bun came loose and strands of hair hung over her face. A hand gripped the sagging coil of hair and pulled her head back so its owner could study her face.
"It's your lucky day," the Russian mused, silvery eyes crinkling in the corners. "We will be keeping you alive. Makarov can find some use for you."
Makarov. He said Makarov. Currently the most wanted man on the globe for his terrorist acts, with a body count well in the hundreds and a casualty count that hit a thousand just this year. That Makarov. Heatstroke's whole body began to shake.
Would he torture her for information? She was a Special Forces Operative. Her clearances granted her a wealth of knowledge concerning the counter terrorism operations in the works, especially where tracking his madman ass down and eliminating him was concerned. Odds were she'd never see home again.
--- --- ---
The emergency transponder was never activated. For that reason, the Task Force needed to search the surrounding city and roads until their satellite spotted the wreckage that was left of the truck, driven off into a ditch and abandoned. By then, it'd been close to an hour since the last time Scarab had frantically contacted them.
Roach helped comb the surrounding area, but as far as he could tell, the girls were nowhere in sight. He returned to the group, and when the Captain looked to him with that unspoken question of if he found any sign of them, he could only shake his head.
While he'd been circling the area, Ghost worked near the truck, crouched by the open door and studying the interior. He stood up and sighed. "Whichever one of them was driving must've gotten shot, there's blood all over the seat and dashboard. Seemed like they were dragged to the road."
"Someone must've come by and claimed 'em," MacTavish concluded. "Odds are, it was the local militia."
"If it was, then we could scan the zone and look, Sir," Roach suggested.
Like so many times before, MacTavish and Ghost shared one of those unguarded looks reserved for only each other. Somehow, someway, those two were on the same brain frequency. With just that look, a subtle shift in weight from one foot to the other and Ghost uncrossing his arms, the two of them seemed to have a full conversation without a word uttered between the two. Whatever it was, they came to the same conclusion.
"Odds are the General will be calling us back to base any minute, but we can search a while longer until that happens," MacTavish replied (finally) to Roach. "If they died in the crash, the militia wouldn't have bothered to pull them out. Until we see a body, the possibility remains that they're alive and potentially in danger."
Ghost reequipped his ACR and patted Roach on the shoulder as he passed. "Come on, Roach. We'll check the area again. Think you can stall, Captain?"
Without a speck of humor to be found in his features, MacTavish stated, "Stalling's one of my specialties."
The lieutenant snorted.
Could these two get any more confusing?
Roach hurried to catch up and the pair of them scanned the surrounding area once more for any signs of where Heatstroke or Scarab went off to. The best bet was to work from the wreck outward, trace a mental map based on the scene. This much was simple. the car took a number of bullets before crashing in a ditch just off the road. Miraculously, those two must have survived. Along with drag marks and blood stained sand that ended on the road, there were tracks from several people going all around the car. Tire tracks on the very edge of the road indicated that another vehicle had parked a few dozen meters away and left. There was another set of footprints that went up and out of the ditch before converging with the road, only they were spaced wide. Whoever made them was running.
Whoever made them also had little feet. Roach pointedly set his boot beside one of the clearer prints just to compare, since he was pretty average in that regard. "Either this is from one of them or there's a guy running around with tiny feet."
"Looks like Scarab went this way," Ghost said.
Roach blinked and looked between the Second and then the footprints. "How can you tell?"
"It doesn't make sense for one of the enemy militia to run this way unless they were chasing something, and the length of the stride's too wide for Heatstroke to make." He rattled these off flippantly as he followed the tracks up to the road. "Judging by the marks, she tripped and hurt herself getting out of the ditch. She starts limping here, three steps before hitting the pavement."
"Damn. Didn't know you could tell all that. Did you ever consider being a detective?"
Ghost didn't so much as give him a passing glance. He walked along the road, eyes to the ground. "I took a few courses in forensics a long time ago." That was all he said on the subject before swapping to, "Roach, get on the other side of the road. We need to see if she ran off the road somewhere."
Doing as he was told, Roach darted across the deserted highway and kept an eye to the ground. They must've gone about a kilometer out in that direction before Roach noticed two very important things. First, the tracks resumed, and they were accompanied by a swarm of other boot prints in the dry top soil. Second, there was something glinting in the dirt.
"Ghost! Over here!" Roach rushed over to the glinting and uncovered a pair of dog tags. He felt his forehead crease as he read the name. "Alexander Macey...?"
Ghost read the tags over his shoulder and hummed. "US Navy. Pretty sure these aren't Scarab's tags."
"No shit, Sherlock..." Roach pocketed the tags and stood up. "It's not a coincidence, that's for sure."
The lieutenant murmured some faint agreement and paced along the tracks. They led to a spattering of rocks and a small drop. On the far side of one of the larger boulders, they found a sizable blood stain but no body.
Maybe then the militia made off with Scarab too...
"Ghost, do you see anything?"
The tension in his jaw was visible, even beneath his mask. "She wasn't dragged away. Someone else came and picked her up."
Roach traced his line of sight. Sure enough, there was ANOTHER set of tracks. Along with them were the lines of wheels. "W-wait. This is getting a little too weird."
"You're telling me."
Those tracks went as far as out of the rocky area, where they immediately vanished without a trace. Ghost cursed under his breath and turned on his heels. "Bollocks. Seems like whoever got her came in on a helicopter."
If that was the case, then there was no telling where she could be by now. She could've been carted off hundreds of kilometers away by now and in any direction! They'd have an easier time tracking Heatstroke down than trying to find where Scarab ended up, and that'd require them to go back and march the opposite direction back into the town. From there, there was no telling where she could have ended up.
"MacTavish, this is Ghost, Roach and I have reached a dead end. We're making our way back to you."
Notes:
In terms of scope, this is the final chapter of Act 1 of 3. It's wild to think that I've gotten this rewrite this far. That's even considering the fact that I cut the final sequence out from Plan B and chucked it in the Non Canon bin.
Let's discuss a couple of things here:
The summary says that Heatstroke dies. Plan B's narrator, Scarab, believes she did and makes her escape alone. When I was a kid and wrote this, Heatstroke was killed by a singular shot to the head. My sister, whom the character was originally based off, threw a fit when she learned I killed her character so Younger Me brought Heatstroke back later with a half assed explanation that she was captured and didn't actually die. Because this time I know that she'll be back later, I was able to rewrite the scene to make it clear that she lives.
Originally, Shepherd was somehow bouncing between being on the base (the base in the UK, specifically) and in Afghanistan to help murder Scarab despite the fact that a helicopter trip to get there would take a whole day. It makes no sense, so he's staying in Fire Base Phoenix. Now technically, one could pose the same argument with Nikolai in this since he's somehow got to fly from Ukraine to Afghanistan, and that's half as long but still 13ish hours of flying. 4 and a half if we're talking from the Loyalist hideout we see in MW3 located in India. No wonder pilots are constantly dropping the "we're at bingo fuel" line in these games. I've got a litter of Loyalists I can also play with, so I can figure some explanation that'll make sense.
Chapter 13: Fuck Cliffhangers
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, and 31a
26. Nikolai is the best. Soap wakes up hurt and confused. Scarab wakes up in the safe house, meets the Loyalists.
27. Q&A w/ Nikolai. Price segment. [ Price Redacted ]
28. Q&A w/ Scarab. Soap and Roach are starting Cliffhanger. Cringy dialogue.
29. Scarab and Nikolai chat more. More Price. More ice climbing. [ Price Redacted ]
30. Scarab has PTSD. Middle of Cliffhanger suddenly.
31a. Scarab angsts. Tatiana is a G.
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING: The last scene of this chapter contains depictions of sexual assault and rape. Please feel free to skip this scene if that's not okay for you, any important information in it will be discussed later.
Edit: I decided to more clearly mark the scene so you know when you skip it and when it's safe to continue. When you see the "* * *", that's your cue to skip. See it again, and everything is more or less safe from there. Should have done this from the get-go, but this didn't hit me until two whole years after writing it. I'm terribly sorry.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
August 9th 2016
DUSTWUN is a term applied when the status of a serviceman is unknown. The label was by nature temporary, intended to switch to something more conclusive. The expectation was that they’d investigate the casualty and the circumstances behind their absence. Unless deemed necessary that the status remained for longer, it stayed at maximum 10 days. After that, they needed an answer.
The investigation into what happened to Heatstroke and Scarab was brief. MacTavish and his men searched their last known location and reached a deadend. Clues suggested they were captured, but there were no leads on where they ended up. They sustained heavy injuries, didn’t take a genius to figure that out with all the blood. Several things could’ve happened to them, from being tortured for intel to being executed elsewhere and their bodies dumped. They might not even be together. General Shepherd said that he’d have his men search the Red Zone for any sign of them, but hostile forces made any attempts at locating them dangerous and next to impossible.
So their whereabouts remained unknown.
No bodies turned up, so on the tenth day, their status changed to MIA. That was another notice to their families.
MacTavish brushed his thumb over one of the dog tags Roach found in their initial sweep. They were Scarab’s father’s. He dropped them into the little box of personal belongings. Soon it’d ship to her next of kin. A similar box of assorted items sat beside it for Heatstroke. They weren’t confirmed KIA, but it sure as shit felt like they were.
Since they vanished, MacTavish bounced wildly between his feelings on it. Some days, he dwelled on the last time he talked to Scarab alone. He should’ve said more, apologized for leading her on and putting her through so much emotional strain when she’d already been in a bad headspace. He let his guilt shove her at arm’s length. Other times, he laid awake running the mission over in his head, trying and failing to find anything he could’ve done differently so the two would still be here. The sad fact was that those two got overwhelmed by enemy forces. They would have needed a bigger team.
Two knocks broke his vigil. Standing in the door was Ghost. His sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt, allowing MacTavish to see the tired look in his eyes. Poor bastard lost a fair bit of sleep trying to talk him through his guilty conscience. “General Shepherd’s on the horn. It’s a new assignment.”
“I’ll take care of it.” MacTavish fell in step beside Ghost as they walked back to his office. “How’s everyone else handling?”
“They’re taking it in their own ways,” Ghost said. “Everybody’s worried about the girls… and, well, about you.”
“I’ll be fine.” He had to be. There wasn’t another option. As Captain, he wasn’t allowed to fall apart in the face of tragedy. He needed to lead his company, to never stagnate.
Ghost wove his hand into his and gripped it tight. “We’re in this together, mate. All of us. If they’re alive, we’ll find them.”
Nobody was around. MacTavish squeezed his hand in return.
“Mm… Aren’t you worried about someone seeing?” Ghost asked, lifting their interlocked hands.
“I’m a little short on fucks to give about that,” he said.
“Then don’t mind me if I take advantage.” Ghost slipped down his balaclava just enough to press a small kiss on his forehead. When they reached the office, he tugged the mask back up over his nose. “Hang in there, okay?”
MacTavish still held his hand. “Mind suffering through a briefing with me?”
“Eh… I suppose looking into Fregata can wait.”
They shut the office door and MacTavish unmuted their end of the call. “General Shepherd.”
“Captain,” came the gruff response. “We have ourselves a potential security risk. One of our satellites went down deep in the Tien Shan Mountains. There’s an Ultranationalist airbase in the area, and we think they may have taken it.”
MacTavish exchanged a look with Ghost, who propped himself against the wall. “The one in Kazakhstan, sir? That’s more than a little deep in the mountains, isn’t it?” It wasn’t just entrenched in the mountains, it was on a snow-capped summit and surrounded by cliffs. The best way in was by air, assuming you had that option.
“That’s the one. It’s vital that you infiltrate the base and recover the satellite’s ACS module before they crack it, otherwise we’re going to have a lot more problems on our hands. I’m sending you the most recent intel we have on the site. Recommend you keep your team as small as possible and climb the cliffs on the Southeast face of the mountain.”
“Aye. That might be our best option. Anything else?”
“Concerning this operation, no.” After a beat of silence, Shepherd added, “Before you ask, I don’t have any new leads on the whereabouts of Corporal Jays and Private Macey either. We can eliminate the possibility that they’re in the Red Zone.”
That narrowed their search slightly. Very, very slightly. “If they’re out there, we’ll find them.”
“Of course.”
Once the call ended, MacTavish went through the intel Shepherd sent concerning the airbase. The cliffs he recommended they scale looked brutal according to the topography maps. Extraction posed a bigger challenge than infiltration. Ideally, they’d pull this all off without being detected. The world wasn’t anywhere near perfect, so he plotted out a Plan B if they got compromised. Blowing the fueling station would make an excellent diversion, offering them the opportunity to make a getaway.
MacTavish sketched out the layout of the airbase in his journal and puzzled his lip. “The more I look at this, the more it feels like a James Bond film.”
“Listen, mate, unless you end up in some high-speed chase, you can’t tell me that this looks like a Bond film.” Ghost leaned over his shoulder. “So who’s going?”
“It’s got to be someone with high endurance, stealthy, and able to handle explosives.” If there was anyone who fit those criteria, it was… “Roach, maybe?”
“Not a bad choice. Who else?”
Roach had a lot of heart and tenacity. When given the chance, he rose to whatever challenge came his way. Overall, he wasn’t a bad pick. And yet MacTavish couldn’t leave it at that and choose a second person. There was one way to make sure the kid made it back safe and sound. “I’ll go.”
“You sure?”
“I am. I can provide sniper support from the ridge over the base while he plants the C4.” Plus, they didn’t know where the module was being kept. He could use that time to trace its signal. “We should be able to handle it just fine.”
Ghost rested his chin on top of his head. “There’s that confidence. I was starting to miss it.”
MacTavish gave a dry laugh and rested his pen between the pages. “Yeah. Thanks for putting up with my nonsense.”
“You deal with mine. Don’t worry about it.”
--- --- ---
The last couple of weeks was one long string of stress that rendered Nikolai exhausted. First, the Ultranationalist regime sniffed out their undercover activity and assaulted their hideout in Ukraine. Everyone stationed there had to retreat to their primary base of operations in Northern India, up in the Himalayas. While en route to the safe house, one of his contacts inside Makarov’s terrorist faction got a hold of him about a situation in Afghanistan. A few of Makarov’s Inner Circle were in the Middle East working with the OpFor to make sure their arms train went under the stationed Americans’ noses. The US got wise to what they were up to, however, and simultaneously attacked every suspected weapons cache. The OpFor chased two operators down to the outskirts of town during this operation, hellbent on killing them.
There wasn’t much Nikolai’s comrade could do. The Inner Circle took one operator, odds were to interrogate them. It’d be hell to track them down. The other made a run for it before they were shot and left for dead. All his contact could provide Nikolai with some loose coordinates, allowing him to find the soldier in question sprawled in a shaded ditch beneath a wall of rocks.
It was none other than Scarab, who looked dead at a glance. She took a bullet to the back and fell face down into the sand. Crawled some 20 meters too, from the look of the drag marks left in the dirt. Upon closer inspection, she was still alive, albeit faintly wheezing. It was damn lucky he was a short 20 minute flight away when he heard about this, otherwise she might not have made it.
He tapped her face, finding her just responsive enough to crack open her eyes and murmur something incomprehensible under her breath. She coughed, spitting up a muddy mix of blood, sand, and saliva.
“Tatiana, Viktor! Get the stretcher!” He called over the helicopter’s rotor.
The pair of Loyalists unloaded the stretcher and carried it over. Taking care moving her, they packed Scarab into the helicopter, and Tatiana got straight to work administering first aid while they continued to India.
“This woman is very fortunate,” Tatiana said, long after she’d stripped Scarab of much of her gear. “Her tactical vest slowed the bullet down. It looks like it cracked one of her ribs and punctured a lung, but the wound is shallow. I should be able to extract it easily once we land.”
The wound was non lethal, so how did it incapacitate her in the first place? Last time they worked together, she toughed out a gash to the side. This injury couldn’t have caused immediate unconsciousness. Did she play possum at first to avoid getting shot a second time? In that case, why didn’t she call for help after the danger left? He pondered these questions the rest of the flight.
The safe house wasn’t the nicest. It used to be a large home that overlooked the village, but its previous owners vacated the premises for unspecified reasons and it fell into a mild state of disrepair. Since the Loyalists set up shop, they fixed the many structural problems that came with the building. The extra work was preferable to their fate if they stayed in the New Russia.
The Ultranationalists had one place for them: the gulag.
When they arrived at their destination, Nikolai settled in and attempted to get into contact with Soap and pass on what he knew. Last he heard, they went to Fire Base Phoenix. That was the best place to start. The radio operator though wasn’t all that helpful.
“And what d’you say your clearance code was?”
Nikolai groaned and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t have a clearance code. This is important information for the Task Force 141. Can you patch me through to anybody?”
“I can’t patch you through, but I can deliver a message to Lt. General Shepherd,” that bored American suggested.
This was the best compromise he’d get. “Alright. This concerns two operators from Task Force 141; I recovered Private Alex Macey and have been treating her injuries. Once she is well enough to travel, I can return her. The other operator who went missing was taken by Makarov’s Inner Circle. I do not know where they are or what may happen to them.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes. That is.” Once the transmission ended, Nikolai leaned back in the creaky wooden chair. This was so much easier when he worked as a mole for the S.A.S. He turned off the radio and went to get cleaned up and rest.
Some time later, barely long enough to consider it a nap, Kamarov sought him out. “That woman is awake. Did you want to speak to her?”
“I should.” Nikolai sat up, only to be met with the nagging pain of a stiff back. He stretched, causing several vertebrae to pop. 12 hour flights were such a hassle. They were absolute murder on him, more so with each passing year. “How did she look?”
“Not well. You’re acquainted with her, yes? Through that friend of yours.”
“Soap? Yes, but we only worked together once.”
Kamarov pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “I count it.”
They set up a temporary space for Scarab in a small side room. It wasn’t cheery, but it was somewhat clean. A cot with a thin mattress was pushed to one side, and Tatiana’s bag of medical supplies sat on the table close by. Scarab lifted her head off the pillow when the door opened.
It probably hurt too much to move with that cracked rib. No matter. He approached the cot. “We meet again.”
She slipped her arm out from under the blanket to give him a small wave. “Hey, Nikolai. Glad to see a familiar face. Where are we?”
“Right now we’re in the Loyalist base of operations in India. You’re safe for now.”
Scarab glanced up at the ceiling. “Is Riley here too?”
Riley? “If you mean the other person you were with, they are not. Makarov’s men took them.”
“That so?” She draped her arm over her eyes. “That’s it then… She’s dead…”
“Not necessarily,” Nikolai tried to assure her, “There’s a chance that Makarov has not executed her.”
“If she’s not dead yet, then she will be. That psychopath might make a show of killing her as an example.”
It was well within the realm of possibility. Along with it, torture was also likely. There was no telling the hell that faced Makarov’s newfound captive. “We are searching for her whereabouts. Hopefully, we can rescue her before it’s too late.”
His attempt at optimism didn’t inspire any hope in her though, none that he could see at least. She took a shallow breath, the exhale crackling like paper.
He steered the topic off of the fate of her fellow soldier. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I guess… We got overwhelmed. So we tried to outrun ‘em until we could get backup, but Riley got shot behind the wheel, lost control, and we crashed in a ditch.” Her fingers curled tight. “I tried to get away, but they chased me down…” She stopped talking altogether at that point. Unfortunately, none of it was new information. If there was more to her situation, it would have to wait until she was willing to discuss it.
“I can leave you to rest,” Nikolai said. “Are you in much pain? I can get the doctor for you.”
“That’d be a big help. Thanks.” She mumbled.
Steadily over the following days, she found the strength to sit up in bed on her own and then to walk short distances unaided. It was her breathing that brought concern. Scarab breathed shallowly to avoid straining her ribs, but it also put her at risk of pneumonia. When Tatiana explained this, Scarab became pale and since then attempted to take deeper breaths despite the clear pain it caused. While they had some pain medication, it was reserved for severe cases because it was difficult for them to get their hands on a good supply. There wasn’t much they could offer for her discomfort beyond applying a cold compress.
As she recovered, he talked to her more. They traded stories and discussed plans. Nikolai didn’t think he was a good storyteller (a summary giver was a better description), but she seemed intrigued when he spoke about his time in Afghanistan with the Soviets and working with the S.A.S. She was young, and so less experienced than him, but had herself a few entertaining anecdotes about her six years of service.
He mentioned over tea, “I am sure you will be able to return to your base soon.”
Her eyes lit up at the prospect of going back. “I hope so. It’ll be nice getting back in the swing of things, you know?”
… He still hadn’t received a response about his first message. Strange, but he assumed they were looking into what little info he gave them. He put a pin in it and decided to bring it up with Soap personally when he next got the chance. “Yes, but it may be some time before you are doing assignments. Your rib needs more time to heal.”
After five days, Scarab was as active as possible without popping stitches or hurting her ribs. Although she was doing better physically, emotionally was another story. Being shot left her jumpy, as to be expected. He hoped the acute stress response wouldn’t develop into a long term issue, but the best person to evaluate it would be a counselor. Nervousness was one thing, but she went through her stuff and turned her pockets inside out in a panic one evening. “Shit shit shit…”
Nikolai watched this frantic searching from the hall, unsure if he should intervene or leave her be. Kamarov was passing by when he glanced into the room and looked to him for an explanation. Nikolai shrugged.
“Where is it…?! It’s gotta be here!” She shuffled through a couple more pockets of her tactical vest before her shoulders sank in defeat. “You’ve gotta be kidding…”
“Did you lose something?” Kamarov asked.
She peeked back at them over her shoulder and tossed the vest aside. “Yeah… My dad’s dog tags are gone. Did you see them anywhere?”
The former Sergeant’s frown was deeper than usual. “I haven’t. Is it possible that you misplaced them?”
“I don’t know. I keep them in the same pocket, but I can’t find them anywhere,” she responded.
“When was the last time you remember having them,” Nikolai asked.
“Back at Fire Base Phoenix.” She punched her leg. “Dammit, they could be anywhere between here and Afghanistan!”
Nikolai’s stomach lurched. He didn’t want to imagine what it’d be like to lose all the family photos he kept in a wallet sleeve. Personal mementos like that were precious things, especially as they risked their lives far from home. He stepped into the room and knelt down beside her. “If any of us see them, we will return them to you.”
It wasn’t much, but she nodded in feeble agreement.
Nikolai stepped back and let Tatiana and Kamarov handle Scarab while he went back to regular company management for a while. It seemed like their situation was stabilizing when the world decided it’d much rather jump into a grease fire. August 12th, there was a mass shooting at the Zakhaev International Airport in Moscow. It was clearly Makarov and his Inner Circle’s doing, but there was a singular detail that all of Russia noticed. It appeared in public addresses from President Vorshevsky and in news articles. Only one shooter’s body was recovered at the scene, and they identified him as an American with potential links to the CIA.
One body and the whole Ultranationalist Russia cried out for vengeance.
--- --- ---
When they took Heatstroke captive, they taped her mouth shut, threw a hood over her head, secured her arms behind her back, and shoved her in a small space. A trunk, maybe? Under normal circumstances, she could have escaped, but her injured shoulder made it too excruciating to break the thick band of tape through sheer strength alone. She tried kicking too at first hoping to bust out a taillight or something, but they noticed it pretty quick and warned her that if she kept trying, then they’d break her knees. Whether she liked it or not, waiting was her best bet.
And Sweet Jesus, she waited a long time. With no other alternative, she fell back on training and tracked the turns they took to give herself a rough idea where she was. For hours and hours, it stayed relatively consistent; minor changes in bearing that went back. West? They followed that same highway she and Scarab tried to escape down and that’d been going West. Left was the first big turn, sending her South, but then came a right, another left, and right after that, landing back on West. Hours dragged on by as she bumped and rattled in the trunk. They stopped twice, probably to swap drivers, but the third time they did, they opened the trunk and dragged her out into the significantly cooler air.
A couple of men were having a conversation in Russian off to the side. She understood very little of it. This would’ve been so much easier if MacTavish were here. He knew some rudimentary Russian. Hell, he’d probably be able to escape somehow.
… Then again, he didn’t get away from those arms dealers back in Germany, so maybe not.
The hood was tugged off her head, ripping at the scabbing mess of her ear. Heatstroke got her first glimpse at her surroundings. It was dark. Much of the landscape was dusty and rocky around them, with a few dark spots in the distance that could have been smatterings of foliage. There were two cars parked on the side of the road; the one they had dragged her from, and a van. The person who removed her hood was white, with a thick face and buzzed brown hair. He grabbed her by the chin and turned her head every which way, as if appraising her like a vintage porcelain doll for auction. He clicked his tongue in distaste at the mess of dried blood that caked the side of her head and down her neck from the bullet hole in the shell of her ear, and pulled the hood back on over her.
They had to be on the far side of Afghanistan by now, right? If not, then over the border and in Iran. How far were they going to take her? They shoved her along to the van and threw her in the back. The driving continued, and she tried her best to keep track of the turns. It just kept going on and on. Every time they stopped, she thought this was it, they’d pull her back out and it’d be their destination. They didn’t even open the hatch. The stops were brief. It felt like they started going North, but her ability to keep up with all their turns was steadily failing her the longer this carried on. Her mouth and throat went from gummy to bone dry as the beginnings of dehydration set in. She’d been holding her bladder too, but one wrong bump and she pissed herself and had to lie in it for God knows how long.
When they did finally open the hatch again to retrieve her, one man loudly complained — likely because she’d been marinating in urine for so long that she’d become blind to the smell. They dragged her out and pushed her to her knees. She had two seconds of peace to notice bird song and wind through branches when she was splashed with water and once more for good measure. The water loosened some adhesive, which allowed her to wiggle her cheeks and mouth enough to dislodge part of the tape.
They walked her inside a building, then down the stairs and tossed her in a tiled room where they locked the door. Through mild investigation, or rather strategic kicking and bumping around because she couldn’t see through the hood’s black fabric, she determined that this was a bathroom. A bathroom also meant water, if she could get this hood off and turn on the sink. She moved about until she found the doorknob to catch the hood on and pull it off. It strained her jaw, but she used her teeth to turn on the tap and stuck her head underneath. The cold water was a blessing, soothing her sore throat and swollen tongue.
Out of nowhere, a man grabbed her by the hair and yanked her from the sink. This man was none other than Vladimir Makarov. There was no mistaking him. He cast his attention to the running water and asked, “Thirsty?”
She swallowed thickly, a lump forming in her throat.
He pressed the discarded hood over her face and shoved her under the tap. Water saturated the fabric, which clung to her nose and lips. She couldn’t breathe, not without feeling like she was drowning. She thrashed beneath him, unable to break free. The edges of her vision darkened the longer she went without getting a proper breath of air.
And then it was over. He tossed her to the floor. Her shoulder connected with the tile first, sending her nerves haywire. She coughed and gasped, water dripping off her hair and face and soaking her shirt. Makarov planted a shoe directly over her injured shoulder, tearing a cry from her between ragged coughing. “Still thirsty?”
A tremor of fear rattled her to the very core. She shook her head frantically.
“Good.” He smirked, features twisted with sadistic glee. “I will make use of you, American.”
That was the beginning of hell. He sicked his man, Kiril, on her to torture whatever information he could from her. For days, he beat her black and blue. She stayed quiet despite his methods. When it was clear that she’d sooner die than crack this way, Makarov called him off.
Makarov cupped her abused cheek. “Your entire faction is founded on a lie. Shepherd plays his own game, with his own rules. He doesn’t care who he needs to kill. Loyalty means nothing to him. What makes you believe he cares what happens to you?” He gripped her thigh. “Well, Riley?”
She pressed her legs shut. It was the only thing she could do. “We don’t abandon our own.”
“And yet he has done nothing to rescue you. You are another expendable pawn in his plans, one of many more he’s willing to sacrifice to feed his ambitions. Your General and I want the same thing, warfare between Russia and the West. What he doesn’t realize is that he is setting events into motion that he has no hope of stopping. This is bigger than him.” His nails bit into her bruised flesh. “Mark my words, he will betray the men he leads, and he will be rewarded accordingly.”
That couldn’t be right. The General swore an oath to protect the American people just like she did. Surely he wouldn’t put so many lives at stake for his own gain. Right? “He wouldn’t.”
“He would. It has already begun.” Makarov let go of her face and walked towards the side room. “If you won’t talk, then we have other ways of making use of you. Viktor, take her. You and the others can do what you wish.”
* * *
Viktor and Lev approached from the side, where they and a few other men were observing the interrogation. While one untied her from the chair, the other held her at gunpoint until they secured her wrists behind her back. They escorted her downstairs to that little bathroom. Once there, they kicked her inside, and she fell over the wall of the tub. The lip collided with her gut and knocked the wind out of her. Wheezing, she hung half inside the bathtub, struggling to right herself.
“You should have talked when you had the chance,” Viktor said. He reached around and slipped her belt buckle loose. An icy hand shoved its way down her pants, and a similarly icy dread engulfed her as fingers jammed themselves inside past painfully tightened muscles.
Her legs scrabbled, but she couldn’t fight him off. The stretching had her shrieking. “Please, please, no!”
A fist cocked her upside the head. “Quiet!”
She tried to be quiet, she really did. But as her pants were ripped down to her knees, and the violation continued, she shook and sobbed. One particularly hard thrust dug the tub’s rim into her stomach, and that set off a chain reaction. She gagged and threw up a mouthful of bile, which she coughed and choked on. The acid hit the back wall of her throat and got pushed up into her nose from her desperate attempts to breathe, further burning her sinuses.
When that bastard finished, she felt the uncomfortable slick of semen down her inner thighs. She thought it was over, but that was when the other one yanked her off the tub. He pushed her face into the peach tile floor and shoved himself in, biting some Russian profanity out as he further raped her. Even after they were done, it wasn’t the end. She had brief breaks, but either they came down for more or someone else did.
When Kiril came, he tore her uniform apart piece by piece. “Your country is never coming for you. You should thank me for destroying this garbage.”
Find a happy place. Escape to a mental room where dad was waiting at the airport, to home where it smelled of vanilla and the kitchen was bright with laughter. Escape to that Taco Tuesday two years back at the table with a fruity margarita and a collection of friends. But whatever you do, don’t stay in the bathroom, with all that pain and hopelessness. Don’t stay and listen to the awful things they say and do to you.
Don’t let yourself dwell on how deeply they violate you.
Sensations stopped having meaning. She didn’t feel like she was present in her own body. Pain was there, but it didn’t matter. Her body operated on autopilot. Anything to get her through this. There was a stretch of time when she was finally left alone. She dragged her aching body into the corner and curled in on herself. It was only a matter of time before this hell began all over again.
* * *
The next one in the room was the quiet one. Yuri, she’d heard Makarov call him once. He looked down upon her and, with a sigh, he set down a plastic bag on the toilet seat. He then turned on the water in the tub. “Get in.”
At first, she didn’t understand it, so she gawked. What the hell was he planning?
“You must feel gross, yes? Get in the bath.” He said, nodding to the steadily filling basin.
Hesitantly, she did as told and climbed to her unsteady feet. She stepped into the tub and felt the welcome feeling of warm water wash over her toes.
“Hold still, I am cutting the tape.” The edge of a steel knife brushed her arm hair as it sliced the duct tape apart. “Okay.”
She rubbed the tacky residue left on her skin and lowered herself into the tub, hugging her knees against her chest. “Why are you doing this?”
Yuri got up and shifted through the plastic bag, setting out various first aid supplies and a couple folded garments of clothes. “A guilty conscience.” He took the first aid kit and sat himself on the side of the tub. “You were shot. Let me see.”
She released her shoulder and scooted closer for him to examine it.
“The bullet passed all the way through, at least. You will need a doctor who can treat you properly.” For now, he cleaned it out. There were many injuries she couldn’t reach, let alone see. He attended to each with care. “Do you have family, Riley?”
“I do,” she answered quietly as the sponge swiped along her bare back.
“Close?”
She nodded. “Yeah…”
Once she was clean, he dressed her wounds and passed her the bundle of clothes. They weren’t much, a pair of men’s pants and an olive drab tee shirt, but they gave her a shred of dignity back. The last things he handed her were a cup of water and a bread roll. “What Makarov said was not a lie. General Shepherd has been colluding with him for some time now.”
She’d hoped it was a lie, but apparently not. “He is?”
Yuri glanced at the door and kneeled in front of her. “Shepherd has sent an American agent to operate undercover in our ranks, and he is coming with us on our biggest assault yet. He will be used to implicate America in a major conspiracy... Tomorrow I will be back to get you out of here.” He left after that, taking the plastic bag and first aid kit with him.
He never returned.
Notes:
This begins the chaos that is Act 2. It's crazy coming back to writing Plan A after all this time I spent working on the JJBA fic Reverse Psychology for most of this year. That fic's not done and I'm intending to get back to it come January, so I may be in a weird situation where I'm juggling both these fics at the same time, at least until I wrap up Act 2 of this fic and take another break from it.
Right, so let's discuss some of the changes, shall we?
Firstly, and probably the biggest change, I scrapped writing out Cliffhanger's transcript as a narrative. As much as I adore that mission and all its icy coolness, there's no good way I can write it that won't just rehash what we see in game. I don't want to do that unless I'm showing events from a unique perspective or am changing things in some way from the canon story. Just assume this mission plays out exactly like it would if you were playing it. Along with cutting out the mission itself, I gave Soap and Roach's cringy side convos the chop.
There's also a stunning lack of Soap waking up hurt and confused. Originally, if you remember the summary of the previous chapter, Shepherd attacks Soap and uses the stupid mind probe. Apparently he drags Soap's unconscious body back, says he got attacked by a bear, and ditched to go shoot Scarab countries away. Because Shepherd doesn't do that here, Soap has no reason to be injured. Don't worry about it.
Scarab and Nikolai have EXTENSIVE back and forth about what the situation is for, I kid you not, FOUR CHAPTERS. It rambles and gets into dumb side stories that don't matter. Because Shepherd didn't shoot Scarab here, she has no concrete reason to suspect him, so she doesn't bring it up to Nikolai. I needed to make Nikolai suspicious of Shepherd in other ways, so this is the beginning of that.
Scarab doesn't have PTSD in this, at least not yet anyways. At the moment, it's too early to diagnose her with it, because PTSD is when the crippling anxiety, nightmares, and flashbacks after a traumatic event don't go away months and sometimes years afterwards making readjusting to daily life difficult if not impossible. Amusingly, Younger Me claimed to include it because it made the story more "realistic."
Then Price's scenes in the Gulag doing basically nothing got cut and I added what's going on with Heatstroke instead. I plan for her to do stuff that impacts the plot, so I kinda need her to still have a presence, you know? I also added Yuri to the mix, because Plan B was written pre MW3. I figure I'll blend elements of the third game to ground the events of this fic. It won't be MW3 all over again, because I have a love/hate relationship with that game.
One last thing. I call the extremist group that they're dealing with in the Red Zone OpFor (Opposing Forces) here because the faction you fight in Team Player has no name. I toyed with the idea of either calling them Al-Qatala after that fantasy Middle Eastern country's terrorist group in the new Modern Warfare reboot or coming up with an original name, but they don't play enough of a role past this point for me to bother.*deep breath* ALRIGHT. And lastly, I'm bumping up the rating to E because of rape scene and any potential sex scenes (consensual later, I promise) that'll come up in the future. I'll add a warning as well.
Thank you guys. Stay safe and much love.
Chapter 14: Follow the Shell
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 31b-32
31b: Takedown cut scene. They go to Brazil, sack up in Hotel Rio.
32: Nikolai offers to take Scarab to Brazil. Ghost + Meat spy on Rojas. Gunshots through the window. Soap goes to meet w/ Nikolai to plan LZs, meets Silvia.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
With the ACS recovered, Roach and MacTavish returned to base feeling pretty damn good about themselves. They settled back in, got a hot meal, and shook the residual chill from their bones. MacTavish stayed up an extra hour to file his mission debrief and retired to his waiting bed and partner. For once, he let Ghost spoon him.
Yes, things were dandy until 09:50 the following morning, when news came in that Makarov assaulted the Zakhaev International Airport. Mass casualties were tragic enough — they were the reason for this company’s existence — but every additional detail that unfolded about the situation made it worse and worse.
Makarov and his men escaped and vanished. The FSB had no luck finding him.
The FSB recovered the body of one of his men in a vehicle depot.
The equipment Makarov’s men used were American made. Witnesses also reported hearing the terrorists use “military jargon.” A conspiracy blew up online that America sponsored the assault as well as Makarov’s previous shootings and bombings.
Shepherd identified this man as PFC Joseph Allen; the Ranger he pulled for the Task Force 141. In an odd twist, Allen also got selected for a deep-cover operation backed by the CIA to enter Makarov’s ranks, gain his trust, and report his movements. This was effective immediately.
The FSB also IDed Allen as an American linked to the CIA. They released this information to the public, further fueling conspiracy theories. One Russian hashtag that started trending on Twitter within the first half hour after the shooting translated to #JusticeforMoscow .
All of Russia united in outrage over the US seemingly backing a terrorist and attacking civilians. President Vorshevsky gave an address, reflecting his country’s anger.
10:14, MacTavish and Ghost were on another conference call with General Shepherd concerning the latest developments. The outlook was bleak.
“The Russians ain’t gonna let this massacre go unanswered. It’s gonna get bloody.” Ghost said, glowering at the updated casualty count. 129 civilians, 24 security officers, 29 FSB officers. The numbers were still climbing.
“Too right, mate,” MacTavish replied. “Now, in the eyes of the world, they’re the victims. No one’s gonna say a word when the Russians club every American they can reach.”
Shepherd remained even toned and stone faced. “Makarov was one move ahead. Now he’s left thousands of bodies at the feet of an American.”
This mess was warped beyond recognition. MacTavish flipped through the files. “We’re the only ones who know it was Makarov’s op. Our credibility died with Allen. We need proof.”
“Follow the shell.” At that moment, Shepherd sent them photos of an identical pair of bullet casings through the network. One casing came from the photo of Allen’s body. The other was one of many recovered from their operation in Germany. Its point of origin was Brazil. He sent a couple target files in. “Alejandro Rojas.”
“Never heard of him, Sir.”
“You know him as Alex the Red,” Shepherd explained. “He supplied the assault.”
MacTavish sighed and rubbed his face. “One bullet to unleash the fury of a whole nation. Which means…”
“He’s our ticket to Makarov.”
They’d need to fly to Brazil and find Rojas. He dealt with many terrorist groups over the years, including that daisy chain of armaments the 141 cut off last month. He might have been connected to Fregata Industries (a shipping company, potential “front” business for smuggling) as well, but the link wasn’t solid. Any intel they squeezed out of him could bring them one step closer to taking Makarov down. There was a wrinkle, though. Rojas had been living off the radar since 1997. For all they knew, he flew the coop a long time ago. What they had was someone who appeared to be Rojas’s assistant. He showed up at dealings in his place, and he’d been last sighted in Rio de Janeiro.
“Given the current political climate, Sir, it’d be a good idea if we have a back-up plan in case things kick South,” MacTavish said.
“If you think it’s necessary, I’ll sanction it. Once you capture Rojas, you’re to take him to the U.S.S. Chicago. We can better interrogate him there.”
“Understood.” The call ended, and MacTavish turned his attention square to Ghost. “Mind rounding up a team? I’ve got something to arrange. We’re leaving ASAP.”
“On it.” Ghost left the briefing room.
With a moment alone, MacTavish took two seconds to find his center and then called Nikolai.
“ Ah, my friend. I was waiting to hear from you. ”
“Oh yeah? I take it you know about the situation.”
“ [Yes], more or less. What do you need of me? ”
“We’re following a potential lead that could get us intel on Makarov. He’s stationed in Rio de Janeiro. I’m not saying it’s guaranteed to go wrong, but given the geopolitical climate, I’d appreciate it if you’d meet us there in case we need emergency extraction.”
“ I will be there, my friend. You know the frequency to reach my helicopter’s radio, but in case it comes up, I do also have a phone for now. ”
God, he needed to make good on his promise and get Nikolai that case of Imperia for all the shit he put up with. “Thanks, Nikolai. I owe you.”
10:40, A team of 10 men deployed and were en route to Brazil. ETA 12.5 hours, or approximately 20:00 local time. Mobilization happened so fast that the mission briefing for everybody else had to wait until they were in the air. They’d keep their presence on the down-low while they better tracked Rojas.
“So we lost the new guy already,” Royce said once the plane had run silent for several minutes.
Meat hummed in agreement. “I’ll give Private Allen this: he set the record for shortest time in the unit. What do you think it was? Did he just get unlucky?”
“It could’ve been a lot of things. Too bad we can’t ask him.”
MacTavish kept a cautious ear on their conversation whilst thumbing the clip to one of his ammo pouches. The circumstances revolving around Allen’s reassignment, blown cover, and death were more than just bizarre. Allen’s file showed a stunning lack of credentials in espionage. The 22-year-old Ranger had a few deployments under his belt, and only the last one to Fire Base Phoenix (to train local militia, mind you) had open combat. The most stand out thing he did was run a decent time in The Pit. That was all. No special qualifications, no additional skills that’d make him a suitable choice. Surely the CIA had better people they could send to infiltrate Makarov’s Inner Circle.
He could squint and see Allen getting pulled for the Task Force. Maybe. But even if General Shepherd needed to pull someone from the 141 for this deep cover operation, why on God’s Green Earth did he pick him ? It made no sense.
For all the weirdness involved, MacTavish was still reluctant to call the General out. There had to be some reason beyond his knowledge, outside his clearance even, that Allen got picked. Whatever it was, he couldn’t question his CO’s decisions.
The fact that his men picked up on it wasn’t reassuring. This ugly secret loomed like a shadow in the corner, and he wanted to convince himself that it was a trick of the light. With each person who acknowledged that shadow, it became a little more real, and a lot more intimidating.
“You alright, mate?” Ghost asked him, just quiet enough that it went unheard by the rest of the team.
“Should be,” MacTavish said. “Just got the worst feeling, like Makarov and Russia won’t be our only problems soon.”
“Mm… Something’s been off for weeks now. I’m not placing much stock in Scarab’s conspiracy theories, but I can’t shake the feeling that she might have been onto something.”
If she was right… God, he hoped not. General Shepherd was a lot of things, but a traitor? Please. Scarab was throwing spaghetti on the wall and seeing what’d stick. Every theory she presented was baseless. “Even if she was, there’s no proof. All we can do is proceed as normal unless something substantial comes up.”
Ghost nodded. “And if something does?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
The sun had long set when they arrived in Brazil. Much of their equipment was stashed in cases and hidden away, stowed in the trunks of rental cars and nondescript vans. They’d stake out the city for Rojas’s assistant, and the best way to do that was to drive in and maintain a low profile.
Rio de Janeiro as a whole was a beautiful city, glittering with lights in the evening and boasting a healthy tourist industry. In the distance, Christ The Redeemer resided over the city like an onlooker. There were plenty of nice parts, but they weren’t staying in any of them. They went to a favela that, like many, sprang up on its own without city officials’ involvement. The area was like a tiny city within a city that popped out of the hillside, living worlds divided from the evenly districted and tourist friendly sectors. They found a vacant boarded up living space within the micro-community to set up shop. Green paint chipped off the walls, and the air was so sour and humid that it forced them to crack windows wherever they could. Based on the stained ceiling and rotting floorboards, the previous tenants must’ve abandoned it because of water damage.
There were a hundred of these low-income settlements in the city, and each was perfect for Rojas to hide in. The difference between this one and all the others was that it’d become a hotspot for local militia activity. See, the situation was much more turbulent than just an arms dealer and his associates. There was a gang with a strong presence in this area, and their hold was like a vice. The unease was palpable, from weary merchants in the market to groups of kids who’d stop playing football when they passed. Rojas used to hold connections to the local gangs via previous dealings, but according to intel, he snubbed them in favor of Makarov’s much more lucrative business. If they left the situation alone, the militia would find Rojas on their own and kill him for cutting off their weapon supply. The 141 needed to swoop in and bag Rojas before these thugs did.
It took a long time for them to cart in their equipment from the vehicles into their impromptu base of operations without drawing attention to themselves. At least they had the cover of nightfall and the lack of lighting on this street.
Once things settled, MacTavish stepped out for a smoke and found Ghost by the cars. His balaclava was scrunched around his neck, the white of the mandibles peeking in the folds at his throat. He hadn’t worn it in hours, so for once his short hair was a little less matted down. To see him look so inconspicuous was a blend of strange and amusing, a rare treat that MacTavish adored. Acting casual, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and held it out to offer him one. “Was it your turn to take watch already?”
Ghost brushed off his offer. “Not really. Meat’s taking a piss.”
“‘Course he is. Man’s getting old,” MacTavish quipped, leaning against the door of the black car.
“He’s barely thirty,” Ghost pointed out.
“With two kids. That ages you.”
Ghost rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.”
Huh. Usually a dumb remark like that at least got a chuckle out of him. MacTavish double checked Ghost’s posture. His arms were folded in front of him in a loose self hug. “How’ve you been holding up?”
“Just tired is all. I’ll manage.”
“Go inside and get some rest then. I need you at your best tomorrow,” MacTavish said, giving a soft pat to Ghost’s shoulder.
The lieutenant dipped his chin and headed in for the night. It wasn’t necessary, but MacTavish reshuffled the watch shifts to give Ghost a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.
--- --- ---
Rocket relieved Roach from watch at 03:30. Roach didn’t feel tired, since he’d slept like a bear on the flight over, but it was only a matter of time before the jet lag kicked in full gear. He wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the time zone difference, because when he came back inside, Meat, Royce, and Merlin were playing blackjack at the table with just a torch pointed up at the ceiling for light.
“You’re still up?” He asked, pulling his cap off his head.
“Shh.” Royce tipped his head to the opposite side of the room, where MacTavish was fast asleep sitting in the corner and Ghost had changed positions to rest his head on the Captain’s thigh. Royce spoke in hushed tones. “Wanna join the game or do you need to take a nap.”
“Deal me in.” Roach took a seat on the empty stool by the table. “The militia’s gotten pretty quiet. I’ve just seen a couple of scouts patrolling the street.”
“Any civis?” Merlin slid two cards across the table along with a pack of M&Ms to him.
Roach opened the pack, tossed in a bet of 3 candies, and turned his cards over. A pair of twos, he’d need to hit when his turn came. “A few.”
“That’s good,” Royce said and tapped the table. Merlin dealt him a new card. He already had a 14 total, but that six brought him to 20. Almost perfect. He smirked and held. “We’ll be less conspicuous that way.”
“Yeah, we said that last time too.” Meat huffed. “It won’t mean a whole helluva lot if we catch the guy and he caps himself.”
“That was a fluke. It happens.” Roach rested his chin in his hand. “We’ll get him this time, I’m sure.”
“That’s the spirit,” Royce agreed. “Who knows, maybe with that kind of attitude, you’ll actually win one of these games, Roach.”
The Sergeant’s nose crinkled. “I’ll have you know I can win this game any time I want if I do the math.”
“Pull that card counting bullshit and I eat all your M&Ms,” Merlin said.
“Kidding - I’m kidding.” Roach chuckled.
Merlin disregarded Roach and turned Meat. “You going to hit or hold?”
Meat grimaced at his cards. “I’m gonna regret this, but hit me.”
Merlin passed him a Jack of Diamonds.
“Fuck. I bust.” He slid his M&Ms in towards the middle.
“How about you, Roach?”
“I’ll hit.” The card he got was a seven, so all he needed was nine and he’d win. “Again.”
The next card was a nine.
“Blackjack, mate.”
Royce and Meat groaned in unison.
“Bugger.” Merlin turned over the second dealer card, revealing he had 15 total. He drew another card, two. With a heavy sigh, he waved to Roach. “Alright, dealer holds at 17. Give the man your candy.”
“Booo...” Meat flicked an M&M at Roach’s head, causing it to hit his chin and patter on the table. “You sure you didn’t cheat?”
Roach snickered. “Not this time.”
“Next time, Roach, you’re dealing,” Royce said.
“Sure thing.”
--- --- ---
Nikolai should’ve made landfall sometime around 04:00, but MacTavish didn’t contact his helicopter until 2 hours after that. With such a long flight, he figured Nikolai needed to refuel in several meanings of the word. Instead of his friend, he reached the copilot on the Pave Low’s radio.
“Is Nikolai available?”
“ He is… ” the copilot said with some hesitance. “ … but the flight was very long, so he is sleeping. Is it essential that you speak with him, because if not, I would rather not wake him up. ”
MacTavish full heartedly agreed with that sentiment. “I’m just relaying the coordinates for the extraction points in the event that we need to call you guys.”
“ I will write them down. — Alright, go. ”
He read out the coordinates and answered what questions he could about both of them. The primary exfil point was in a clearing just past the market. It’d be tight, but Nikolai proved time and time again that he could pull it off. There weren’t many open spaces on ground level, so the secondary LZ was a klick away on the rooftops. If neither worked, then they’d need a new plan all together, and he wasn’t keen on the prospect.
Of course, in his experience, the only times they used a primary exfil point was when they weren’t in danger of being overrun. Given his track record and the likelihood they’d be engaged in favela warfare, it seemed well within the realm of possibility that his bad luck with LZs would continue through today.
After passing that crucial piece of information along, MacTavish pulled out his journal and flipped to the blank page he’d skipped yesterday to draw a map of the favela over two pages instead of compressing it on one. It’d bug him later if he left it empty, so he fell back on his regular pass time of sketching.
It didn’t take long before he loosely captured the chaotic sprawl of buildings just outside; of large leafy palm trees, and the distant mountain with its statue landmark. Too bad he couldn’t capture the retreating purple clouds on fading blue skies in all its majesty with his limited pen colors. He settled for roughing in their shapes. Satisfied with the drawing, he shut the journal and slid it into his back pocket.
Downstairs, most of the team had cracked open MREs and chatted over breakfast. Meat and Roach were playing hot potato with one of the heater packs, but the minute he walked in Meat tossed it at him with a sharp, “Think fast, Captain!”
MacTavish caught it just before it would’ve sailed over his shoulder and chucked it back at Meat. “Your aim’s too high, mate.”
“If you don’t catch it, you lose,” Meat pointed out as he passed the heater back to Roach.
“Fair enough.”
Royce stood up. “It’s a big neighborhood, Captain. Where do we start?”
“For now, we’ll split up and monitor what the local militia do, see if we can find any leads. You know the drill, concealed arms, and don’t fire unless fired upon. Royce, you and Meat will stay here with Ghost on over watch. Doc, take Rocket, Chemo, and Klepto towards the East. Roach, Merlin, you’re coming with me West.”
He received varied affirmations from the team, from grunts to nods and Yes, Sir ’s. Now the actual work began.
Notes:
You know, all things considered, this chapter didn't change nearly as much as the last chapter did. Still a fair few things, so let's touch base with them, shall we?
Because I wrote this originally at 13 and couldn't be assed to do research for anything, I sorta sucked my breath and cringed at the strange depiction of Rio. I didn't describe much, but they stayed in a hotel, which sounds like they stayed at the more regulated part of the city. But this is Younger Me who wrote this, and I'm pretty sure I just thought all of Rio de Janeiro looked like what we see in the game. I did some research on Rio this time around and I think it really helped me get a better grasp of what was going on with this mission. Favelas can be super pretty and display human ingenuity.
In Plan B, they meet with some contact named Cortez. It doesn't really add much. The scene got cut.
There's a scene where Scarab is standing dramatically, thinking about that time she and Soap kissed on the balconey(tm), when Nikolai shows up hype because Soap called and asked him for help. Scarab sighs dramatically and Nikolai offers to take her along. I still wanted Soap to ask Nikolai in advance, because the logistics of getting Nikolai to Brazil from India is a nightmare. Later on, Scarab is there acting as Nikolai's copilot (I guess...?!). She's not here this time, period. Gave Nikolai a Loyalist with actual flight experience to come with him. We'll call him Sasha.
There's another scene where Ghost notices Rojas and his assistant talking in the streets, and instead of doing the rational thing and apprehending the guy, he gets Meat to translate what they're saying. No logic here. Hell, the assistant also lectures Rojas on patience. I yeeted this whole part in the trash and replaced it with cards because fuck that noise.
Finally, there's a scene where Soap leaves the group to meet up with Nikolai and on the way he meets Silvia and her son Roberto. Is Roberto relevant? Heavens no! Silvia comes back later and reveals that she's a spy for Makarov. Not before attempting and failing to get into Soap's pants. She does make Scarab think Soap's cheating however, which sparks a whole debacle later. Silvia's a dumb character and I refuse to write her. Ghost and Scarab fight over Soap just fine without her, thank you very much.Hope you all have a good day. Stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 15: Takedown
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapter 32(.5)
32(.5). Takedown.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
August 13th, 15:08
The search for Rojas continued through the morning and into the afternoon. Doc’s team noted a small group of militia congregating around a van with AK-47s and small arms. They lost track of the vehicle, but last they knew, it was headed west. MacTavish’s team spotted a white van driving through that matched the description and tailed them. They left the boundaries of the favela. Ghost, Meat, and Royce moved accordingly and started the quiet process of diverting civilians from the area.
“ Ghost, the plates are a match, ” MacTavish said.
Ghost glanced down the road. MacTavish’s team was a klick away, out of sight. “Copy. Any sign of Rojas’ right-hand man?”
“ Negative. They’ve stopped twice already - no sign of him. ” After a beat, MacTavish continued, “ Wait, they’ve stopped again. Standby. ”
If only he wasn’t on over watch. The tension in the air was growing, gnawing at Ghost’s stomach as he listened with rapt attention to MacTavish’s play-by-play.
“ Got a positive ID. Whoever these guys are, they’re not happy to see him… ”
Gunshots resounded down the street; Desert Eagle, if he had to guess. Both Meat and Royce stood straighter, the former gripped his gun a little tighter.
“ Ghost, we have a situation here! ” MacTavish’s calm swapped with raising alarm. The rapid clacking of AK-47 fire followed, and then the blaring of a car horn. Ghost’s heart stopped.
Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. For fuck’s sake, please don’t be dead. There was a break in the gunshots, replaced by hysterical shrieking. He signaled to Meat and Royce to follow him, and sprinted down the street with them in tow towards the monotone wailing of the horn. Civilians fled the area, screaming and tripping over each other. Ghost shoved past a woman who nearly ran into him in her haste. What waited for him there? How many bodies would they find in that damn Lincoln?
“ Ghost! Our driver’s dead! We’re on foot! ” MacTavish finally said over the comms, and just the sound of his voice made Ghost choke on his relief. “ Meet us at the Hotel Rio and cut him off if you can! ”
Merlin was behind the wheel. Ghost put a tap on his emotions and rounded a corner. “Roger, I’m on my way!”
A car sped up the street at them, Meat jumped to one side and narrowly dodged a direct collision. More cars swerved to dodge pedestrians, hitting other vehicles and posts. Some caught fire, others smoked or steamed. The acidic taste clung to Ghost’s sinuses with every measured breath he took.
At an intersection ahead of him, MacTavish and Roach ran up the sidewalk. Past them, Rojas’s assistant booked it at breakneck speeds and ducked off the road behind the side of the hotel.
“He went into the alley!” Ghost just about caught up with them.
A car raced right towards MacTavish out of the blue. The brakes squealed as it came to an abrupt stop. The grill of the car nearly bashed the Captain in the knees, but he slid over the hood and kept going. “Non lethal takedowns only! We need him alive!”
He’s okay. He’s okay. Ghost banked left into the alley, now side by side with MacTavish.
Roach passed them, coming to the next turn ahead. He slid to a stop and took aim.
“Roach - take the shot! Go for his leg!” MacTavish ordered.
The Sergeant fired twice and lowered his gun.
They caught up to him, and MacTavish took a deep breath at the assistant writhing on the concrete. He patted Roach on the back. “He’s down. Nice shot, Roach. Let’s scrape this guy off the pavement and leave before the militia catch up.”
Meat kicked the gun away from the assistant and handcuffed him. Once he had the assistant detained, he dressed the bullet wound in his thigh.
The assistant stuttered in Portuguese, “[Who the hell are you people? Americans?]”
“[Get up. You’re coming with us.]” Meat said, dragging him to his feet. “Think we can get back to the nest with him?”
“We’ll have to.” MacTavish got back on the comms. “Doc, we got Rojas’ right-hand man. What’s your team’s status?”
“ Been quiet in this section, Captain. No sign of Rojas, and less militia activity. ”
“Roger. Keep searching, then. We’re gonna see if the assistant knows anything.”
“ Copy that. ”
Ghost drew in beside MacTavish and scanned him with a critical eye. He didn’t look any worse for wear, as far as he could tell. “You’re not hurt, are you, mate?”
MacTavish shook his head. “I’m fine. Can’t say the same for Merlin though.”
Ghost could only imagine what it looked like, with Merlin shot and slumped on the wheel. Body retrieval would be a nightmare. “We can talk about it later when all’s said and done.”
“Aye, we’ve still got a job to do.”
They had to walk this assistant back to the favela, as the roads were jammed with car accidents and the first responders arriving on scene to handle the situation. Once they slipped out, they brought this guy to an empty garage and secured him to a chair.
Ghost did a cursory glance of the room for anything he could use to interrogate him. The blowtorch looked promising. He turned it over in his hands to inspect it. It seemed in good enough shape to boot. He gave MacTavish a nod and ignited it while the Captain turned to talk to the rest of the team.
Grabbing the back of the assistant’s sweat-soaked shirt, he brought the spindle of flame closer to the assistant’s face. “[You’re Alejandro Rojas’ assistant, right?]”
The assistant looked from the torch to him, fidgeting in the chair. Each breath turned into a panicked gasp. “[What are you going to do with that?]”
The sheet metal door slammed shut as MacTavish stood up and paced to the corner of the room. Ghost brought the blowtorch a little closer, just enough for him to feel the radiating heat. “[Nothing, if you cooperate. Where is Alejandro Rojas?]”
He stammered something a bit too fast for Ghost to make sense of. Just outside, there was more gunfire, followed by screams and barking.
“ Bravo 6, be advised - we’ve engaged enemy militia at the lower village! ” Royce said.
MacTavish tapped the button on his radio and replied, “Royce, gimme a sitrep, over.”
“ Lots of militia, but no sign of Rojas over here, over! ”
“Copy that! Keep searching. Let me know if you see him. Out.”
“[Last chance,]” Ghost threatened, maintaining the torch’s distance from his skin. “[Is he in this favela or not?]”
“[He is! He is!]”
“[Where then?]”
“ Meat is down! I repeat, Meat is down! ” Royce shouted.
The assistant squirmed against him, unable to place distance between himself and the fire. “[I don’t know! He has been hiding from the militia, he could already be trying to escape!]”
“[And where would he go? Do you know?]”
“[There’s a house uphill, red paint on the side. He keeps money in a safe there, in case he needs to leave in a hurry. If he’s not there already, he will be! I know nothing else!]”
Ghost shut off the gas and lowered the torch. Two minutes; this had to be a new personal record for him. “Apparently Rojas is headed uphill, to a house with red siding. He’ll probably try to escape while we’re fighting the militia.”
MacTavish threw open the door and stepped down. “Christ. I think I know where that is. We passed it earlier before we tailed the van. We gotta hurry.”
“What about him?” Ghost asked, putting down the torch and gearing up.
Stopping in his tracks, MacTavish cast the assistant a glance. “Leave him. We’re here for Rojas.”
“Alright.” Ghost hopped down and out of the garage to follow the Captain, leaving the assistant tied to the chair.
“Roach - we’ve got Rojas’ location! He’s heading west along the upper levels of the favela. We’ll keep him from doubling back on our side - keep going and cut him off at the top!”
Roach answered, “ Copy that! Captain, Royce and Meat are KIA. ”
MacTavish grit his teeth. “There’s no time for backup. You’re gonna have to do this on your own. Good luck. Out.”
It was pandemonium in the streets. Militia swarmed the area, coming out of every nook and cranny to attack. In order to make any headway, they got into a pattern of one of them darting from a piece of cover to the next while the other covered them. It was slow going, and at this rate, they’d never catch Rojas before he escaped.
“Ghost, see that dumpster over there? We’re gonna take a shortcut.” MacTavish charged across, dodging and ducking behind light cover as bullets pinged around him. He reached the dumpsters and climbed atop one and then up on the rooftop. “Come on!”
Following his lead, Ghost sprinted and climbed up to meet him. There was a street on the opposite side of the building, further up the incline than where they were. MacTavish dropped to it and Ghost stayed close behind.
“[Circle around! Circle around!]” One man yelled.
“They’re gonna cut us off, we’ll need another route,” Ghost said.
“Let’s take that alley, see if we can’t shake ‘em.”
They turned down the narrow footpath which sidewinded around several buildings. While rounding the corner, they encountered a few more enemy militia hiding in wait. MacTavish warned Roach about checking his corners, which honestly seemed a little silly at this point.
Back on the main street, a pair of shutters on the second story of a building flew open and machine gun fire forced them to find cover. There was no time for this! Not when they hadn’t even so much as spotted Rojas. Ghost sprinted in under the window and chucked a grenade up inside the MG nest. With a boom and a shout, the MG was down.
“Ghost! Rooftops!”
He looked up and saw exactly what MacTavish was talking about. A few men toting RPGs sprinted along the tin plated roofs and found positions to load up and aim. Ghost shot them down, but not before one of them fired the grenade his way. It spun out and exploded against the wall behind him, sending bits of concrete showering on him from the impact. He raised his arm to protect his eyes.
Ghost caught a flash of red on his forearm, the sting of shallow cuts from flying debris. He swore under his breath and pushed forward. There had to be an easier way to do this. Something.
“There he is!” MacTavish pointed up ahead, where Rojas ducked into a building with a chipped red wall and slammed the door shut behind him. More armed militiamen came running in from side streets and along the roofs, bogging them down with a volley of bullets.
With MacTavish laying down covering fire, Ghost gave chase, kicking in the door. The flimsy wood barrier splintered and flew wide open. In the next room, Rojas lugged a duffel bag over his shoulder and sprinted up the stairs, leaving behind an open, empty safe.
“ Roach, we’re taking heavy fire from the militia here, but I’m still tracking Rojas! He’s gone into a building! Ghost, do you see him? ”
In that moment, Rojas looked back at him and fired several shots, forcing Ghost to duck behind the wall while he scrambled up and out of sight. “Roger that, he’s climbing onto a roof carrying a black duffel bag!” Ghost swore under his breath and ran up the stairs after him, up onto the rooftops.
“ Well, that ought to slow him down! Roach, we’re keeping him from doubling back! Keep moving to intercept! Go! Go! ”
Rojas shot at him a couple more times over his shoulder before dropping the duffel bag off the side of the roof and jumping down after it. When Ghost reached the edge, he discovered a small balcony. Rojas must’ve gone inside and ducked down.
In the street, MacTavish sprinted a considerable distance to catch up. He shouted up, “He just ran out and went down that side street!”
Ghost nodded and took a few steps back to give himself a running start, then leaped to the next rooftop. The impact of the landing sent a shock wave up his legs. Then he was running again. Rojas was below and headed towards the end of the street. He could jump on him, but he couldn’t risk seriously injuring the HVI or himself.
“ Keep going! Rojas is still headed towards your side of the favela! ” MacTavish told Roach.
“ I’m under heavy fire! ”
“Roach! Don’t let the militia pin you down for too long! Use your flashbangs on them!” A young man climbed up on the rooftop, Dragunov hanging off his back and a bandolier across his chest. Before he even got the chance to react, Ghost checked him off the side of the building.
Rojas reached the end of the street and hopped a fence to another small courtyard and a network of alleys that’d take him back the way he came. At roughly the same time, MacTavish came to the mouth of that sidestreet and skid on his toes as he turned and ran down. “ I’ve lost sight of him again! Ghost, talk to me! ”
Ghost sprinted to catch up. “I’m onto him! He’s trying to double back through the alleys below!”
“ Roger that! Stay on him! ”
Rojas exited the mouth of the alleys and sprinted into the marketplace, the fabric canopies and stalls obscured him from view. Ghost cursed and climbed down to street level to find him again. He caught Rojas’ retreating backside as more militia swarmed and added to the confusion. “I’ve got a visual on Rojas! He’s cutting through the market!”
“ Roger that! I’ll head for the rooftops and try to cut him off on the right! He’s gonna have no choice but to head west! ” Just as MacTavish finished his sentence, he appeared atop one building and jumped to the next. Crazy bastard took out his sidearm and shot a guy in the face as he ran past and out of sight.
Ghost meant to go through and stay hot on Rojas’ heels, but he ended up pinned down behind a half wall and nestled in a cluster of chicken cages. “This isn’t gonna work…” He peaked up from cover and shot a few men down, but had to immediately take cover again when a shotgun blast struck the wall. Beside him, a chicken squawked as it exploded with blood and feathers. “I’m taking a lot of fire from the militia, I don’t think I can track him through the market! I’m gonna have to find another way around!”
He ran from cover and sprinted east to circumnavigate the market. Chicken feathers fluttered off his shoulder and clothing. Up above, he spotted Rojas again, now missing the duffel bag. He must’ve ditched it. “Be advised, I’m about half a klick east of the market, I can see Rojas running across the rooftops on my right side!”
“ Roger that! Roach! We’re still corralling him closer to your side of the hill! Keep an eye open for Rojas! He’s making his way across the rooftops! ”
“ I see him! ”
The street was empty. If there was ever a chance, now was it. Ghost took aim. “Sir, I’ve got Rojas in my sights! We can go for a clean leg shot! We can end it here!”
“ Negative! We can’t risk it! Do not engage! ”
“Bollocks!” Ghost lowered his gun and quickly amended his outburst. “Roger that!”
“ Roach! I’ve spotted Rojas, he’s making a run for it! He’s headed your way! ” A second later, MacTavish added, “ And don’t shoot him! We need him alive and unharmed! ”
When all this was said and done, Ghost would slap MacTavish in the fucking dick for being so bloody difficult. Absolute bullshit.
“ Roach, we’re going to cut him off at the summit, keep pushing him that way! Go! Go! ”
Ghost ran along, trying to get another beat on Rojas. Above him, he spotted MacTavish again, so their target couldn’t be far. Rojas came running from an alley several meters ahead. He was so close that Ghost could practically count the individual beads of sweat on his face. Ghost tried to close the distance, but as he reached out to grab him, an RPG exploded to his left and knocked him off his feet. Rojas kept going.
MacTavish took out the person who fired the RPG. “ Ghost, he’s going for that motorcycle! ”
Ghost pulled out his sidearm. “No, he’s not!” He fired two shots. The first pinged off the chrome and the second popped the back tire.
“[Fuck!]” Rojas abandoned the bike and ran behind another building.
Ghost pulled himself up and collected his rifle. He wasn’t that badly hurt, all things considered.
“ Okay, we’ve got eyes on Rojas- Wait! Ah shite! He’s headed back towards you! ”
Sure enough, Rojas came running out from where he just went. Ghost fired in front of Rojas, which was enough to spook him and drive him back into the alley, and ran after him to prevent him from coming back.
“ Nice! He’s breaking to the right again! Roach, if you see him, do not shoot him! I need him unharmed! ” There was more that MacTavish said to Roach, but Ghost missed about half of it as he chased after Rojas.
Another turn and Ghost lost him. Rojas had just up and vanished, and there were too many damn places he could’ve gone. “Where is he, where is he?”
“ Got a visual! He’s over there, sliding down the tin rooftops! ”
Ghost tracked where MacTavish was pointing up above and spotted Rojas as he reached a landing and struggled to catch his bearings. “I’ve got another clear leg shot!”
“ Negative! Not unless you wanna carry him back out with all this militia breathing down your neck! I need him unharmed! ”
Ghost cursed under his breath and ran in Rojas’ direction. There had to be a way up on the rooftops. Rojas ran across a makeshift bridge from one roof to a balcony, causing the whole unstable structure to bounce with each step.
“ Ghost, I’m going far right! ”
Where the fuck was he? The Captain up and vanished. Meanwhile Rojas was about to duck inside that building and there was no way in hell Ghost would reach it in time to intercept him. “He’s gonna get away!”
“No, he’s not.” In the next instant, as Rojas ran across the balcony, the glass door to it exploded and MacTavish came flying out. He fucking rugby-style tackled Rojas , sending both of them falling two stories down and into the roof of a green sedan. The top crunched under their combined weight, sending more glass shards flying. Without missing a beat, MacTavish grabbed Rojas and held a pistol to his face. Ghost hopped up on the hood to assist, pointing the muzzle of his rifle down at him. “Frontrunner, this is Bravo 6. We’ve got the package. I repeat, we have got the package.”
From the opposite side of the clearing, Roach came running up the path and slowed to a stop, panting.
Ghost switched frequencies to get in contact with Command. “Command, ready for dust off. Send the chopper. Coordinates to fol-”
“ Negative, Bravo 5. We’re detecting a massive number of bogeys in your area. Over. ”
Ghost glanced up at the sky, that clear as day blue sky. Nary a bird, aircraft or otherwise. Un-fucking-believable. “Bollocks! The skies are clear! Send the chopper now!”
“ We can’t send air support at this time. Out. ”
MacTavish cast him a brief look, his brows knitted with concern, and then returned his attention squarely on Rojas.
Ghost sighed, a deep, flagrant anger radiating in his chest. “Command’s got their head up their arse. We’re on our own.”
“There’s nothing we can do about it for now,” MacTavish said. “Doc, we have Rojas. What’s the ETA on your team meeting up with us?”
“ We’ll be there in 20. ”
“Roger that. Stay alert, the militia are still crawling all over this side of the favela.”
“ Copy that. We’ll be there. ”
Ghost looked over to Roach, who largely got his breathing under control. In either of his hands were Mini-Uzis, and both were shaking. “You alright, mate?”
He swallowed and nodded. “I am.”
“Good. Let’s secure this bastard and find a better spot before the militia catch up.”
Notes:
Same shit; Different POV.
This chapter was... well... it exists. I don't know why, but Younger Me had this thing where I wrote the campaign but with zero changes and only sometimes from a different POV. It always read like I copy/pasted the game transcript off the wiki and then added ill-fitting dialogue tags and weird interjecting narrative that made no sense coming from a grown ass man. I facepalmed a good seven or eight times reading the original chapter.Firstly, I didn't know how to count apparently, because this chapter was also labeled "P32" just like the last chapter. This isn't the first time that I screwed up the chapter numbers. I guess it's fitting enough, because the only thing that happens in this is Takedown, which plays out EXACTLY like the game with no deviation, so it may as well be an extension of the previous chapter.
In Plan B, this is all coming from Captain MacTavish's POV, I chose to swap to Ghost's because I felt like it'd be way less removed from what you see in game. Here are a few gems from badly-written-MacTavish's perspective:
-I would've drove but Granite discided, through a near arguement, that he would drive. Roach claimed passenger seat and I was stuck in the back. (Granite is the driver in this version. I changed him to Merlin, going based off the Remastered, which gave him a name.)
-'Okay what's the first thing you do if you're unarmed and there is a firefight outside?' I asked in my head. 'Oh I know! Run into the streets like a bunch of startled cattle! Find cover you idiots!'
-"Oh what happened to teh days where men could stand to see others scream bloody murder," Ghost joked as he picked through his tools.I don't know why, but there was also no sense of timing in the original. You get MacTavish yelling at Roach about two separate things in the same breath and events that just happen. I clearly lacked an understanding for what anybody was talking about too and took a lot of stuff at face value with no deep introspection or consideration for circumstances.
As always, stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 16: Hornet's Nest
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapter 33
33. Hornet's Nest. I'm serious.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Cellphones weren’t an item a soldier carried on their person very often. This was something MacTavish was so used to that he hadn’t bothered to replace his Blackberry he’d had since 2008, even as its battery slowly died. It stayed turned off in his quarters, under a stack of papers, and only ever saw the acknowledgement of a passing glance when he had to organize his desk. He was pretty used to waiting till he made it back on base to make calls.
But damn, even that stupid half dead fossil would’ve been convenient at a time like this.
After Command snubbed ‘em, Ghost kept flipping channels and trying to reach anybody with any potential to get them out of Brazil, but every line was tied up. MacTavish may have arranged a fallback plan, but he didn’t expect the circumstances he’d need to use it to be this dire. The next thing he tried was to contact Nikolai via the helicopter’s radio, but all he got was dead air. The whole thing must’ve been off. That left him with one last solution: Nikolai’s burner phone.
He, Doc, and Klepto hunted down a payphone in the nearby area. It took them precious minutes longer to scrounge up the change to make the call, since nobody carried centavos. They swept the nearby buildings and turned up a filthy piggybank abandoned in an empty house; probably belonged to some kid who MacTavish hoped was hiding somewhere safe with their parents. Nobody expected it to have anything. Doc was halfway through saying, “There’s no way.” when Klepto yanked off the stopper on the bottom and a handful of coins fell out, shutting the medic up. The three of them agreed to never bring this up again and returned to the payphone. For all this effort they put in robbing an eight-year-old’s candy fund, Nikolai better not have muted the bloody thing. MacTavish rapped his fingers on the box while listening to the dial tone.
“ [Yes?] ”
“Nikolai, it’s me. How soon can you be at the primary extraction point?”
“ ... Give me twenty minutes. I will be there, my friend. ”
“See you then. Out.” Behind him, he heard a snort. MacTavish internally withered and hung up the phone. “Something funny, Klepto?”
Klepto stopped pressing his lips shut to reply tersely, “No, Sir.”
Just let it go... “Let’s meet up with the others.”
When they returned to the small clearing, Ghost spotted them first and approached them, saying, “Sir, the militia’s closing in. Almost 200 of them, front and back.”
There was still a chance. “We’re gonna have to fight our way to the LZ. Let’s go!”
Ghost nodded. “What about Rojas?”
Currently, Rojas was strapped to a metal frame against the wall; the jumper cables connected to a pilfered car battery lay disconnected on the ground. More tools lay set about purposefully on a rickety wooden table, from drills to plyers and a snubbed out cigarette. Rojas looked like absolute hell, heaving and wheezing, on the cusp of passing out, and blood stained his chest from all the relatively minor injuries inflicted. Even with a crude, improvised set up, Ghost did a serious number on him for the small shred of intel they got. Rojas had to know more than about a single grudge Makarov harbored for some nameless Russian prisoner, but to get anything substantial out of him required more time that they wouldn’t have unless they dragged his half dead ass out of here. “The streets’ll take care of him.”
“Works for me,” Ghost said.
MacTavish took up the rear as they advanced up the path. “Nikolai! We’re at the top level of the favela, surrounded by militia! Bring the chopper to the market, do you copy, over!”
“ Okay, my friend, I am on the way! ”
The first gunshots sailed past them as they reached an open, paved plaza with a building in the middle. This was it. “Everyone get ready! Lock and load!”
“Let’s do this!” Ghost shouted.
The squad fanned out over the large space as the militia flooded the area from all sides and engaged them. MacTavish stayed left and took cover behind a few white barrels and opened fire. Squealing tires ripped through the air, piercing as a thumbtack to the eardrum. In the next instant, a technical burst through the gate and did a donut while the machine gunner sprayed in a wide circle.
“Shit! I’m hit!” Rocket ducked behind the half wall.
A couple bullets hit the gunner in the face, and he dropped from the truck bed as the technical sped in a large circle around the square. Near Rocket, Roach knelt down and out of sight.
Another revving engine approached. MacTavish’s cheek hurt from how hard he scowled. “We got another technical! Take it out!” This one stayed much, much closer to the gate and out of his line of sight. He could run somewhere and get a better angle, but that’d leave him open to the hostiles up high.
The machine gun fire halted, followed by a cry in Portuguese. MacTavish ducked and glanced to the side. Rocket was up again, a compression bandage around his bicep, and his rifle tight in his hands. “Technical’s down!”
“Head through that gate! Keep pushing to the evac point!”
Moving up, Ghost shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” As their team advanced, the militia pushed back. “Roach, take ‘em out!”
Roach ran up to the closer technical and manned its machine gun to cover their advance, and fell in behind them once they reached the gate.
This was only the beginning of many challenges. It didn’t matter if it was a street or a clearing, there was almost consistently a firefight. They reached the market by the skin of their teeth, and just past that was the LZ. The entire way, MacTavish ticked off smaller goals in his head; get through this yard, then get to the end of this street, reach the market… He didn’t have a second to think whether the LZ was safe, or if there was a window of opportunity to escape, not until he heard the helicopter overhead.
“There’s Nikolai’s Pave Low! Let’s go!” He tapped on his comm as they cut through a building. “Nikolai! ETA 20 seconds! Be ready for immediate dustoff!”
“ That may not be fast enough! I see more militia closing in on the market! ”
MacTavish’s stomach did a barrel roll. “Pick up the pace! Let’s go!”
Please, God, two minutes. Not even two minutes. Just long enough for them to get on board and in the sky safely. Please…
Roach took point, but he stalled at the door leading out to the LZ. MacTavish caught up and too balked. The militia were already here, and they fired RPGs that narrowly missed the underbelly of Nikolai’s helicopter, leaving a crisscross of smoke trails in their wake.
“ It’s too hot! We will not survive this landing! ”
Nope . Nope. Nope Nope Nope!! “Nikolai, wave off, wave off! We’ll meet you at the secondary LZ instead! Go!”
The helicopter pulled up and flew off. One last RPG struck a roof below him, exploding in a bright red burst that scattered bits of concrete. “ Very well, I will meet you there! Good luck! ”
He had the worst damn feeling about this, but there was nowhere to go but forward. “Come on! We’ve got to get to the rooftops, this way!” MacTavish led the others across the clearing and took a running start to scale the 3 meter high wall. Once he was on the roof, he covered the others as they climbed after him and ran ahead. He reached down a hand for Rocket to take to help him up, and Roach was last.
The helicopter roared as it passed them and to the secondary LZ. “ My friend, from up here, it looks like the whole village is trying to kill you! ”
MacTavish hopped from a tin awning and took two small steadying steps to keep from tripping off the side, and jumped again to the next roof. “Tell me something I don’t know! Just get ready to pick us up!”
Ghost slapped a bedsheet on a clothesline out of his face and cut ahead of the team. “We’re running out of rooftop!”
“We can make it! Go! Go! Go!”
Ghost jumped first and cleared the gap with ease, landing on the lower ledge and rolling into a crouch. Next went Chemo and Rocket. MacTavish reached the edge and landed with a heavy thud. Klepto and Doc jumped after him, making it across. The tin roof gave an indignant creak at all their weight.
Only one they were missing was… “Roach! What’s the holdup?”
The Sergeant chucked his gun aside, took a running start and leaped towards them with a clipped shout. He struck the edge flat footed, pitched forward, and slapped the roof flat on his stomach, dislodging the tin plate. It, and by extension him, hung off the side by a thread.
MacTavish rushed for the side and swung his hand down to grab Roach. Roach even tried to reach for him. But the plate came loose. MacTavish’s hand cut through empty air as Roach fell backwards. The only things MacTavish heard were the blood rushing in his ears, and that terrified scream milliseconds before Roach hit the bottom with a thud.
Rocket scurried to the side. “No! Roach!”
Chemo grabbed Rocket’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Dude, back up!”
“We have to get him,” Rocket snapped, shoving Chemo off.
A bullet struck the brick side of the building close by. “There’s no time,” Ghost said, “the militia’s catching up. We need to get on that heli.”
MacTavish smacked the roof and stood up. “Ghost’s right. Everybody get onboard that Pave Low.”
Once they were all on board, Nikolai craned his head back and asked, “Is that everyone?”
“We lost someone,” MacTavish told him, “can we circle around and see if we can’t find him?”
Nikolai gave him a tight frown. “Yes, I can bank back. Do you know where he is?”
“We do. He fell into the streets close to the LZ.”
They got up in the air and looped around to get a look at the streets. About half the team crowded around the side door to spot Roach.
“Do you see him?”
“No…”
“Hey! Wait, there he is!”
“Fuck, he’s still there…?”
“Think the fall killed him?”
“No, no, look! He’s moving, sorta.”
MacTavish and Ghost shooed them out of the way and yelled into the comms, hoping and praying that Roach would hear them and get his ass in gear. It didn’t seem to have all that much effect.
“Bloody hell… The militia’s closing in.” Ghost pointed out the hostiles approaching Roach’s position, slow but purposeful as a pack of wolves.
They couldn’t land and get him. Roach had to wake up. MacTavish tried again, and this time he caught a bit more movement from the downed Sergeant. “Roach! Roach! Wake up!”
“Roach! We can see them from the chopper! They’re coming for you, dozens of ‘em!” Ghost said.
Slowly and clumsily, Roach got to his feet, using the wall for support. It was a step in the right direction.
“Roach! There’s too many of them! Get the hell out of there and find a way to the rooftops! Move!” When Roach stumbled forward into the nearest doorway, MacTavish continued to urge him to run. They lost sight of him in the labyrinth of houses and alleys, but they saw the militia running to converge on whatever his position was in the middle of all that. Not even a minute later, Roach jumped out a doorway, arms flailing, and landed on the rooftops. “Roach! I see you! Jump down to the rooftops and meet us south of your position! Go!”
“Gas is very low! I must leave in thirty seconds!” Nikolai interjected.
Not good, not good. “Roach! We’re running on fumes here! You got thirty seconds!”
“There’s nowhere to land there!” Rocket said.
“There’s nowhere to land anywhere,” Ghost shot back. “Get the ladder, we’re gonna have to improvise.”
They hung the ladder out the door. A bullet pinged off the hull of the Pave Low, so MacTavish pushed Ghost out of the way. “Everybody stay over there.” Three — no, four — RPGs whizzed past, aimed too low. Roach came running out of an apartment and onto the balcony. “Jump for it!”
Roach sprang from the ledge, another scream tearing from his lungs. He caught the ladder and swung with his momentum before he could securely set his feet on the rung.
MacTavish took a deep breath as Roach gawked up at him. He called into the cockpit, “Nikolai! We got him! Get us out of here!”
“Where to, my friend?” Already Nikolai flew away from the buildings, out of range of the militia’s weapons.
“Just get us to the sub…”
Roach didn’t stay hanging on the ladder for too long. He clambered up and was greeted by the rest of the team. Chemo and Rocket chattered while the Sergeant sat dazed on the floor of the helicopter and rested his head against the bench.
“Alright, alright. Give the man some space.” Doc ushered both of them off and knelt down beside Roach. “Hey, look at me. Let me check.”
Ghost reeled in the ladder and shut the door. “That could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” MacTavish agreed, sinking down into a seat. All the exhaustion from running after Rojas and then running to escape the favela caught up to him and seized the muscles in his legs. He couldn’t stand again even if he wanted to. “Roach?”
The Sergeant looked his way while Doc cleaned a scrape on the side of his face. “Yes, Sir?”
“You’re on circuits and cross fit when we get back to base.”
Roach sighed. “Guess I should’ve seen that coming… Ow, shite, that stings.”
“I bet it does,” Doc said, waving the antiseptic wipe. “You got a full fucking pebble stuck in your cheek. Now hold still.”
With the steady return to peace, MacTavish shut his eyes and rested his head against the wall. Maybe he could get a wee bit of rest before they’d rendezvous with Shepherd in the U.S.S. Chicago.
“How has the search for your missing man been going?” Nikolai asked, effectively killing whatever notion of a catnap he had.
Of all things he remembered telling Nikolai, missing two operators wasn’t one. MacTavish cracked open one eye, but he couldn’t see the Russian pilot’s face. “How do you know about that?”
Nikolai muttered something in Russian, too quiet for him to catch, and said, “I sent a message to Fire Base Phoenix a couple of weeks ago. They should have given it to General Shepherd.”
“I didn’t hear about a message,” MacTavish replied, sitting up. “What d’you say?”
“One: Scarab is safe and with the other Loyalists at our hideout. She is well enough to travel, and we were waiting for word on when she can return.”
“Wait, did he say Scarab…?” Roach murmured.
“Scarab’s okay?” Klepto also said. This sparked a whole quiet side conversation from the men on the opposite end of the helicopter.
MacTavish caught the look Ghost shot him, his eyes wide with confusion and alarm. Scarab wasn’t in any danger this entire time? That was one less person to worry about and made the situation 50% better all on its own. The fact he didn’t hear about this though was troubling. Why would Shepherd hide that? Scarab should have been flown back to base already, not still labeled MIA. MacTavish asked, “Anything else?”
“Two: The other operator was taken by one of Makarov’s men. We do not know where she is.”
This news rendered the entire cabin silent. Makarov had to be the worst person Heatstroke could have ended up in the hands of, arguably worse than dying. Odds were that psychopath would make a show of murdering her, so the fact they hadn’t heard about it must have meant that he was trying to get intel out of her or was torturing her in some shape or form.
The thought of his men getting captured and tortured was something that kept MacTavish awake at night. It was an actual risk that came with the job, and they could only prepare for it in case it happened. There was training specifically for how to conduct oneself in such a situation, required for everyone here, and measures to take in order to rescue someone if they’re taken prisoner. Heatstroke received all that training and did well in the high stress environment she worked in, but she was also the same person to faint when she saw the scene of Brandy’s suicide. That mousy woman never started a commotion or got into trouble, in fact she was normally trying to defuse situations when they came up.
Maybe her non confrontational behavior would be her biggest advantage, and maybe she’d make it home alive.
Why the hell didn’t Shepherd say anything?
Notes:
Hi again. We continue the misadventures of the Task Force men getting a back alley Brazilian wax.
There wasn't a whole lot of material to work with in Plan B for this chapter. Seriously. It was just the mission playing out with no deviation. Things in the original were again a weird blend of summary and trying to cram in the scripted dialogue. I decided to play around with it this time around and have some fun.
I didn't think about it when I was a kid, but the whole "Let's go find a payphone" line makes so much more sense now that I'm older and did research. Didn't think about it much, but a number of militaries banned the use of cell phones because they're easy to trace, making it a great wealth of intel for whoever your enemies are. Depending on the nature of a soldier's deployment, they might not be allowed to have a cell phone, and I seriously doubt they'd be taking them on missions if they did. Meanwhile in Plan B, Younger Me was having these dumbasses pull out phones all the time like some insane plot device (P.S. it's not specified in the original, but they were flip phones because that's all I had as a kid and all I understood). I kinda ran with the idea that Soap's got this shitastic phone that barely functions, and wouldn't you know it, Blackberry phones were popular around when he would've gotten one and I used to borrow my dad's to play Dig Dug.
Another thing I didn't appreciate all that much when I was younger was that this mission happens literally an hour after Takedown, and that's not even touching the fact that when you finish Takedown, the next mission you play is with the Rangers and it takes place BEFORE Takedown. I didn't even notice these timeline shenanigans until I was flipping through the wiki. I thought the only instance when it's a little "complicated" is when you get to the end of one Rangers mission, crash your helicopter, and on the opposite side of the globe, Contingency is taking place and Captain The-Ends-Justify-The-Means Price launches a fucking nuke which saves you the next time you get back to the Rangers.This chapter was initially challenging to strike a balance with, but I had fun.
As always, stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 17: The Tip of the Iceburg
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 34-35a
34. They get to the sub. TOED.WY cutscene. Soap has some nervous breakdown. Chat w/ Ghost.
35a. TOED.WY.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It wasn't until their team boarded the U.S.S. Chicago that they learned just what the hell happened since they left for Brazil. Relations between America and Russia went from political turmoil to Red Dawn overnight, because Russia declared war and staged an aerial invasion of the US east coast. All available assets were pulled to repel the attack, but so far had little success. Evacuation efforts were underway, but were heavily targeted. Ghost assumed something insane was up for their air support to bail, but he never would have expected this .
As mind boggling as Russia mobilizing and assaulting the US east coast in a day was, it made a whole lot more sense than what Nikolai said concerning Scarab and Heatstroke. Not only was it confirmed that they were separated and one of them was captured, but Heatstroke was captured by Makarov’s Inner Circle. Her situation was worse than expected, an actual nightmare. Every day she remained a prisoner to that madman put her life in greater risk.
All of that was surface level issues, however. Underneath were horrible implications that were only now becoming apparent. The Leviathan of red flags, if you will. According to Nikolai, he left a message with some radio operator at Fire Base Phoenix, who told him he'd deliver it to General Shepherd. If that were the case, Shepherd should have said something about it. Hell, every time MacTavish inquired about the status of the search, Shepherd gave the same answer; "We have no new leads." Either Shepherd never got it, or he was pretending he didn't.
Tell that to MacTavish though, and the Captain was infuriatingly passive. "Maybe there’s a good reason behind it."
Ghost groaned and peered around the corner. They'd sequestered themselves to the only quiet part of the submarine to discuss the matter in private. Nobody was coming, but that didn't mean he had all the time in the world to argue about this. "Like what? You know as well as I do that something’s off. We can’t let this slide."
“I know we can’t. We can find him and bring it up, see what he has to say.”
“And if we’re right and he’s up to something? He’s not going to admit to it.”
MacTavish bit the corner of his lip. “No, he won’t, but we can still gadge how he responds.”
As much as Ghost wanted to throw this at a higher authority than Shepherd, the situation in the States was too turbulent. It wouldn’t even be a stretch to assume this matter might get brushed under the rug in favor of stability, or that it could blow up into an international crisis. Best they could do was answer why, and if this was a threat to security. "Ensign Avery said he was in the Attack Center, right?"
"Right."
They wasted no time hunting Shepherd down. The General was studying schematics on a monitor when they came in. He straightened his back and greeted them with an even, "Gentlemen. Glad you made it outta South America."
"General Shepherd," MacTavish returned. "There's something we'd like to discuss. Permission to speak freely?"
Shepherd only cocked his brows. "Granted."
"Our man, Nikolai, mentioned on the helicopter that he sent a message to Fire Base Phoenix a couple weeks back concerning the statuses of both our missing men. Corporal Jays was taken by one of Makarov's Inner Circle, who have been in the Red Zone, while Private Macey is safe under his protection and able to return at any time." As MacTavish said this, Shepherd's expression grew more and more surprised. The Captain crossed his arms. "Did you know about this, Sir?"
"This is the first time I've heard it," Shepherd answered.
So that’s how it was then? Ghost scrutinized Shepherd's features behind his sunglasses, but after the initial shock, it reverted back to his resting stern face. "The message never reached you?"
"No. How'd he send it?"
"Nikolai radioed Fire Base Phoenix and left the message with the operator. He said they wouldn't let him speak to anyone directly." MacTavish said.
Shepherd asked, "Did he have a clearance code?"
Ghost glanced at MacTavish from the corner of his eye, who gave pause at the question. Everyone here knew the answer, but MacTavish still had to say it. "No. He doesn't."
"Then it makes sense why he didn't get patched through," Shepherd said. "I'm more concerned that a message like that came in and I didn't hear anything about it. That's something the operator should have reported on principal."
Of all the excuses, to claim he never got the message and throw the radio operator under the bus had to be the slyest one. They didn’t know who that radio operator was, and there was no way Shepherd would let them find out. Effectively, Shepherd forced them into a dead end.
Okay, he had to be reading into this way more than necessary. To the stressed and sleep deprived mind, Shepherd (and anyone really) sounded much more suspect than they actually were. It wasn't like Shepherd's reaction was anything out of the ordinary or remotely unreasonable. Besides, why would Shepherd lie and hide that message? It was the very same reason he shot down Scarab’s suicide note disposal theory. No clear motive.
In a dumb way, he could squint and empathize with how Scarab freaked out and called the General a traitor. Shepherd was daunting.
Ghost mentally shook himself. Now wasn't the time to second guess himself, not with this unsettled gut feeling. Things felt off for a while now. This still did. There wasn’t a clear motive, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one at all. It needed to be a good enough reason that Shepherd would ignore intel concerning the whereabouts of two missing US soldiers.
"I appreciate you bringing this information to my attention. It should make finding Corporal Jays a lot easier."
"It's a lead we can use," MacTavish agreed.
Shepherd turned his attention back to the monitor. "For now though, we should focus on the immediate problem. Russia declared war on the United States just yesterday and made the first move. We haven't had a battle on American soil in over a century."
… Well played.
MacTavish looked over to the navigation equipment, currently being manned by a crewman. Their bearing was west across the Pacific. "Seems we're headed the wrong direction, Sir. Shouldn't we be coming back to the fight?"
"Plenty of fight to go around, MacTavish," Shepherd said, his fingers tapping the console. "You're meeting up with the 6th Fleet. Leadin’ the counter-strike." He stopped staring at the monitor and faced them. "Prisoner 627. We believe that's who Makarov's got the mad-on for. But we can't get to him."
Ghost met MacTavish's weary look as Shepherd pulled up a map on the touchscreen monitor. It was of the Kamchatka Peninsula and the surrounding ocean off of it. Four markers were in the ocean.
MacTavish double blinked. "Oilrigs, Sir?"
"Russians are using them as SAM sites. Oil workers are human shields, so we can't just blow up the rigs wholesale. And this one is the least defended." The General sighed and shook his head. "Boys, I know I'm sending you into the meat grinder on this one."
"They're defending it, so it means we want it," MacTavish said, "especially if it gets us to 627."
"Once the SAMs are dismantled, we go into stage two of the operation and assault the gulag on the coast. After you extract the prisoner, the Navy’s going to level the whole damn thing.”
A Lieutenant approached them and saluted the General. “Sir, Trojan 1-4 is ready for your departure.”
Shepherd gave him a curt acknowledgement and said to them, “I pulled another team from the 141 for this assignment. They are on board the U.S.S. Dallas enroute to our destination. I’m leaving this op in the hands of Admiral Swanson. Best of luck.” And with that, he took his leave of the submarine.
Ghost stayed with MacTavish in the Attack Center to help sort through intel and plan their part of the operation. While MacTavish sat at the console and examined schematics of the oilrigs, Ghost leaned over his shoulder behind him to see the screen. When the room cleared up a little, he said in a hushed tone, “Didn’t it seem like he was deflecting?”
MacTavish rubbed his eyes. “A little, but he’s right. We have our job to do. Besides, if we can get to Makarov, we might be able to find Heatstroke as well.”
True as that may be, Ghost doubted the General considered her rescue at all in the equation. “But you agree, it was weird.”
“Of course it was weird, Ghost. Everything about this is.” MacTavish slapped his journal shut and glanced up at him over his shoulder. “Look, I’m going to keep working on this. You mind checking in with the rest of the team? It’d be a big help knowing what shape they’re in.”
“Will do.” As much as he wanted to stay and help, MacTavish was clearly trying to be nice about asking for space. He could check back in with him later. Ghost patted his shoulder and left him be.
While some of the team turned in early, and for good reason, a few were in the sick bay. Doc attended to Rocket’s arm, and Roach sat to one side with a wad of gauze taped to his cheek and the outer corner of his eye deep purple. Roach waved at him.
“Alright, Rocket, you’re all set. Just don’t pop the stitches.” Doc gathered his tools to clean them, turned, and jolted upon coming face to mask with Ghost. The medic reeled in his poorly contained nerves, clenching the tray. “Seriously, Sir, you really oughta start saying hi when you walk in. This ain’t good for my heart.”
“You looked busy,” Ghost pointed out.
Doc clicked his tongue and resumed his task. “‘Course I am. You’re not gonna tell me you’re hurt too now, are you?”
Ghost watched him run each metal implement under water and disinfect them each in turn. “Not at all. I’m just seeing how these two are doing.”
“I’m good,” Roach answered from the side. When all this garnered from Ghost was a pointed glance at the bandage on his face from over the frames of his sunglasses, he puffed his cheeks in indignation. “I am, promise.”
“All things considered, you lucked out,” Doc said. “That fall could’ve hurt you a whole helluva lot worse than some bruises.”
“Gotta live up to that callsign, man,” Rocket quipped, lightly punching Roach in the arm.
“Considering how you laid there a good minute before, I thought you’d been concussed for sure,” Ghost said.
“I thought that too, but no. If he does have a concussion it’s very mild.” Doc waved a pair of shears at Roach. “But if that changes at all, tell me. I don’t tolerate bravado from the Captain or this guy—“ he tipped his head at Ghost “— and I’m not taking it from you.”
Roach nodded. “If anything changes, you’ll be first to know.”
“In that case, Roach, be ready. We’ve got our next assignment in the works.” Ghost then added, “It’s been a rough day. Make sure you all get some rest.”
“Ghost?” The sergeant called before he could leave.
Ghost paused. “What is it?”
“Meat and Royce… There’s no way we’re getting their bodies back. It’s not much of anything but,” Roach produced a couple pairs of dog tags from his pocket and held them out. “I didn’t grab Merlin’s. There wasn’t time.”
“It’s still something.” He took the metal tags and glowered at them. Meat’s was crusted in dried blood. “Thanks, Roach.”
Roach’s head lowered, his face downcast.
There were plenty other things Ghost preoccupied himself with before he made his way back to the Attack Center. He made sure mission debriefs were filed. He’d planned to report the casualties too, but he found out that MacTavish had already taken care of it. Amongst other assorted tasks, he stopped by the mess to scarf down a quick meal and pick something up to make sure MacTavish ate. The Captain was still where he left him, hunched over the console and staring hard at the screen.
For once, the room was quiet, save for a couple crewmen. Ghost set the tray on the table and reached a hand to brush the short, dark hair of MacTavish’s mohawk, but hesitated and changed course to tap his shoulder. “You hungry, mate?”
MacTavish pulled himself away from the monitor to give the slice of pizza and juice a disinterested look. “Thanks. I’ll get to it in a minute.”
At least he didn’t turn it down. Ghost grabbed a chair and sat beside him. “How bad’s the new assignment?”
“Close quarters, a couple dozen oil workers as hostages, possible explosives, and large weapons caches.” MacTavish sipped at the juice and propped his head in his hand. “If we aren’t careful, we might get blown to kingdom come.”
“We can handle it.”
“We should’ve been able to handle the last mission too.”
“That’s not your fault, you know. You did everything right. We wouldn’t have even made it out if you didn’t have that fallback plan.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that we lost good men back there.”
Slowly, Ghost took off his sunglasses and folded them in his hands. MacTavish did a decent job keeping it together most of the time, but the cracks in his armor were starting to show. First Scarab and Heatstroke and now three KIA on top of a war, all within a few weeks. Was there anything to say? Royce and Meat were well liked, prominent figures on base. There’d be a hole in their wake that nobody could fill quite the same. Merlin had his own friend circle too; Ghost could already see the empty seat at that table in the mess, the lack of card tricks and avid discussions with Bearcat about animals. Their deaths would be felt further than just their base. Meat’s wife just had their second child back in April. He left a baby and a four-year-old behind. Royce mentioned that he’d be going on leave in time to be with his family for Hanukkah…
“I know it doesn’t,” Ghost said faintly.
“It’s too much, and I’m tired,” MacTavish confessed, “They should’ve made it back. We almost lost Roach too...”
“But we didn’t lose him. The lad’s in good shape. You’re doing the best you can with the shit you have to deal with. Frankly, I don’t think anybody around here could do your job better.” Ghost rested a hand on his knee and gave it a small squeeze. “One way or another, we’ll make it through. And when we do, we’ll go out for drinks.”
Ghost expected his words to have very little impact on MacTavish’s mood, but amazingly, MacTavish took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks, Ghost.”
“Don’t mention it. Did you want my help?”
“I’ve pretty much got a plan in mind, but a second opinion never hurt.”
“Lay it on me.”
MacTavish’s plan was straight forward. Once they came in at the lowest levels of the oilrig, they’d maintain a low profile and work their way up, breaching rooms and rescuing hostages until they got to the top. In typical MacTavish fashion, he had a Plan B in case they had to go loud in the form of setting up a trap with C4 on a dead body, but that was exclusively reserved for if their presence was about to be discovered anyways. A small controlled explosion could be used to create confusion so they could fight to the top and secure the last of the hostages. It’d be leagues better if they didn’t get detected at all. Intel also suggested that the enemy had smoke screens and thermal optics to guard the SAM sites, which was just a whole other reason to be extra careful and avoid drawing attention. Once the SAMs were down and the hostages evacuated, they’d move in on the gulag.
The gulag would be a whole other problem in itself. The only thing they knew about the HVI was that he was called Prisoner 627 and Makarov hated him. No clue why — he doubted even Rojas knew. The castle had a long standing relationship with death and tragedy, from all its prior occupants to its latest use by the New Russia as a cage for political dissenters. 627 could've been any number of people, people they might not have any intel on at all. Not only did they have no idea who the hell they were picking up, but the gulag itself was decently fortified and isolated on a rocky coast. Staging an invasion would be exceedingly difficult.
At the moment, the plan was for the Navy to play diversion and hit the gulag just hard enough to keep most of the heat off of them while they searched the cell blocks. Once they had the HVI, they'd evac and the Navy would fully bombard the fucking place.
"Whoever this guy is, he definitely made an enemy of the Ultranationalists," Ghost replied. He checked the time. "It's getting late. We both ought to get some sleep."
“Yeah, guess you’re right.” MacTavish stood up.
Ghost followed him out and observed his demeanor. Ironing out plans did seem to help MacTavish to some extent, but there was still something weighing on him. Whatever it was, it’d been there longer than even before Scarab and Heatstroke went missing. Ghost couldn’t place his finger on it, or even exactly when it started, just that it’d been a thing for the last month. “Anything else on your mind?”
“Mm?” MacTavish’s cheek twitched, just ever so slightly. He stared ahead. “It’s nothing.”
… It wasn’t nothing, but Ghost wasn’t about to try and drag it out of him. That could wait until everything calmed back down. “If you say so.”
--- --- ---
The crew quarters were packed as it was, so very few people paid mind to it when Ghost slipped into the same bunk as MacTavish. One guy did bring it up, a Navy Seal who had been waiting for an open bunk. He changed his tune pretty quick when Ghost deadpanned “Beats the floor.”
For a while, MacTavish was a little too anxious with the whole situation to get comfortable. Ingrained habits dictated he drape his arm around Ghost, but that comment instilled him with panic. In the solitude of his quarters back on base was one thing, but this was agonizingly different. How does one snuggle their partner and not look gay?
… He was definitely overthinking this. It wasn’t like they were gonna shag.
It wasn’t the greatest solution, but he pushed himself as far back as the wall to give Ghost plenty of space and used his arms as a pillow. In not even ten minutes, his arm went numb, making it one of the least comfortable sleeping arrangements he had to date, up there with sitting in a corner and any time on a plane. Although he shut his eyes and (sort of) relaxed, he never got past that first stage of sleep.
Meanwhile, Ghost must’ve. He didn’t so much as stir whenever somebody’d come in the room or get up and leave. He slept soundly, and MacTavish sure was envious.
Much, much later, MacTavish must've finally slept a few minutes because he woke up to Ghost fidgeting. “Ghost…?” He half sat up, a little difficult on his numb arm, and leaned over to check on him. He was definitely still asleep, but he was covered in sweat and his face was pinched with distress. “Ghost?” He gently rocked his shoulder, and the Lieutenant gasped and locked up every muscle in his body. His eyes were wide, and for a moment it was like he saw through MacTavish entirely.
Had to be a nightmare. MacTavish laid back down, a little closer this time, and rubbed the space between Ghost’s shoulder blades. Beneath his fingers, those muscles relaxed. “... I’m okay…” Ghost murmured.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked.
Ghost didn’t say anything at first. The silence crawled on with no answer. MacTavish counted the time in the steady, measured breaths the other man took, causing his flank to rise and fall. When he did speak, his voice was small. “It was just a nightmare. I’ll get over it.”
“What do you need?”
“... Could you hold me?”
They weren’t alone, but Ghost’s needs took priority. MacTavish lifted his arm and allowed him to scooch up against him. Ghost’s skin was damp and clammy against his arms, but he pretended not to notice, not as Ghost sought even the smallest bit of comfort. That was how they stayed for the rest of the night.
When it came time to get up and get suited up for the mission, MacTavish silenced every other concern and worry in his head. He could worry about Shepherd’s actions, Heatstroke’s status, casualties, and dead HVIs after this operation was done and he was safely able to decompartmentalize.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and once again tried to silence his brain enough to muster a little bit of sleep.
…
… He still never told Ghost about his brief stint of emotional cheating with Scarab.
MacTavish suppressed a frustrated groan and the urge to bang his head against the metal wall. Seemed like he just wasn’t gonna sleep tonight.
--- --- ---
MacTavish really wasn’t looking forward to this mission. It was a little too late to be having second thoughts, especially now that he was standing in a drysuit, in the dry dock, mentally bracing himself for the freezing water. If nothing else it’d wake him up in ways that one tiny cup of coffee couldn’t.
Before boarding the SDV, Ghost asked him, “You sure you’ll be alright?”
He nodded and readjusted his diving gear. “Aye, don’t worry about me.”
“It’s my job.”
MacTavish mustered a tired laugh and put on the regulator. They both situated themselves on the SDV and steadily the dry dock filled with water. As it lapped up his legs, the chill seized MacTavish’s throat as he shivered. Summer in Brazil to Russian sea water in less than a day, he had no idea how his body would adjust.
Submerged, all he could hear was the low thrumming of water moving and the voices over the comms.
"U.S.S. Chicago Actual to dry-dock shelter, we have a go."
"SDV hangar flooded, full pressure."
"Begin deployment."
Please, please don’t let him lose anybody else. Let this just be a standard, straightforward mission.
Notes:
It's been a long time, but hey, I'm back. I kinda rediscovered this fic, read it, hit the cliffhanger and had a massive amount to dread when it dawned on me that I had literally wrote most of this freaking chapter and just never finished it like a goober. Sorry about that folks. I still wanna finish this, as a personal project, I just got heavily sidetracked with a million things.
I think part of the reason I'm even thinking in any capacity about CoD is because the reboot MW2 advertisement came out and I'm just so... confused... Like, Soap, okay, kinda can shrug and accept it. Don't know why we're bothering to call him Johnny now, since nobody calls him John to begin with in these games. I also can't wrap my brain around him not being voice acted by Kevin McKidd, but fine, I guess. But Ghost? What'd they do to him? What's with the Halloween Store grade mask? It's like he's wearing some shit from Party City. You know how he had that nice, sleek balaclava with the skull printed on the fabric? Made sense and all, even if it was a fashion statement and a half for a special operative. But this? It's a plastic skull face mask on top of a ski mask, like what bro? That shit looks dumb as hell, take it off! Plus you get rid of the iconic sunglasses too, which is an extra massive downgrade.
At any rate, changes, there were certainly a few. Now, because of events shaping up from the last chapter, some drama was taken away and new stuff was added in. What kind of drama got scrapped, you may be asking, well only the dumbest shit since the Mind Probe plot device. Actually, if you do remember that dumb plot device, it has everything to do with that. See, if you may recall, Shepherd cleaned up some loose ends many chapters ago with that thing, namely Scarab going crazy. He also used it on Soap too, and it kinda started wearing off while they were in the submarine for whatever damn reason - idk, grief? He was upset and mentioned having to make condolence calls, but then it became "I'm going crazy, what's with these memories of Scarab in an insane asylum?!" Very dumb, very weird, he contemplates suicide for two seconds because I was an edgy stupid middle schooler. Then suddenly he's like, fine and in his bed? It's implied he got mind probed again and left in his bed, so he just thinks this is all a dream.
Also, he notices Ghost having a nightmare about Mexico(tm), and they talk about Ghost's trauma for a couple of seconds.
Oh, and then I basically wrote the entire damn mission "The Only Easy Day... Was Yesterday" from Soap's POV like it was somehow any different than Roach's. It included gems like me thinking it was late fall (tbf, at the time, we didn't have dates, I don't think. It was "Day 1, Day 2, etc..."); Younger Me thinking that section Alpha-One was a character and not a zone of the oilrig; and Soap being a sulky and passive aggressive narrator for no good reason.
Another thing I'd like to note is the shuffle of cutscenes I had to do here. It felt more natural to show part of the Gulag cutscene here because it feels like The Gulag mission is just the continuation of TOED.WY, like how Hornet's Nest and Takedown were the same mission. TOED.WY and The Gulag also only happen like an hour apart or so. (Nearly 6 and a little after 7am respectively). There was also a tweak in Shepherd's dialogue I made to make it flow a little better. In the original cutscene before TOED.WY, Shepherd remarks that he's glad they made it out of South America after Soap comments on the direction they're going, which to me implies this conversation just started because it feels weird to say that so late in the convo. Because I wanted Ghost and Soap to talk with him before discussing the mission, I moved that little bit way earlier instead, since it felt wrong to get rid of it entirely.
EDIT: I went back on the Gulag cutscene dialogue because the more I thought about it, the less I liked putting it in this chapter. Soap tips you off where he's saying all this with the initial "Sixth fleet's mopping up. Time to move in." I had it kinda right in Plan B, but for some damn reason thought I could smoosh this in after the TOED.WY cutscene. Anyway, this is probably going to be one of the few times I go back and fix something. Sorry about that.Stay safe, and much love! <3
Chapter 18: My Hands are Tied
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 35b and 36
35b. Soap still having panic attacks.
36. Scarab angsts about Heatstroke's death. More Price in the Gulag. (Redact Price)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Black and white didn’t exist, life played in fifty shades of contradictions. The sunrise over the icy sea was glistening and serene, but the wind and the helicopter whirring howled in MacTavish’s numb ears. He understood his objective, but still struggled to grasp the greater scope of his actions. General Shepherd was an ally and a looming threat.
First, the lack of action to rescue Heatstroke. MacTavish wanted to think that the General never received the message, but the longer he stewed, the less likely that felt. The radio operator had to report outside transmissions, and knowing how Shepherd operated when on base, oddities almost never slipped past him. MacTavish tried to hide issues in prior inspections. It never worked. And those were “small things” like the time they held an unofficial New Year’s party.
Point being, no way that message didn’t get through. Nikolai was too painfully honest to lie about that sort of thing. If he said the operator would pass the information along to General Shepherd, that definitely happened. So then, either the radio operator failed to report the transmission or Shepherd was playing the fool. Neither were without their share of questions.
If the operator never told him, what caused him to hide it? Who even was he? Did he tell Shepherd himself, or his direct commanding officer to pass it up the chain?
And if Shepherd got the message, why act like their whereabouts and status were unknown? After two weeks, Heatstroke might be dead. And if she wasn’t, the hell she must’ve endured may very well end her career. All of that, and for what?
MacTavish’s stomach rolled as he considered one particularly fucked up possibility. For whatever reason, Shepherd wrote Heatstroke off when she fell into Makarov’s hands. In that case, it made sense to distance the Task Force from the matter, and ignore Scarab in the interim. Scarab proved to be a rogue element, and would have insisted they rescue Heatstroke even if they had to go off the books to do it, so he instead sidelined her while the action picked up.
And PFC Allen? Why’d he get pulled for the 141 and then assigned to a CIA covert op? That operation was so damn classified, Shepherd didn’t share it with MacTavish beyond a loose mention of pulling one of his men for a future covert op until after the airport massacre, when there was no damn choice but to disclose it. Allen was the last person MacTavish would’ve picked to infiltrate Makarov’s Inner Circle. This unqualified numpty got saddled with the mission, and he got a bullet to the neck for his trouble. Since when did General Shepherd make that kind of mistake?
…
Wait a fucking second, no….
Was Allen a plant?
“Captain, you alright?”
Jarred from his train of thought, MacTavish turned his gaze from the dark water over to Roach. The buffeting wind threatened to drown out the Sergeant’s voice altogether. He watched MacTavish with that expectant, and perhaps even knowing, stare. MacTavish needed to keep this to himself. For now, at least. It’d cause too much discourse, and if he was wrong… “Just got a lot on my mind. Nothing to worry about.”
Roach nodded and readjusted his grip on his sniper rifle. The bruise on his cheekbone darkened over the last day, with a single dark scab in the middle. While his other eye crinkled in thought, the swelling kept the other mostly smooth. “Um, thanks, sir, for before. I’d be as good as dead if you guys hadn’t hung around.”
“We weren’t about to just leave you behind,” MacTavish said. Even though Nikolai fretted about stretched fuel, he would’ve sooner crashed before abandoning Roach in the favela. “Next time something like this happens, shed more gear.”
“Y-yes, sir. But I made that jump.”
“One out of three isn’t good.”
Roach pressed his lips thin. “Yeeeah… Can’t say I’m all that proud of it.”
MacTavish snorted, the beginnings of a tired smile curling his lip. Why the hell did this kid have to remind him so much of himself back in his SAS days? “Lemme tell you a little secret, Roach. Captain Price used to peel my arse off the ground all the time. When this all blows over, we’ll run the O-course together till you can make that jump.”
“Heh, I’ll pencil in a reminder.”
Checking his dive watch, MacTavish sighed. Twenty-seven minutes until landfall. Although their intel seemed solid and they came prepared, there was still a heap of ways for this mission to go tits up. He couldn’t afford to be distracted, not when everything revolved around as big an unknown as this mysterious Prisoner 627. They had no way of knowing that guy’s temperament, if he was dangerous. His focus had to be on the here and now to get his team through as unscathed as humanly possible. “When we storm the gulag, stay close. Got it?”
Roach acknowledged with curt, “Roger that.”
--- --- ---
First order of business, food. Second, contact Kamarov. Third, sleep.
Nikolai sank down with a plate of tasteless, rehydrated scrambled eggs and a mug of coffee so weak that the term dirty bean juice better described it. Last thing he wanted was to end up on a diet of protein and barely caffeinated water, but here he was. Even the Spetsnaz didn’t have a meal plan this sad. He ate a forkful of the spongy eggs, threw on the headset, and fiddled with a radio.
After dropping off Soap’s team with the U.S.S. Chicago, Nikolai and his copilot got as far as one of the smaller Loyalist hideouts in West Africa, where they had to land to refuel. It wasn’t much to look at, just an old farmstead in the Guinean Montane Forests, on the border of Sierra Leone and Liberia. Few people came up this way anymore, which made it good for a rest stop. Many Loyalist officials who escaped Russia passed through here seeking asylum. Nikolai aided several of those extractions since the Ultranationalists took over.
The transmission crackled idly while the radio operator, Koldan, waited on Kamarov to get over there. As always, it’d take a bit. Nikolai could only guess what he got caught up doing this time.
“[So, uh… Brazil?]” Koldan mentioned in Russian, then cleared his throat. “[That’s a pretty long flight.]”
“[Yes, very,]” Nikolai replied. Stuck on what else to say, he instead drank his “black” coffee. They lulled into awkward silence.
“This is Kamarov—”
“Hi, and Scarab.”
He brought her along? Swapping to English, Nikolai asked, “Scarab? What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Kamarov mentioned you called, so I figured I’d check in,” she said.
Is jumping in on other people's calls normal for Americans? Couldn’t be, right?
“I didn’t think there was any harm in bringing her. [She insisted.]” Kamarov uttered the last part in Russian.
“[I see.] Did you need something, Scarab?” Nikolai asked.
“Just wanted to know if you touched base with Captain MacTavish about when I can come back to Brook Line.”
And like that, a fresh wave of exhaustion rolled over Nikolai. His shoulders sinking, he rubbed his face as he mulled over how to answer. She prodded him about this every so often since she ended up with them, even reminded him to ask before he left for Brazil. Initially, he told her there may be some roadblocks keeping that from happening; limited assets stretched too thin with the current conflict, mainly. He hadn’t expected the reason to be anything else, but when he mentioned what had happened to Scarab and Heatstroke, and the whole helicopter cabin erupted in confused chatter, the worst dread gripped his chest.
“I did, but now may not be a good time for you to return.” Before she had a chance to cut him off with questions, Nikolai continued, “They never got my message. The operator at Fire Base Phoenix said he’d tell Shepherd, but somehow it never reached the 141. I’m sorry.”
“... Did they make any headway looking for Heatstroke then?” Scarab asked.
“No. They’ve been too busy to search.”
“Okay. Thanks for asking… I’ll leave you two be.”
After a long pause, Kamarov sighed. The conversation continued in only Russian. “I’ll ask Tatiana to keep an eye on her.”
“[Thank you.]” At least someone was watching her. She turned out to be quite the handful. She wanted to hear about everyone’s business, which most people in their organization were unwilling to share their goings-on with her. Best-case scenario, they ignored her, and at worst, it got ugly. She also had a habit of doing various odd tasks when left to her own devices. Sometimes that meant she’d end up somewhere where she didn’t belong or a distance from the safe house. Considering she had no grasp of Russian, Hindi, or the local dialect, it risked drawing unnecessary attention. Nikolai had nothing against her, but she needed a chaperone.
“You’ve reached the farm at least. That’s good.”
“Yes, barely. I was running on fumes by the last stretch of my flight.”
“I thought you fueled up on the Chicago.”
“They almost didn’t let me. One of the naval officers told me they couldn’t spare any fuel with the invasion. I got the feeling they distrust me. If Soap hadn’t come down on him, I don’t think I would have made it over the Atlantic.” He would’ve had to fly back to Brazil and scrounge up fuel, and he had trouble doing that the first time on account of the language barrier.
“The Americans have been less willing to talk to us. It can only go downhill from here.” A few taps sounded over the radio static, which might have been Kamarov twiddling his fingers on the table or a pen. “Years of work and toil, and Makarov ruined it overnight.”
And it’d only grow worse from here. How long until the US cut all ties with them? The Loyalists wouldn’t have gotten half as far in their mission against the New Russia without their backing, their supplies would have dried up a while ago. “Events are moving fast now. There’s no stopping what Makarov set in motion. I’m afraid where this will go, and how many people have to die.”
This was Nikolai’s life; locked in this struggle, his family relocated to Latvia for their safety. No telling when, if ever, they’d be able to return home.
“It scares me too, but don’t lose heart yet. We’re still in this fight.” Kamarov said, and Nikolai desperately wanted to believe him. “There’s an old face on the field, and he may be a major asset in taking down Makarov.”
Nikolai took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. “Prisoner 627, yes?”
“Prisoner… What? I don’t follow you.”
“That’s who the 141 are after now. Makarov hates him more than any Westerner, according to Rojas. He’s locked up in a gulag.”
“Huh. News to me. A lot of Loyalists ended up imprisoned, so it could be a number of people,” Kamarov said. “Ah, but no, do you remember the primary members of Makarov’s circle? Paramedics had discovered Yuri at the airport. He survived being shot.”
Yuri? That guy had been more or less duct taped to Makarov’s hip for years. “They may be waiting for the hospital to clear him so they can arrest him,” Nikolai guessed.
“From what my sources told me, it’s more complicated than that. He alerted the FSB before the shooting. If he’s released into the FSB’s custody, the Ultranationalists have all they need to take Makarov down themselves. It’d legitimize their movement.”
“We can’t let him fall into the government’s hands.”
“I will pay him a visit, see if I can convince him to join our cause.”
“Do you think he’ll go along with you?”
“My friend, I have a way with words. You know this.”
Nikolai chuffed. “If you say so. Be careful, security will be tight.”
“They won’t even realize I’m there,” Kamarov assured.
--- --- ---
Beyond the confines of the moldy bathroom walls, the terrorists scrambled and clattered. Heatstroke heard them darting this way and that since Makarov and his lieutenants returned. They left her alone that evening.
The next day, she wasn’t so fortunate. Makarov himself came down there and kicked her about across the floor. He said nothing, didn’t ask questions. This was pure frustration, and that was much, much more terrifying than his cold, collected exterior. Rather than risk pissing him off more, she kept her mouth shut and took the abuse. When he eventually wore himself out, he left in a huff. Somewhere down the hall, he barked orders. She caught only, “[Get the trucks ready, I want to be gone before they show up.]”
Seemed the situation came to a head. They’d abandon this safe house and move elsewhere. There was no telling what they’d do with her now. This might be the end of the line for her.
She peeled herself off the ground and washed some of the blood off in the sink.
In the filthy mirror, she got a good look at herself. Her face was swollen and bruised so badly she almost didn’t recognize herself. Bruises formed a ring around her neck from… Kiril’s hands…. Her nose and lip bled fat trails down her chin. Some dirt from Makarov’s shoe left an imprint on her collarbone.
Clutching the sink, she braced herself against a strained sob in her throat. She wanted out of this bathroom, but it seemed less and less likely she’d be leaving here alive. Why would they let her live? She didn’t cooperate, offered little information. Why keep her around? It’d be easy for them to shoot her and dump her corpse in a shallow grave somewhere, assuming she even got that much.
No, no, no. This wasn’t it. She could do something. Someone was bound to raid this place eventually in search of the truth. They had to know.
She ripped the bottom hem of her shirt off. The olive fabric was tacky from drying sweat. Dogs could pick up that scent. It gave whoever a chance to find her body. She laid the scrap of cloth on the floor, and, dragging her fingertips through the rivulet of blood on her chin, drew the first few letters of a message. The cotton soaked her blood like thirsty sand and made her writing balloon wider than she expected, leaving illegible, blobby shapes. She swore under her breath and wrote larger.
Her jaw quivered as she finished scrawling. It needed to go somewhere Makarov’s men wouldn’t disturb it, but easy to notice with minimal searching. She scanned the room for the best place. The sink had a cabinet, and there was an end table beside the toilet—
“[Get the woman!]” someone shouted.
With no time left, she panicked and stuck it in one of the sink cabinet drawers, with just enough fabric sticking out to, hopefully, catch someone’s attention.
The door flew open behind her, slamming with an added shudder. The click of a gun being readied. “Face the wall, now.”
Heatstroke’s heart beat so damn loud in her ears as she went and stood facing the wall. There were two men in the room. One of them pressed the cold barrel of a pistol against the back of her head. In gruff, poor English, he demanded she stay still. She squeezed her eyes shut.
It would’ve been nice to have at least said goodbye to her family. Would there even be a body for them to bury?
The rip of duct tape cut her thoughts short. The other guy taped her wrists together behind her back.
They weren’t gonna kill her? This wasn’t the end?
The sudden surge of relief overwhelmed her, like the tiled floor became lopsided beneath her bare feet and the water-stained wall twisted on an axis. Against her control, the breath she’d been holding escaped in a strangled sob and her shoulders trembled as she fought to rein it in. They told her to shut up, so she bit her lip. The gun left her skull for a second while they slapped a strip of tape over her mouth and a pillowcase over her head. A rough hand then grabbed her shoulder and shoved her along outside the bathroom. A short distance away, she stubbed her toe on probably a door frame, but wasn’t allowed to stop. She had to walk until suddenly wood turned to dirt and grass and gravel.
The sound of wind in the trees kissed her ears, the beautiful sounds of the outdoors. Above that, the hum of car engines started up. Loaded in the trunk of another truck, Heatstroke sniffled and tried not to whimper too loudly. She didn’t know what was next in store for her, but she couldn’t help but latch onto the simple fact that she was still alive.
Notes:
This chapter went through some stages, and frankly I wish I did a little more with it. See coming back to this fic so long after the fact, I was treated to all my two year old notes. At least I was smart enough back in 2020 to compile the chapters of Plan B and annotate them with how I could make things make sense. I basically have an outline.
That being said, in my outline for this chapter, my initial plan was to scrap everything and make this a Heatstroke centric chapter. We would have explored her backstory (primarily her shared history with Scarab), but as I started writing it, it didn't feel right, ya know? So I reevaluated it and decided to look into stuff and show the original scenes but differently. Let's break these down one by one.
First, Soap's POV. This was actually the tail end of the TOED.WY chapter, but I wanted to skip writing that mission because I'm finna fucking lazy and that mission has given me emotional damage trying to finish it on Veteran, so this chunk got transplanted onto the beginning of this chapter. In Plan B, Soap has a confusing bit of angst that sets up for more angst in the following scene with him. Honestly, I can't fully tell what he was even angsting about, but I know I thought it was so cool and impactful when I was like 12. Roach asks what's wrong and Soap gives him the brush off. Felt like here would be a good time to have him start having his hardcore doubts coming in after all the sus shit, so oddly enough this was weirdly faithful to the original.
Next, Nikolai POV. This was originally Scarab, who has a bizarre panic attack (?) in the bathroom coupled with flashbacks to meeting Heatstroke and then vowing to never take Heatstroke's goggles off. I kid you not, next to nothing else happens here. I was gonna have Nikolai come back to the Indian safe house, but upon doing extensive research into travel times learned he can't somehow be back and be on time to pick the boys up in the Boneyard in a couple of days so we get an African farm that will definitely be coming back later. MW2 has a crunchy ass timeline and Activison can suck my nads for giving me a headache with their rapid fire plots. What I did decide to do was set up how Yuri ends up with the Loyalists by the end of this game. Felt like this chapter needed to have some sense of progress and there are a lot of moving parts when you examine things from Nikolai's end.
And lastly, Heatstroke. As the summary says, this was a Price scene in Plan B. It's dumb. He tries to escape, it fails, tries again, gets his ass kicked. Basically did next to nothing but poorly explained why Price is in the East Wing. Now, because I don't really want to give Price POVs, I am instead doing Heatstroke and some set up with her as well.
TL:DR was originally gonna be an episode of sad flashbacks with Heatstroke, but instead became a conga line of setting up plot points for later.Stay safe and much love. <3
Chapter 19: Storm the Castle
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 37 and 38
37. Gulag cutscene. Soap's in a bad headspace.
38. Gulag.
Notes:
Editing Note: So I made the unfortunate discovery that MW2's timeline is dicked. Some underpaid person on the writing team forgot to account for time zones when they came up with the dates. I know in the game they say "Day #" and not something like "August 14th" but the wiki presents it like this and I was under the impression that the times given were local time.
But all this falls apart at specifically Day 5, which was the whole bit with DC and all the shit happening in Russia between the oilrigs, gulag, and Russian naval base. Everything is Day 5, which I assume is the military clock of how long this situation's been happening. I'm keeping Aug 14th for the American side and nudging the 141 ahead a day local time. It's still Day 5 for them, technically, but this at least accounts for the time zones a little better.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Sixth Fleet’s mopping up. Time to move in.” MacTavish said, checking his M14. “Long history of this building. Not much of it pretty. Started out as a castle. With an actual dungeon. Built to withstand any siege. Building survived every brutal winter. The occupants... they weren’t so lucky. The Monastery. Didn’t survive the purges. Over the last century it’s played host to anyone the government didn’t want, but couldn’t kill. Place is filled with living casualties of the last war... which I swear I thought we’d won. But I suppose it’s all a day at the races: you back the losing horse, and this is where you end up. Six-Two-Seven is the piece of meat Makarov wants, so let’s cut him loose.”
--- --- ---
August 15th - 07:01:33, 40 miles east of Petropavlovsk, Russia
“Thirty seconds.”
Beside the Captain, Roach pulled his balaclava up nose and readied his sniper rifle.
MacTavish turned his attention to the rapidly approaching snow covered cliffs mounted by a radio station. A pair of F-15s swooped in and fired on the red and white tower. The four missiles struck the rock face and exploded with dust and snow thrown many meters high. Boulders and debris tumbled into the sea.
The Little Birds they rode in on passed through the smoke cloud, and MacTavish squinted and ducked his head down. With the screech of twisting metal, the radio tower collapsed as they sped past, and fell mangled against a bed of pines.
The snowy landscape fell out into a cove of grey-blue water, and beyond that, the gulag stood dark and imposing against the white crest of land and cloudy sky. As they approached, Hornet Two-Two, the one attack helicopter, swooped in front and neutralized the watchtower. As fire and smoke flew from the tower, the alarm sounded and blared. The prison guards and soldiers scrambled within, shooting at their aircrafts or rushing to pick up RPGs.
“All snipers, this is MacTavish. Stand by to engage,” he said. With Roach’s gun clicking to his left, he continued. “Stabilize.”
“Roger.” Their helicopter steadied itself by one of the castle’s turrets.
MacTavish aimed his M14, his crosshairs settling on a soldier unhooking the bright blue tarp off an AA turret. “All snipers - clear to engage.” As soon as he said this, the guy to the immediate right toppled, spooking his target for that split second long enough for MacTavish to take him out. The others went down just as quickly.
They shifted along the perimeter to clean out any RPGs before touchdown, but as they were rounding to the third tower, it exploded and an F-15 cut above them. The helicopter wobbled against the air draft in its wake. MacTavish clutched the bench as the pilot called, “Hang on!”
The chopper jerked back and lost a bit of altitude, but once the pilot got a handle on their level, MacTavish snapped into his comm receiver, “Shepherd! Get those fighters to cease fire immediately! That was too close!”
“I’ll try and buy you some time. One man in a gulag doesn’t mean much to the Navy at this point,” Shepherd answered.
MacTavish exhaled sharply, the worst damn feeling creeping into his veins.
“Bloody Yanks! I thought they were the good guys!” Ghost said.
“Ghost, cut the chatter. Stay frosty.” MacTavish cringed at himself. It wasn’t often he had to chastise him like that.
The Lieutenant was a big boy, he could take it. MacTavish would listen to his rant about the US Navy later. First, they had to survive this bullshit.
They landed in the courtyard, a team of twelve, and rushed through the yard with Hornet Two-Two covering them. MacTavish kept Ghost in his peripheral vision as he covered the left flank. Roach stayed close by MacTavish’s side until they reached the entrance. As they funneled down the stairs, MacTavish took a brief tally in his head. Still twelve. “This is it. We go in, grab Prisoner 627, and get out. Check your corners! Let’s go.”
Midnight came to the turn, peeked around, and then rounded the corner. Gunfire ripped past him. He grabbed his arm, shouting, and then Roach rushed ahead and checked him against the wall while he opened fire. The rest of them caught up and took out the remaining security guards.
One casualty.
“You alright?” Roach offered Midnight a hand.
“Clipped me pretty good.” Blood slipped through Midnight’s fingers.
“That’s the control room up ahead! I can use it to find the prisoner,” Ghost said, stepping over a dead body to get on the catwalk. MacTavish followed him down to the station, with all its old chunky computers and surveillance TVs. Some cracking flat screen played what might have been the news, and a couple of consoles were shot in the brief gunfight. Ghost grabbed a collapsed folding chair off the floor and snapped it open. “I’ll tap into their system and look for the prisoner! It’s gonna take some time!”
MacTavish cut straight to the catwalk. “Copy that! Roach, we’re on cell duty. Follow me.”
At the first level, they engaged the enemy. Security was still whipped up in a panic from the initial bombing runs. So, upon seeing MacTavish’s team advancing, they scattered into open cells or behind whatever crates they could reach. Once Ghost patched into the system, he turned on a spotlight to track hostiles on their floor. The white light roamed the area, picking out targets trying to hide. Even though Ghost had yet to locate the prisoner, things were going smooth-ish. That all changed when they reached a security door, which was electrically shut and locked.
“Ghost, we hit a security door. Get it open.”
“I’m working on it…” Ghost then snapped, “This hardware is ancient!”
A buzzer sounded, and a red light switched to blue. A gate clattered open. Rather, the gate past the one they were stuck at did. A bullet pinged against the metal divider that MacTavish was ducked behind. “Ghost, you opened the wrong door!”
“Roger, standby…”
Oh, he’d be hearing about this later for sure when he and Ghost turned in tonight.
“Got it!” This time, the correct door trundled open.
Bless that man. “That’s better. Let’s go!” MacTavish led them down the cellblock, checking cell after cell.
As Cyclopes and Trojan searched the cells and, one after another, declared them empty, it became increasingly clear this section hadn’t been in use for prisoners in a while; not for a few months, at the very least. There were monitors in one to make an impromptu surveillance station, but MacTavish’s hands were too full providing covering fire with Roach to examine them in any great detail.
They couldn’t just keep 627 close to the entrance. No, that’d be too simple.
“Talk to me, Ghost,” MacTavish said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “These cells are deserted.”
The next security door buzzed and opened. Ghost replied, “Got it! Prisoner 627’s been transferred to the east wing! Head through the armory in the center - that’s the fastest way there.”
“Roger that!” East wing? Jesus fucking Christ, they were on the wrong side of the castle then. “Squad, head for that armory down there! Move!”
The armory question was a cage on a platform in the heart of the circular room, linking up to the other floors. In the middle was an impressive wall of weapons. Roach’s eyes lit up behind his goggles as he took in the variety of arms.
MacTavish chuckled. “See anything you like?” Setting down his M14, he browsed the collection. M9s, AK-47s, M1014s, FAMAS….
Hello, what do we have here? He picked up an MP5K, no attachments. But it’d do.
… The echos of Russian chatter carried. They were coming.
“Bad news, mate,” Ghost said, “I’m tracking three, no, four hostile squads converging on your position.”
MacTavish glanced around. The guards would be on top of them any second now. “I can hear ‘em coming. Let’s go, we’re too exposed.”
The way out was locked. They had about twenty seconds before these troops started shooting them like fish in a barrel.
“Ghost? Open the door.”
The buzzer sounded, the light flashing blue, but the door only slid a few centimeters before getting stuck. Too tight a squeeze for them to make it through.
“Bloody hell, they’ve locked it from the hardline. I’ll have to run a bypass.”
MacTavish looked to either side as he backed away. Then the ping of a bullet clipped the weapon wall behind him. He jumped aside. “Too late! They’re already here!”
They handled the first wave as they came from all sides, but Ghost informed them that “You’ve got more tangos headed your way.”
Thinking fast, MacTavish picked up one of the many riot shields propped against the crates. “We’re gonna need more cover - grab a riot shield.” His team followed suit, picking up the shields. The enemy came around every corner and fired at them.
The bullets clipped and cracked the polycarbonate plate or whizzed over their heads. MacTavish took out his M1911 to fire back around the edge of the shield, not that it was an effective counterattack.
A bullet struck Roach in the back. He grimaced. “Plate. I’m — agh — I’m good. I’m good.”
“Open the door!” MacTavish shouted.
“Almost there! Routing through the auxiliary circuit!”
Please, God. Let them out of this metal death trap. MacTavish would start fucking praying each and every night again if the exit would just open right now.
The door slid open.
OH THANK FUCKING — “Go! Go! Go!” They all funneled out from the armory. Roach chucked the shield aside and equipped his assault rifle. “I’ll draw their fire with the riot shield! You take ‘em out!”
“On it!” Roach darted for cover by some crates.
MacTavish and a few others turtled forward with their shields. So much gunfire pinging off the transparent surface that the plastic was damn near impossible to see through. He rushed in close to guards to barrel them over, or chased them backwards so Roach had a clean shot to take them out. They cleared a bit of distance from one block to the next. There was nowhere to go on the other end though, just a busted wall that once had a window.
“Ghost here. Recommend you bypass the lower floors by rappelling out that window.”
“Copy that! Roach, follow me.” MacTavish kicked out the sheet of broken scrap metal clinging to the side and clipped up to a grate on the floor. This had better hold. Nothing else in this rusted hunk of cement and quarry stone seemed to.
“Captain MacTavish, last floor clear. We’ll link up with you at the bottom.” Team Two Leader, Knightley, said.
At the waterlogged ground, he, Roach, and his team connected with Knightley, Worm, and Ogre. No sign of Redcell. Must not have made it.
Not only was the way ahead through debris and water raining from busted pipes, but it was pitch black. Ghost didn’t have any surveillance feed in that section. Power must’ve gone out there from the initial bombing run. They swapped to night vision goggles and proceeded down a flight of stairs. The IR lasers affixed to their rifles trailed bright green through the goggle’s filter as they entered the blackened cell block.
There were guards in the area, and a quick firefight ensued. They were here with night vision, it wasn’t hard for them to quickly overpower the panicked troops. The fight ended about as quickly as it began. They proceeded down the corridor, checking for stragglers.
“This one’s empty,” Knightley said.
“This one’s empty too.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
BANG!
Knightley fell back, his gun clattering out of his hand. Roach threw a flashbang in the cell and then killed the single remaining guard. MacTavish grimaced.
“Shit, Knightley.” Cyclops knelt down and checked for vitals. “We got a man down—”
An explosion ripped through the ceiling at the other end of the hallway and rocked the foundation. MacTavish stumbled but caught himself with an open door. The same couldn’t be said for many of the others, who were knocked prone by the blast and debris. Roach choked and coughed.
MacTavish yanked his night vision goggles off and squinted at the dust cloud illuminated by the new skylight that the missile strike just punched in. Had they been any faster, the bigger slabs of rubble would have hit them. “Shepherd, what the hell was that? Get the navy to cease fire!”
“The Navy isn’t in a talking mood right now. Standby.” Shepherd answered.
The oilrig was a fucking cakewalk compared to the Navy being hazard. MacTavish helped Roach up and proceeded forward.
“Bravo Six - they’ve agreed to stop firing for now. Keep going, I’ll keep you posted. Out.”
For now. MacTavish swallowed the lump of nerves building in his throat. Couldn’t be any more specific? He took brief stock of his team. The six of them remaining on his side were in good shape, all things considered. Wouldn’t be getting any better, though.
They arrived at a section that still had power, and with it were more tangos. They fought through the halls and pipes until they came to a cramped space with a rusted blue metal door. On it in Cyrillic was a label designating the showers.
“The old shower room’s about thirty feet ahead on your left. You’ll have to breach the wall to get in.”
“Roach - plant the breaching charge on the wall. We’re taking a shortcut,” MacTavish said and got in position.
Roach stuck the charge to the brick wall and stood back. The reach of the team stacked up behind him. The explosive punched the wall out and sent stone debris flying like shrapnel into the unsuspecting guards. They came in guns blazing and took down the hostiles in the direct vicinity, but more flooded in from the opposite end.
“Spread out!” MacTavish ducked against one shower and picked off several that advanced in and weaved through the barriers and columns. In order to advance, he laid down suppressing fire for his team. Before they could reach the next area, a bunch of guards with riot shields came from the far side and forced them back. “Heavy assault troops up ahead! Don’t attack them head on! Move quickly and hit them from the side! Cook your grenades to detonate behind them!”
Between the troops with their riot shields and guards pooling in on the balconies keeping them bogged down, MacTavish kept having to find new cover. Trojan got bashed back by a riot shield, which knocked him clean off his feet. MacTavish shot at the assault troop, which was enough to grab his attention while Trojan got up. MacTavish darted around the lockers to get behind the guard’s riot shield and shot him in the back. When he checked over his shoulder, though, he didn’t see Trojan anywhere.
That prick had better be hiding.
Beyond that, he spotted salvation in the form of a craterous hole in the floor, with water raining into it from broken pipelines above. “I’m heading for that hole at the far end of the showers! Follow me! Let’s go!” He took off towards it, praying that the others could get past the volley of bullets.
He and Roach reached the hole first and jumped down into the tunnels below. MacTavish stopped to watch as Worm and Cyclops dropped after them. Seconds passed, but no one else joined them. MacTavish’s stomach sank with dread.
He was looking at around five casualties now: two possibly dead and two confirmed KIA.
Stepping off the pile of rubble, he and their small remaining team waded through the shin deep water. “Ghost, we’re in the old tunnel system heading south-southwest.”
“Ok. Keep going along that tunnel.”
MacTavish pressed his lips together as they climbed up a few steps out of the muck. “Talk to me Ghost... I don’t want to be down here when those ships start firing again.” He and his men jumped over a fence and slid down the wet concrete slope to the intersecting tunnel. The water splashed beneath their boots and gave off a heady mildew smell. MacTavish’s nose crinkled.
“Keep going, you’re almost there.”
The only way to go was through a solitary metal door with a missing handle. Had to be maintenance access. The fuck did somebody have to do to get locked up down in the sewer?
“I’m detecting two heat signatures - one of them should be Prisoner 627.”
He’d just have to ask the bastard then. They stacked up and planted a couple of breaching charges to burst through the thick brick and pipelines. MacTavish activated both and ducked away from the blast. The heatwave rolled over his neck and ears.
In the two seconds, MacTavish heard a rageful shout, the rattle of chains, then the loudest crack and thud. He turned on his heels to see Roach laid flat on his back. The prisoner scrambled to pick up the guard’s weapon and point it in the Sergeant’s face.
MacTavish drew his M1911 and pointed it straight at the prisoner’s temple, barking, “Drop it!”
The prisoner faltered, the barrel of the gun dipping away from Roach’s head as he turned back towards him. This worn out man with a thick beard and a ratty knit cap, his voice scratchy and distinctly, familiarly, British. “Soap?”
No. Fucking. Way.
MacTavish lowered the pistol from him and stepped back. He was alive? This… this whole fucking time? Here? Jesus Christ, and he just threatened him with his own gun and—MacTavish passed the M1911 by the barrel in his offhand and held it out to him. “This belongs to you, sir.”
Price took it, his brows knitting together tight, perhaps considered asking how long he’d held onto the damn thing. Rather than say anything, he jammed it into the back pocket of his stained jeans.
Worm looked between them and Roach’s startled face and asked, “Who’s Soap?”
There came a brief whirring before explosions rocked the ground and ruptured some pipes. MacTavish caught Price by the arm. “Come on, we gotta get outta here! Move! Move!” Worm and Roach ran after them down the east cell block. Alarms blared with their rotating yellow warning lights, more rumbles shook the building, and bits of walls and the roof crumbled all around them.
“Bravo Six - be advised, they’ve started the bombardment early! Get the hell outta there now!” Shepherd chimed in. It had to be the single most useless warning he could’ve given! Would have been nice a minute ago!
Some fifty meters ahead, out of the blown open grate, the Little Bird hovered, waiting for them to hop aboard. They were so close! “There’s the chopper! Get ready to jump!”
Explosions continued to rip the walls apart behind them. Something collapsed, but he didn’t look back. Another blast shook the whole corridor and a rain of rocks and dust fell right in front of him! Worm stumbled, but MacTavish nabbed the back of his vest and yanked him away from the showering bricks.
“Go back go back! We’ll find another way out!” MacTavish shouted, passing Roach. Where’d Cyclops go?! He grit his teeth and sprinted, putting all those hours on the O-Course to use just to dodge all the debris. There was a turn up ahead, and beside it a guard stood out in his white coat in the darkening tunnel, unarmed and small and cowering. “This way! This way!” He yelled and led them down that hall to an open room with a gaping hole punched in the ceiling and the floors above. But nowhere they could go.
“It’s a dead end!” Worm shouted.
SPIE rig... SPIE rig, they could get out. “Six-Four, where the hell are you, over?!”
“Bravo Six, there’s too much smoke! I can’t see you! I can’t see you -”
Another blast knocked free slabs of concrete from the above floors. MacTavish dodged but heard the initial shout of pain from Roach as a rock hit his shoulder. Then an additional shower of debris rained on him, knocking him over and burying him. “Roach is down! Roach!”
Price swore and clawed the rubble off Roach, throwing heavy slabs of flooring off him.
Fuck, no fucking time! MacTavish fumbled through his tactical vest pouch and took out the flare and loaded it into his M203. He only brought one. There was no take-two if this didn’t work. Why didn’t he bring a back-up?
“Whatever you’re gonna do, Soap, do it fast!” Price yelled.
MacTavish aimed up the hole in the ceiling and launched the flare in the single biggest Hail Mary of his life. It flew skyward, a red-orange flash with a sparking fiery tail as it cut through the cloud of black smoke and vanished out of sight.
Come on, come on….
“Bravo Six, I see your flare. SPIE rig on the way.” Six-Four said, and right afterwards, the rig dropped through the hole in a heap of cord atop the rubble.
MacTavish grabbed the rope, almost dizzy and queasy with relief. Worm pushed him aside as a rock landed at his feet. Nearly clocked him. Price and Roach came tumbling over and they all clipped onto the rig. With a lurch, Price was tugged off the ground. Then the Pave Low hauled them all up and out as flames burst around them.
Like hell itself was trying to stop them from escaping, a fireball chased them up and out. MacTavish threw his arms up to guard his face as the heatwave pelted his body. Somewhere above him, Price screamed a tremendous, “YEEEAAAH!”
As they flew away into the distance, MacTavish had a chance to appreciate the utter devastation the Navy’s bombing wrought on the structure. That impregnable outer wall crumbled and the turrets mere stumps in hills of rubble and blackened ground. The smoke and metallic stench of explosives wafted all around him, carried by the wind. Dangling some couple hundred meters above the destruction, MacTavish’s mind went quiet for once.
--- --- ---
Ghost rarely did too much PDA at MacTavish, but when they came flying over the black sea towards the ship on that SPIE rig, his legs moved of their own accord. He wrapped his arms around MacTavish right after he touched down on the deck and gripped him tight. After a moment, the Captain returned his hug and rested his head into the bulky equipment clipped to his vest.
“I almost thought we lost you, love,” Ghost whispered.
MacTavish nodded with a soft grunt. “Thought we were about to win awa ourselves….”
Ghost snorted. It wasn’t often that MacTavish lapsed into Scottish phrases anymore. Working in the international task force for the last five years knocked a lot of those out of his regular vocab.
Behind him, Roach said, “I can’t believe it was you this whole time, Captain.”
What? Ghost relaxed his grip and glanced back at the Sergeant, but he wasn’t talking to MacTavish at all. It was to the scruffy—
… Oh fucking piss, Captain Price ?!
MacTavish laughed tiredly. “I know. I haven’t exactly processed it either.”
“Clearly. You didn’t think to say anything?”
“Eh…” With a tired shrug, MacTavish unlatched the carabiners that kept him clipped to the rig.
Ghost got a better look at MacTavish, most notably the puffiness in his eye bags and the slump of his posture. He knew he hadn’t slept well back when they were on the submarine. This demanding operation must’ve completely worn him out. Ghost’s gaze fell lower, to the now empty holster on his thigh. The gun changed hands again after three whole years. “Soon as we get back to base, you’re going straight to bed.”
“Aye, can’t say no to that.”
Ghost took another look at Price as Roach spoke to him. In his excitement, the Sergeant had pulled down his mask, revealing clean skin against the dust film on his goggles. Roach could be excitable, but this was next level chatter, like he was attempting to fill in the three-year gap in four minutes. Price didn’t exactly stop him, but shifted uncomfortably in his spot. Ghost felt for the old captain.
Better save him then. Ghost patted MacTavish on the shoulder and joined the two in the one-sided conversation. “Oi, Roach, give the man some space.”
Roach’s mouth stopped flapping just long enough to notice Ghost. “Ah ha, sorry, Lieutenant. Guess I’m getting ahead of myself.”
Price acknowledged Ghost with a stiff nod. “Still attached to that mask, I see.”
Ghost chuffed, his breath clouding through his mask. “Brings out my eyes. You know, I had a feeling you’d somehow survive when you got left in Ukraine.”
“Not easily. Soap’s been fine without me around?”
“He stepped up pretty well, given the circumstances,” Ghost told him in brief. No need to hear the turbulent start to MacTavish’s promotion to Field Commander, or how he practically burnt himself out in the early weeks trying to keep up with the stress of the job and the grief of losing Price. Took a while before he found his stride, but even now, after how hairy this mission was, he’d be dwelling on every mishap and shortcoming, and that only a little over half of their team made it out. “But I’m sure he’s relieved to know you’re back. Assuming you don’t decide to just retire.”
“Hmph. As long as Kingfish is still the objective, I’m not done.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Notes:
As you can tell by the chapter summary, this wasn't exactly a chapter rife with too much chaos and hijinks compared to the rest of the story so far. Don't get me wrong, it's there, but we've definitely hit crazier in the last few chapters alone. Like all other times I wrote the missions in Plan B, I think I more or less copy pasted the transcript off the CoD wiki and added dialogue tags and shitty descriptions of what was happening. I use the transcripts still to copy the lines of dialogue as the subtitles wrote them, also the script notes have clarified certain things that went on and told me shit like what the fighter jets were in the opening seconds of this mission. Difference is, I learned my lesson and don't include all the chatter and am willing to adlib the occasional for Roach or assorted 141 operators.
Bootleg copy pasted script aside, we did have a few awkward gems.
In 37, Soap is still moping and Roach get kinda getting on him for it, but like in a "something's wrong, this is how I know." kind of way. MacTavish could've probably slapped him clear outta the cabin with how annoying he was. He doesn't, and instead sulks outside on the side bench. Then Worm smacks him with a door somehow, idk if Little Birds have side doors on their cabins. So MacTavish is dangling off the bench by his legs freaking the fuck out until somebody can pull him back in. Every time I had to reread Plan B, I tend to skim this part because it's so dumb and pointless that it hurts my brain.
Another thing, Younger Me for several chapters prior to 38 The Gulag kept hinting on a super awesome surprise POV. We get here and it's Ghost. That's it. Cue the Owen Wilson "Wow." It's literally just Ghost hacking the computer, but kid me didn't understand a damn thing about computers and it showed. For example, there was the charming line "I was way ahead of him, but this wasn't like Windows Vista or any close to modern software." I almost kept this POV intact, if only to make a joke about the computer folder equivalent to Russian Nesting Dolls, but the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea. After the set up in the last chapter, I felt like Soap's was the most appropriate. Besides, I still don't know much about computers, so I'd rather gloss over the hacking like the game does rather than kill my brain doing copious amounts of tech research. I think did this research before I stopped writing the fic a couple years ago, because I loosely remember looking up what a Hardline was, but I retained none of it.
There was also a Price POV at the end, in that I mean that it swapped to Price when they breached to rescue him. In my notes for this I was like "Nah, fuck that, I'd sooner make this Soap's."
One last thing, the Gulag cutscene was originally written in here before TOED.WY. It took me a bit to realize that that didn't make a lick of sense because of how Soap's monologue starts. I didn't feel like giving it a whole scene, so it's just gonna kinda exist as a "he said this at some point on the helicopter ride." Don't worry about it.At any rate, stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 20: Wanna Put Out an Oil Fire?
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 39 and 40
39. Contingency cutscene. Soap + Price discuss nukes. They hang in a safehouse. Scarab gets ready to do sniper support.
40. Contingency. Ghost yells at Price.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The counterstrike against the Ultranationalists and Makarov was a two-fold punch. First, rescue 627. Second, invade a Russian naval base and sink a submarine with a 16 megaton nuclear payload. Initially, MacTavish would’ve headed the infiltration, but with Captain Price’s sudden and frankly baffling return, there was a substitution in the lineup.
Barely outta the gulag and Price wanted to jump back in the saddle. Why the hell wasn’t Ghost surprised in the least?
This was good, though. MacTavish was a decent Field Commander, but it ate at him. Sooner or later, the responsibility would’ve caused him to have a nervous breakdown. Or an aneurysm, whichever came first. He was better served as the XO, even back when the 141 was in its infancy. And Price… Well, the results spoke for themselves. He was calculated. Three years of imprisonment didn’t change that.
He was squirrelier than Ghost remembered, that was for sure.
Far be it from Ghost to assess someone’s capacity to serve in the wake of severe trauma. Seemed he wasn’t the only one to feel that way either, because Price was welcomed with a shower, fresh BDUs, and a briefing. Shepherd even got on the line to chat with him as soon as he received word.
It may come as no surprise that Ghost had very little time to catch up with the reinstated captain until their short flight towards Petropavlovsk. MacTavish was busy getting him up to speed, so it fell on Ghost to make sure the team was in the helicopter and ready to go.
Several of the men who’d fought through the oil rigs and the gulag had to be cycled out with members of the secondary squad that met up with them just last night. Of all people to remain on besides Ghost and Worm, there was also Roach — poor, cosmic punching bag Roach. Doc accessed him after Price apparently cocked him in the eye, and determined that his orbital bone was bruised, but he was otherwise fit for duty.
MacTavish came to see them off. “Good luck out there.”
Luck had nothing to do with it, but not having to co-op with vengeful seamen would be a major improvement. “Thanks. Hopefully this goes quick, I’m exhausted.”
“Aye, you and me both.” MacTavish patted his arm with a fond smile that pushed the apples of his cheeks. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
That smile was infectious, and oh so rare these days. “Looking forward to it, mate.”
On that sweet parting, Ghost boarded the waiting helicopter, and it soon took off. Pulled from the fantasy of nuzzling into MacTavish’s man boobs in the dead of night, Ghost stared down at the floor of the cabin. Somewhere to his left, members of the team chatted quietly about Price’s return, while the Captain acted aloof to the full-blown speculation being discussed.
When it came time for them to parachute into the Drop Zone, Ghost told Roach to “Stick close.” A minute later when he landed, Ghost looked around and Roach was straight up gone. No Price either.
“Roach? Captain Price? Did you miss the DZ, over?”
He was at first greeted by a series of static and clicks. Then a real response:
“Ghost, this is Price. The wind blew us pretty far south-southeast.”
“Is Roach with you?” MacTavish inquired. He’d be providing Overwatch via satellite.
“Negative, he got blown off further than I was, I think.”
“Copy that. I’ll see if I can find him, out.”
There was always something, wasn’t there. Ghost shook his head and reported the rest of them made it to the DZ.
“Do we wait for ‘em, sir?” Gator asked.
Ghost’s mouth pressed thin beneath his mask. “We can’t afford to waste a lot of time.” He turned his attention back towards trying to reach the Sergeant. “Roach? Do you copy?”
A couple static clips, but no answer. Additional attempts to contact him received the same dead air.
Poet dug a hole in the snow with his boot. “You think something happened to him?”
Nothing better have. Roach may not have been the most talkative on missions, but it wasn’t like him to go completely dark like this.
There was little else for Ghost to do but ask, “MacTavish, are you picking up anything on your feed?”
After a brief pause, MacTavish replied, “Eh… not well. Screen’s grainier than a pile of table salt. Wait, I think I see a parachute. Price, it’s about one to two klicks southeast of your position.”
“I copy. I’m heading that way now.”
“Be careful. Looks like there are several patrol routes cutting through.”
“They won’t even know I’m here, out.”
Not long after that, they heard from MacTavish. “Price found Roach. He’s unharmed. Proceed with the mission. They’ll link back up with you if they can.”
“Roger that.” Ghost signaled the others to follow him down the snowy forest trail towards the naval base. A light dusting of snow flurried around them off the pine trees, carried on a stiff wind that bit the small patch of exposed skin on Ghost’s face. “Did Price say why Roach went silent?”
“Negative. But I’m sure you’ll be able to ask Roach yourself once they get past the patrols.”
At least he wasn’t hurt. Ghost could proceed knowing the Sergeant was fine. As they walked, MacTavish got back to them with another update: intel was out of date, there were mobile SAMs.
Off in the distance, a booming rose over the trees, and birds scattered. The echoes of wood splitting were both loud and distant. Price and Roach had better not have given away their position. The entire base would be on alert.
At the outskirts of the village, the treeline thinned to reveal the tall cranes like grey shapes against the pale clouds. Many of the homes were without lights and swallowed beneath a few meters of snow. The buildings were probably commandeered by the Ultranationalists when they made the base. Poet and Cherub stayed back to provide sniper support — if Roach had landed where he was supposed to, he would’ve too. The rest of them took out a patrol around the perimeter, hid the bodies, and snuck in.
A stiff breeze whistled through the empty streets, and a fresh dusting of snow fell from the white sky. There were fewer troops roaming these parts than expected, so few, in fact, that navigating the area unnoticed was child’s play.
Downhill, opposite the main road, there appeared to be some enemy movement. They laid flat on the side of a mostly buried roof. Gator peaked over. “Sir, there’s a mobile SAM.”
“You seeing this, MacTavish?” Ghost asked.
“Aye. Barely.”
With a blast and subsequent boom, a black cloud of smoke and debris rained behind them.
… Was that their fucking UAV?
“What just happened?” MacTavish questioned.
“There is a mobile SAM site in the village. It just shot down our Predator,” Price explained. “Soap, we need another Predator.”
Great. No, fantastic. Fucking waste of their time, that shit was. When things got hairy, they’d need the last predator drone, and Shepherd wouldn't let them have a third one.
“Sir, there are weapons caches all over the place. Let’s pop the top off that SAM now,” Worm suggested.
They weren’t supposed to go loud this early on. It’d give the submarine crew plenty of warning to dive. But you know what? Fuck it, Ghost was willing the make the sprint himself if it meant not losing a second drone to this damn thing. Ghost spotted one cache Worm pointed out and ran up to it.
A Russian shouted something to his far left, and a few bullets pocked the snow behind him. The rest of his squad broke from cover to follow his lead and engaged the scrambling hostiles that came rushing down to the road to intercept them.
Ghost slid to the stack of crates and guns and threw open a case to take an AT4. Heaving the anti-tank weapon over his shoulder, he shouted, “Get back!” to his team and fired the projectile at the SAM site. It hit dead on and exploded into a fiery blaze that launched a couple of hostiles sideways into the icy pavement.
“Fuck yeah!” Neptune exclaimed, accompanied by excited whooping from the other guys.
“Looks like Roach and Captain Price have joined the party,” Cherub said.
Ghost picked up his assault rifle and glimpsed a helmet as someone darted from the slope to another weapons cache. “Everybody on me!” He vaulted over the crates to reach the edge of the two meter high snowy ledge. He jumped down into the road and took cover behind a truck. “Check your fire! Check your fire! Friendlies coming in at your 12!”
Price and Roach joined them by the side house near the destroyed SAM. Roach must’ve swapped his sniper rifle out because now he had an M240.
“Nice work on that SAM site,” Price said.
Ghost nodded. “Thanks, but we better get moving. Those explosions are gonna attract a lot of attention.” He then looked at Roach. “Why didn’t you respond, Roach?”
Roach lowered the machine gun to knock on the side of his helmet. “I tried, but my mic’s been bugging out.”
How in the literal hell did that happen? Military radios were made to survive just about anything, and he somehow managed to break his? If only Heatstroke were around, she could’ve had that fixed in a pinch. Ghost didn't have enough time to fiddle with it. “Stay close then.”
“Will do.”
On that note, the team splintered into smaller groups and swept through the village towards the metal gate. Ghost kept Roach in sight as they ducked from the gable ends of roofs to an ornate iron fence. The fire fight was brief, but intense, and Ghost had to duck away from grenades more than once. The slope was a real bastard.
When they reached the sub base, Price said, “Soap, we’ve linked up with Ghost and the rest of the team.”
“Roger that. The second Predator is almost in position. Make it count, these things don’t grow on trees.”
One might expect the perimeter to be a little better cordoned off than a waist height wooden fence, but that wasn’t the case. They had a perfectly clear view of the submarine below a crane. Roach pulled out the laptop to control the predator drone and launched an AGM at the helicopter, blowing it to pieces.
Right on cue, the screeching sirens blared.
“That got their attention. The whole base is on alert. You better hurry. You’ve only got a couple minutes before that submarine dives,” MacTavish urged.
“We’re moving!” Price practically led the charge, running at an impressive clip for a man fresh outta the gulag.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Ghost rushed after him towards the metal shipping crates. Once the AGMs were armed, he covered Roach while he took down another several hostiles past the chain-link fence. They pushed forward between missile strikes, through whatever rattled troops were in the wake of the blasts. Within an impressive minute and a half, they just about reached the docks.
Price broke from their group to charge up the dock. “I’m going for the sub! Cover me from that guardhouse by the west gate!”
“Roger that!” Ghost called back over his shoulder, “Roach, we have to get to that guardhouse by the west gate to cover Price! Follow me!”
Roach nodded and slapped the laptop shut. He fell behind Ghost as they went up the stairs to the rooftop. The rest of the team took positions to defend the docks from the fresh wave of troops closing in.
“Alright, I’m inside the sub,” Price said. “Cover me, I need a few minutes!”
A bunch of enemies rolled up in trucks, which Roach dispatched with an AGM missile. This victory was short lived, however, because two more pulled in next not even a minute later.
“Arming AGMs, standby,” MacTavish told him as the Sergeant tried to call another missile.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Roach groaned and picked up an RPG to take out the first truck before its passengers could hop out. The ones in the second truck had just enough time to leap out before the vehicle blew up.
Just when it seemed like they had a handle on it, Ghost spotted a few Russians making a mad dash for the ramp to get up on the submarine. He shot the front most one, who fell and tripped the guy behind him. “Contact to the north, on the dock next to the sub!”
They shifted their fire north. There had to be about a dozen guys darting around between crates and cargo trying to board the sub.
With a hiss, the first set of silo doors opened.
No. Oh bloody fucking no. Ghost stopped firing. “Price, are you there? The silo doors are opening on the sub. I repeat, the silo doors are opening on the sub!”
No response. The next few sets opened.
Ghost’s heart pulsed like thunder in his ears, resounded in his fingertips. He got to his feet and tried again, edging on frantic now. “Price, come in! They’re opening the silo doors on the sub! Come on! Hurry!”
Still dead air.
Price couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be. Ghost refused to believe that miserable old prick seemingly came back from the grave just to get shot in a submarine. Yet he wasn’t responding and the silo doors all stuck out from the sub like ribs from carrion. Fuck no. Fuck fuck fucking—! “Price, do you copy?! The silo doors are open! I repeat, the silo doors are open!”
“Good.”
“What.” The ground shook beneath Ghost’s feet as one of the nuclear missiles rumbled from the chamber. Ghost grabbed the railing, watching the warhead climb up towards the sky on a pillar of smoke. “Wait - wait, Price, no!”
“Oh shit,” someone yelled.
Sheer shock gave way to sickening panic as Ghost yelled, “We have a nuclear missile launch. Missile in the air! Missile in the air! Code Black, Code Black!”
--- --- ---
MacTavish didn’t know what he expected when that bloody helicopter returned to the ship. Not a dead quiet cabin, that was for sure. Most of the men had huddled around Ghost while Price sat aloof off to the opposite side with a wad of gauze pressed beneath his nose. Ghost stormed off the flight deck. Roach ran after the Lieutenant, but spared MacTavish an anxious look as he passed.
He was gonna need a lot more than two Motrin to handle this.
Before Price had the chance to skulk off, and boy did he try, MacTavish caught his arm. “We have to talk.”
Price sighed with all the heaviness of a ninety-year-old nan. “Can’t this wait?”
“You’re lucky you aren’t being detained right now. Unless you want that to happen, I wanna hear some answers.”
While still holding the pad of bloody gauze to his face, Price lifted his chin.
“Did Shepherd give you the order to launch that nuke,” MacTavish questioned.
“No.”
“Then why?”
“You know the state of things, son. Think about it, all Makarov wants is for America and Russia to destroy themselves on each other. We either watch that in slow motion, or we douse the fire now and hope they can salvage things.”
“By launching a nuke? Price—”
“It’s rigged for a high altitude detonation.”
Whatever harsh words MacTavish had for him trailed to stunned silence. As this piece of information sank in, he double blinked. “An EMP.”
“Now you’re getting it. Russia’s relying on their aerial assault. Without that, they’ll fold.”
This was some next level backwards insane troll logic; shit MacTavish never would have come up with, and yet it was startlingly efficient. “Did you explain any of this to Ghost or the others?”
“They wouldn’t have it,” Price grumbled and checked the gauze. The bleeding must’ve stopped, as there was a ton of crusted blood in his mustache and left nostril. “... Has Ghost’s right hook gotten better?”
“Aye. So’s his temper.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The question then was whether to settle the matter quickly or give Ghost time to simmer down. MacTavish usually gave Ghost a wide berth for a few hours, at least before trying to fix things, but this didn’t feel like something that could be just put off. “Come on, old man, you’re gonna have to talk to him.”
Price nodded and followed his lead.
It wasn’t too hard to find Ghost. He and Roach were out on the aft deck, leaned against the railing and having a smoke. Ghost’s mask was bunched around his chin, and his fingers locked like pincers on the end of a cigarette. He definitely saw them coming from the corner of his eye, because he huffed, expelling smoke and vapor, and asked, “What?”
“We need to talk about what happened,” MacTavish said.
“Can I be excused, Captain?” Roach requested.
Oh right. “Get going.”
Roach snubbed out his cigarette on the railing and hurried off.
Once he vanished below deck, MacTavish broached the subject as gently as he could. “I know you’re upset—”
“There’d better not be a ‘but’ attached to that,” Ghost interrupted. “I’m well within my right to be upset about all this.”
There definitely was going to be a “but.” MacTavish tried again. “You are. Would’ve been nice to know what Price was planning ahead of time.”
“If I said anything, you would’ve stopped me,” Price pointed out.
Ghost just about crunched his cigarette in half. “You’re bloody right, I would’ve.”
That, of course, launched the beginnings of an argument between Ghost and Price, which involved Ghost getting pissed and Price deflecting.
“What you did was a war crime!”
“What’s a bit more jail time?”
“We could all get fucking court martialled for this!”
MacTavish groaned and cut them both off, “Alright, alright! Before you two get up to high doh, shut yourselves for a fucking second!” Amazingly, it made them give pause. “Nobody’s getting court martialled. Shepherd’s not gonna disclose that Price did that. As far as anyone outside our team knows, Makarov had someone launch that nuke. I just got through talking with him about it already.”
“You did?” Price’s brows furrowed beneath the brim of his hat.
“Aye. If I had to guess, he’s more pleased about it than he lets on. Said they basically gave him a blank check on all his operations.”
“This could still bite us in the arse if he tries to cover it up,” Ghost mentioned.
The possibility had crossed MacTavish’s mind as well. “I don’t know what this means for us, but I’m willing to bet a lot less people’ll die from that EMP than if the war’s allowed to drag on.”
Price glanced between them. “Are your comms off?”
“For now,” MacTavish replied.
Ghost double checked his headset and nodded.
“Ghost, you’ve always been a good judge of character. What do you think of the General,” Price asked.
“... How much have you heard about this last month?” Ghost took out the package of cigarettes from his tactical vest and fingered the hole for a sec before giving the box a shake. Empty. “Bollocks.”
When they set out to Brazil a couple days ago, Ghost had a brand new pack. Usually one lasted him about a week. MacTavish got out his pack and passed him a cigarette.
“Thanks.” He lit it and took a short drag. “Well?”
“I know about the conflict and the recent activity with Makarov,” Price answered.
“There’s more. Back in July, two of our operators went MIA. Nikolai called in a message that he had one of them, but Makarov’s Inner Circle captured the other. That information never reached us.” Ghost shook his head. “MacTavish and I brought it up yesterday, but he said he never heard about it.”
“Hm. That is strange.”
“It’s a pattern of behavior with him. The lives of his men are less important than results. We didn’t go looking for Price, we aren’t looking for Heatstroke, the losses don’t matter to him.”
MacTavish swallowed the sick lump in his throat. He always wanted to believe the General had his reasons, that there was a bigger picture he wasn’t seeing, but what use was climbing a ladder if you kicked the rungs out from under you? “We can’t do shite to him. Not yet anyway.”
“Not until he shows his hand,” Price agreed. “I have a feeling that might come any day now. You need to stay alert.”
“If it’s gonna happen soon, it’ll be because you gave him an excuse.” Ghost flicked some of the ash off the top of his cigarette.
“Maybe I did, still needed to happen.”
Ghost scoffed and turned his attention to his smoke. “Whatever, mate. If we end up royally fucked because of it, I’m punching you again.”
“If we’re still alive, I’ll let you.”
Notes:
I'm really cranking these out. Guess it's that NaNoWriMo mojo. Let's getting into the meat and potatoes of this chapter, shall we?
Soap originally discusses the nukes plan with Price before the mission. This got moved to after because it makes more sense and is backed up by his journal.
I didn't understand the timeline as a kid, mostly because I didn't read the stupid text at the start of the missions they helpfully provide you. So in Plan B, there's this span of time injected in where they stop at a safe house in Russia (I assume) and chill for a night before Contingency happens. Meanwhile, Scarab gets in position to provide unprompted/unwanted sniper support. We get the *totally* necessary details like her futzing around the abandoned log cabin and cooking a microwaveable TV dinner. And burning her mouth on it. For shits and giggles, I'm going to pretend she is burning her mouth on whatever food they're eating over in the Indian safe house.
Also don't ask how she knew to go to that sub base either. It's barely explained as "with a lot of help from Nikolai." I'm starting to wonder if Plan B Nikolai was blessed with omniscience with how he just knows where Soap and Co. are at all times.
Now, because there is no time for such riveting content, that got the axe.
I think what's more fun at the moment than shredding up Scarab's dumb POVs is exploring that doubt Ghost and Soap have been harboring. I like to think that in the canon game, they were so swept up in events that they had no time to stop and think about Shepherd's actions. Soap also has a habit of trusting mustachioed commanding officers - I think he has a type. At any rate, I feel like in context of this story, Heatstroke and Scarab going MIA is that first domino that gets them to start questioning things a lot sooner than they otherwise would have.Stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 21: Serpent's Tongue
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapter 41
41. Back to base. Ghost is mad. Loose Ends cutscene. Ghost is sus. They leave for the safe house and camp. Soap and Price chat a bit about the Gulag.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the lightless hours after the EMP, American forces retook the White House and several other landmark buildings. The rest of Washington DC was carpet bombed, and the Russians lost their footing in Virginia. The Americans scraped together a pyrrhic victory at best. Hundreds of thousands of troops evacuated the ruins of the city. The casualties had yet to be fully tallied. Even as the Russians were driven away from Virginia, the fighting carried on north of DC.
General Shepherd boarded the aircraft carrier in the wee hours of the morning and called all available 141 operators to the briefing room. A collection of water bottles sat in the middle of the table, glinting in the dim room from the light of the monitor, untouched by the gaggle of men gathered. You could cut the tension with a knife.
MacTavish tapped his ballpoint pen against his kneecap, his nerves just about clawing their way up his throat. He barely got any rest between the last mission and now. Too much to take care of. Too many condolence calls to arrange and casualties to report. Not to mention Ghost and Price still weren’t on good terms, so when they were taking their seats, MacTavish made a point of sitting between them.
He caught Roach’s sympathetic glance from the opposite end of the table. The Sergeant then got out his little pocket journal and jotted something down.
When General Shepherd joined them, he opened the meeting with an entire speech about this being a tough week, but that they’d recover. “I’ve got a blank check. And we’re gonna use every cent of it killin’ Makarov. Despite what the world may say, we are not savages. We don’t kill civilians. We use precision.”
Something flicked against MacTavish’s knuckle. He glanced down to see a folded up scrap of grid paper. He discreetly opened it.
Didn’t realize he was in secondary school. MacTavish rolled his eyes and crunched the note under his palm, unsure whether Roach was referring to Ghost and Price or if he had picked up on the other looming issue. If he had, it was pretty bold of him to flick a fucking note under said issue’s nose.
Shepherd was still too absorbed in what he was saying to take notice. Thank Christ for that. One by one, he went through the sites they’d been through yesterday, marking each as offline. “Once his face is revealed, we will write history, gentlemen.” With a few taps on his laptop’s keyboard, he displayed satellite images and intel on two separate locations. The first was an estate on the Russian-Georgian border, a suspected safe house. The other was a U.S. vehicle disposal yard in Afghanistan, aptly nicknamed The Boneyard. “These are the last safe havens left on Earth for Makarov and his men.”
“Sounds like we gotta be in two places at once,” Price remarked.
Backlit by the monitor behind him, it was impossible to tell where Shepherd was looking. “Impossible?”
“Not for the 141.”
“Fifty-fifty chance of taking out Makarov, eh?” Ghost sat up in his seat. “Captain Price, request permission to take the safe house with Roach.”
Price nodded. “Granted. Soap and I will take the boneyard in Afghanistan.”
That unsettled feeling in MacTavish’s chest only worsened. The Task Force would be scattered like leaves in the wind between the estate and the Boneyard. If Shepherd wanted to make his play, what better time than when they were all separated like this?
“Very well. We will cut off all avenues of escape. This ends now.” Shepherd emphasized this with a jab to the table. The punctuation had all the finality of a bullet.
“Strange,” Price uttered, fixing his hat. “I coulda sworn we ended this war yesterday.”
He could barely hear himself screaming over the bell-like screeching in his ears, the thumping of the helicopter. His body ached something awful. He spat blood from his lips as he tried to get up. Thirty meters—maybe thirty-five—he could run that far, and drag Price into the pave low before it took off. There was anxious talk that they’d be overrun by the encroaching horde. Roach just about threw himself on top of him, keeping him pinned to the seat. The Sergeant pleaded with him. Distantly, there was a howl.
No, he wasn’t ready. He couldn’t—
MacTavish jolted awake and stared at the metal ceiling of the crew quarters with its dim red safety lights around the walls. Lord only knows how many bleeding seconds it took before the present sank back in. Price was here. They were on a ship in the Indian Ocean. There wasn’t a horde of zombie militia and rabid dogs. He squinted at his watch in the low light. He needed to get ready for his mission in a little over 0500 hours….
Next to him, Ghost slept silently on, undisturbed. At least someone did. His side rose and fell ever so slightly.
MacTavish rubbed his tender eyes and slunk out of the bunk to go sit in the common room. Sailors passed by, and a couple of them were chatting across the room about tequila. He tuned them out and flipped through his journal briefly. He’d been doing that a lot these last couple of days. The most recent entries consisted of a lot of doodling. Admittedly, he was pretty proud of the sketch he made of the gulag during their brief down time. Then there was his map of the Boneyard he’d drawn out while they discussed the dual missions at the briefing.
Shepherd’s speech a few hours ago replayed in his head. He flipped further back in his journal to a portrait he’d drawn of the General a while ago, when the Task Force was first established. “After losing 30k troops man’s been chomping at the bit,” it read towards the top of the page. He used to like that about Shepherd; he had this earnest presence, a point to prove. That air about him hadn’t changed, and yet now it felt sinister.
And that this was a joint op between them and those PMCs didn’t sit right with him, either. In the past, the 141 worked alongside Delta, the Rangers, or the Seals. Something about the Shadow Company rubbed him wrong.
Couldn’t just be him overthinking it, right?
Closing his journal between his fingers, MacTavish left in search of the one person who’d be turning this shit over in his brain as much as him. Price wasn’t all that hard to find. The old man fell back on old habits after all these years and was cleaning his gun in the armory. Most of the M1911 was on the table stripped. Price was scrubbing the barrel.
“Thought you were tired, son,” Price said, not even looking up.
“Aye, I said something like that.” MacTavish shut the door behind him and lowered his voice. “My head’s minced.”
“Care to share with the class?”
MacTavish came closer to the table. The smell of solvent stuck to the back of his throat. The bore brush scraped back and forth a few more times before Price pushed a cotton pad through the barrel, then another two until it came out clean. Watching him work, MacTavish explained his thoughts slowly, finding it difficult to put it all in order. There was bound to be an easier way to explain these sudden deep seated doubts, but in the moment he struggled to make it make sense.
Price worked methodically as he swabbed the action and listened with the occasional nod or grunt of affirmation. By the end, he stated, “Sounds to me like you’re scared of being right.”
MacTavish sighed. “It’s too soon. I thought maybe we’d have a little more time.”
“Events move fast, you know that.” Price reassembled his pistol and checked it to make sure it was still in working order. “A lot could happen in the next twenty-four hours. Whatever happens, I need you ready. Get some rest.”
It wasn’t nearly the help he’d been hoping for, but MacTavish thanked him all the same and returned to the crew quarters. The bunks were mostly occupied by other sleeping members of his company, so he slipped back in beside Ghost.
Ghost mumbled in groggy confusion, barely peeking at him from the corner of his eye. “John…?” He slurred out something else, but it was unintelligible. His eye fluttered shut, and he was out again just as quick. Probably hadn’t even really been awake to begin with.
MacTavish studied Ghost’s face in the dark, the red light cutting the definition of his jawline and the shape of his ear. He still smelled of smoke, even after having showered. Thoughtlessly, MacTavish pressed a small kiss to Ghost’s nape, at the neckline of his t-shirt. If this were the privacy of his quarters on base, he would’ve wrapped himself around the lieutenant and pressed into his back. The urge to do so was like an itch up his arms, one he pointedly fought by turning over on his other side.
Tomorrow, they’d be separated. It wasn’t the first time, and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last. That anxious part of him fretted on like a faulty transmission. Despite his best efforts, sleep remained elusive.
He didn’t sleep for the full five hours. Ghost woke up in four and climbed over him to get up, which jarred him from whatever light sleep he’d been getting. As Ghost fixed his BDUs and laced up his boots, MacTavish debated whether closing his eyes for another thirty minutes was even worth it. He felt even more tired than when he left Price. Odds were, he’d only feel worse. At this rate, the only sleep he’d be getting any time soon would be in a box.
General sleep problems won out again. MacTavish sat up with drooping shoulders and tugged back on his boots.
Ghost glanced over his shoulder at him. “Sorry, mate, didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“It’s fine,” MacTavish grumbled.
“You wanna get some coffee before we have to get ready?”
Where he was at, he’d need more than a cup of coffee. He’d never been a fan of them when he was on leave, but suddenly those colorful cans of energy drinks in the gas station refrigerators sounded appealing. “Think they’ll just give me the pot if I ask?”
Ghost snorted, an amused wrinkle nudging to line his nostril, and pulled on his balaclava. “I think they could be persuaded.”
Together, they ate breakfast. MacTavish spaced getting himself some coffee, to which Ghost slid him his and got up to get another. Ghost drank that shit black, something MacTavish neither agreed with nor understood. He was two seconds from going to get some sweetener when Ghost came back to the table and flicked a couple of white packets at him.
“Thanks.” He produced to dump both packets and pray it’d cut the bitterness just enough to be palatable.
Ghost shrugged and sipped his new coffee.
They ironed out a few mission details amongst themselves, and later with Roach too, when the Sergeant inserted himself in their conversation. Both sides of this assignment were strictly intel gathering. They needed to know where Makarov was going, who his contacts were, what other plans he had in the works. What they stuck to was the estate side of the operation, infiltration and exfiltration primarily. MacTavish doodled out the general layout on a napkin.
Damn pen was dying. He’d need to replace it soon.
“There are a lot of places around the estate where Makarov’s men can set up an ambush,” MacTavish remarked, noting the wooded slopes, especially around the LZ.
“Assuming they’re expecting us,” Ghost agreed. “I’m more worried about what happens when we get in. Depending on how much we can get off that computer, we could be defending our position for several minutes. The better the intel, the longer the wait. And we don’t have a big enough team to defend the estate effectively.”
“If Makarov’s there, security will be especially tight.”
Roach leaned over to better see the drawn map. “We really don’t have a secondary LZ, do we?”
“If we can’t make that clearing work, I doubt we’ll be alive to reach another extraction point,” Ghost said.
“That’s the road, right?” Roach asked.
“Driveway and road, yeah,” MacTavish confirmed.
“Think we might see enemy reinforcements come up that way?”
“Could come from there, or even the trail on the southwest side.”
Ghost finished his coffee and pulled up his mask. “Roach, I want you carrying as many claymores as you can. That might be the only thing stopping us from getting overrun.”
They soon broke off to prepare. Ghost had to round up his team, and Soap needed to check his load out. Unlike Ghost, his end of the operation didn’t hold nearly as much risk of being a fresh hell. They were observing a possible arms deal. His team would go in, be quiet, take notes, and sneak away. Pure simplicity. If Makarov made an appearance, MacTavish would put a bullet between his eyes.
So why the overwhelming PMC presence looming just outside the vehicle disposal yard? If this was supposed to be covert, the Shadow Company hanging around risked blowing their cover. Shepherd said at the meeting that they were backup in the event something went wrong, but how wrong did he expect things to go to justify throwing that many hired guns at the problem?
He couldn’t go five minutes without spotting some other problem. MacTavish put that whole new bullet point on his growing list over to the back-burner for now while he prepped an M14. Now for the part he’d been purposefully putting off.
That damn ghillie suit.
Stealth demanded a lot of things, but frankly, he couldn’t be sure if lying in a heap of bulky burlap, jute, and grass in the middle of Afghanistan in the summer was worth it. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t pass out from the heat. Like it or not, he donned the heavy jacket and pants, as well as smeared stripes of brown paint across his face. You do what you can to break up your shape, and pray no one looks at you for longer than five seconds.
But he sure felt stupid lumbering across the flight deck in that thing. There were two helicopters revving up. Ghost and his team were boarding one.
MacTavish trotted a little faster just to catch up, the fake foliage rustling in the sea breeze. “Oi! Good luck out there.”
Ghost stepped off the Pave Low’s ramp to face him. “Same to you.”
That gut feeling came back, like this was going to be the last time they ever saw each other. The last time they ever spoke. MacTavish looked Ghost up and down, but otherwise was stuck there with legs made of lead and no words to say.
“What is it?” Ghost asked, the words scarcely heard over the helicopter’s rotor.
There had to be a half a million things he could’ve said, but the only thing out of MacTavish’s mouth was, “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.” A little sweeter, Ghost added, “I’ll see you when we get back.”
“Aye.”
It was on that parting that MacTavish met with Price and the rest of their squad. MacTavish watched the other Pave Low take off and fly towards the horizon, and with one last silent prayer, boarded the helicopter.
--- --- ---
Heatstroke was getting intimately familiar with the fibers of this hood they kept yanking over her head. It stayed on for long hours, loose threads tickling up her nose constantly, while they guided her around by prodding the barrel of a gun against her back. It was in and out of cars, then inside somewhere. They left her kneeling on the concrete floor with a gun to her head for so long that her knees went numb.
She noted her surroundings however she could. The dry heat, how their boots crunched in what sounded like arid, rocky soil. Their voices reverberated in the hollow shell of a building. They spoke too fast for her to keep up. At some point, there was a commotion elsewhere in the building. It sounded like an argument. Then there was a lick of English, a southern accent panicked and pleading followed by a gunshot that echoed in the space. It startled her so badly that she froze in place.
Not her. Who then?
It came from another room. When she was instructed to get up and walk towards where the shot had come from, she hesitated. The man behind her shoved her forward.
What she hadn’t expected was for the hood to come off. She blinked against the light of a window, and squinted at the dusty, pale walls of a sparsely furnished room. Makarov and three others were there, the terrorist in question watching her intently. In a closet past them was the dark spatter of blood, a body lay just within.
Her heart seized as she spotted the blue skull and winged dagger patch on his sleeve. She could just make out Sgt Henley on the name patch of his uniform. That was Raptor. When was he captured?
“Do you recognize him, Riley?” Makarov’s voice cut through her shock like a knife. “Your comrades are close, you know.”
Heatstroke looked between him and Raptor, her legs shaking. Was she next?
Makarov barked something in Russian, accompanied by a gesture toward Raptor’s body. One of his men went over and pulled the radio and headset off Raptor and handed it to Makarov. Twirling his finger in the spiral cord of the receiver, Makarov approached her. “I have something only you can do, Riley.”
On reflex, she tried to step back, but the man behind her grabbed her injured shoulder and squeezed against the bullet wound. She recoiled in pain but couldn’t shake his grip. Through gritted teeth, she bit back, “What makes you think I’m about to help you?”
“You have a choice. Either you do as I tell you, or I shoot you. I don’t care which.”
Cold. She didn’t doubt for a second that he’d see his threat through, no point calling him on it. “... What would you have me do?”
“As we speak, your comrades are raiding my estate. They will discover the truth there, how General Shepherd was involved in my latest work. What do you think is going to happen to them once he’s recovered that information?”
“You wanna turn them against each other.”
“It’s better than what Shepherd will do,” Makarov insisted, grabbing her jaw in a tight grip. His nails scraped her chin as he let go. “Everyone you fought beside will be executed today . You can stop him. All you need to do is tell them the truth. What will it be?”
Surely the whole Task Force wouldn’t be killed. That just wasn’t possible. They weren’t eighty-nine nobodies; they had families and lives back in their respective homes. The allied countries involved in the 141’s formation would demand an investigation. Shepherd couldn’t pull off a cover up that extreme, could he?
Anybody in that estate, though, were as good as dead. And so was she.
Makarov cocked his pistol. “Five seconds.”
She stumbled to answer, “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Good.”
She was pushed along to sit at the table, the radio set in front of her. In the time earlier during the long car ride and rest stops, they’d cut the duct tape from her wrists in favor of a few sets of zip tie handcuffs. They were pretty damn tight, but at the very least her hands were in front of her, allowing her to operate the radio.
This radio could transmit through either via high frequency radio or the tactical satellite as needed. Should’ve already had the correct frequencies programmed in. She flicked it onto the TACSAT and finagled the headset on.
“—Ghost. No sign of Makarov, I repeat, no sign of Makarov. Captain Price, any luck in Afghanistan?”
The response came from a gruff British man she didn’t recognize. “Plenty...at least fifty hired guns here, but no sign of Makarov. Perhaps our intel was off.”
“Well, the quality of the intel’s about to change. This safe house is a bloody goldmine.”
“Copy that,” Shepherd answered. “Ghost, have your team collect everything you can for an operations playbook. Names, contacts, places, everything.”
“We’re already on it, sir. Makarov will have nowhere to run.”
“That’s the idea. I’m bringing up an extraction force, E.T.A. five minutes. Get that intel. Shepherd out.”
There was no way of her knowing their situation right now, how stable it was. Makarov may have said they’d die today, but he could’ve been lying. For all she knew, this message she was about to relay could be all that it took to fuck her company over.
A gun prodded her on the back. Heatstroke took a deep breath in a futile attempt at centering herself. She picked up the receiver.
“Go ahead, Riley, introduce yourself,” Makarov goaded.
With shaking hands and a wavering voice, she pressed the PTT button and said, “All call signs, this Corporal Jays with a priority message.”
The response was instantaneous, a cacophony of operators chattering all at once. Mass confusion, so many people talking over each other that it crackled in the headset like white noise. Voices she thought she’d never hear again overlapped with questions and requests. “Where are you?” and “Are you safe?” and “Can we track her?” She waited for the first wave of chatter to die down.
“To the team at the estate, there is intel concerning the airport assault pertaining to General Shepherd’s involvement. I say again, Shepherd and Makarov had explicit cooperation between each other.”
“... Holy shite….” Sounded like MacTavish.
“Heatstroke, what’s your location?” Ghost asked. “Can you speak freely?”
She fretted with her lip and then looked up at Makarov to gauge his reaction. He had this expectant look as he waited for her to answer. “Negative. I, um… I have some company right now. Before I go, you need to know, Raptor is KI—” Before Heatstroke could finish this, a gunshot struck the radio. She dropped the receiver, mouth agape at the fizzling pile of circuits and cracked casing.
Makarov petted her unkempt, frizzy hair and lowered the M9. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Flinching from his touch, she asked, “Not gonna shoot me for that?”
“Why would I when I can let you suffer a while longer?” He shoved her off the chair and onto the hard ground. “You played your part well.”
He was pleased, or as pleased as he ever let himself seem. A shiver rattled her spine. She might have just completely screwed her friends over. And for what? Just to live a little longer with no assurance that she’d be rescued. Heatstroke only hoped her family never had to hear about this.
Would Shepherd hunt her down too? Probably. He’d have her ass thrown in front of a military tribunal for aiding a terrorist, her name and reputation smeared. Everything she worked for, all her accomplishments, up in smoke. Poof. That’s if she lived, if she was rescued.
Makarov had one of his men yank her up to her knees, and the hood was tugged back over her head. They led her away, back to the other room to kneel and wait.
Notes:
I, um... I think you can see the changes here. Gonna have to unpack this.
So somehow Ghost and Roach are supposed to live for the remainder of the fic, both from a recreating Plan B perspective and Soap/Ghost being the endgame. I went through several ideas for how to accomplish this, but the more research I did, the more my heart freaking sank. It's not simple. At first I figured they could be rescued post betrayal, like how it plays out in Plan B, but there were a litany of problems:
1. Ghost seems to die instantly. I know it wasn't a head shot based on the blood splatter, but he seems pretty convincingly dead. It'd be pretty fucking hard for Shepherd to miss at that distance. Roach, on the other hand was shot somewhere in the abdomen and got burned alive.
2. I thought maybe Archer could save them somehow, like fire a shot that makes Shepherd scuttle into his helicopter and flee, but as it turns out the CoD writing staff thought of this. It's not subtitled, but you can hear Oxide tell someone to watch for snipers on thermal, and then a confirmation that all threats have been neutralized, confirming Archer and Toad die. I never once realized that was there and it broke me for a solid three days.
In other words, the confrontation with Shepherd can't be allowed to play out like in the game because this shit was water tight. I applaud the 2009 IW writing staff for making Shepherd's betrayal smart on so many damn levels.
What I did realize I had though was Heatstroke. I'd considered having her leave a note that would've warned Ghost's team not to trust Shepherd, but I didn't like that plan. It got scrapped in favor of Makarov making a play to throw a spanner in the works for Shepherd. So now from here, lightly toss out your knowledge of the next two missions because they won't be one for one recreations of the game. Maybe keep Just Like Old Times and Endgame set aside. Sort of.Stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 22: Cat and Mouse
Summary:
Summary of Chapters 42 and 43
42. Loose Ends.
43. Enemy of My Enemy. They chat to Scarab for a short time, Scarab leaves to save Ghost + Roach.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Ghost expected heavy resistance, and the need to stand their ground while they gathered as much intel as they could. What he hadn’t anticipated was just the sort of shit they found. First it was a grim discovery in the basement toilet: a rag with Heatstroke's name and operator number written in blood jammed in the cabinet door. Roach noticed it while they were down there.
"You don’t think she's dead, right?" Roach asked.
"I dunno, man," Ozone replied. "Fucking-A…. I can’t believe she’d been here.”
If there’d been more time, Ghost would’ve investigated it further to piece together what had happened to her. That wasn’t in the cards right now, not with all the intel they had to amass in such a short span of time. Although it made him sick, he ordered the others to focus on collecting the high priority information they came for. With any luck, clues about her were wrapped up in it all. Roach hooked up the DSM while Scarecrow collected photos and Ozone took up rear security. Ghost got in contact with Shepherd and Price.
Then, again, there was another twist in the Heatstroke MIA narrative. Out of nowhere, she tapped onto their comms and relayed a grim message: Shepherd was involved in Makarov’s assault on the airport. Ghost had running theories concerning the General’s behavior and suspicions, but no clear motive to support them. This was the final detail he needed for it all to click into place.
Shepherd must’ve ignored Nikolai’s message about Heatstroke’s location for fear that she’d learned the truth. If he was willing to abandon her to keep it quiet, how far was he willing to go to stop the rest of them? Frankly, Ghost didn’t much feel like finding out.
“Heatstroke, what’s your location?” Ghost asked. “Can you speak freely?”
“Negative. I, um… I have some company right now. Before I go, you need to know, Raptor is KI—” With the clack of a gunshot, her transmission cut.
The fallout was almost immediate. Price shouted over the comms with bullets in the background, “Ghost! Come in, this is Price! We're under attack by Shepherd's men at the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!” Then static.
Ghost’s legs were heavy as he stood in the doorway to the office, and met Scarecrow and Roach’s alarmed stares with one of his own.
They had about five minutes until Shepherd came bearing down on their asses for that intel and to silence them. He had two options, run or risk all their lives for this intel in the name of bringing it to light.
Explosions carried from outside, the vibrations rattled the floorboards. Scarecrow looked back over his shoulder at the window. “What the hell was that?”
“Be advised, you have a large concentration of hostiles moving in from the southeast, they've just breached the perimeter,” Archer said. “I'll try to thin 'em out before they get too close. Recommend you switch to scoped weapons, over.”
“What are we doing, Ghost?” Roach questioned.
Ghost gripped his ACR tighter. “We’re protecting this DSM with everything we got, and then we’re getting the bloody hell out of here. Roach, plant claymores by the doors, we’re digging our heels in.”
“On it!”
“Ozone, if you start getting overwhelmed, fall back up the stairs,” Ghost went into the office now to shoot hostiles in the driveway through the window. “Switch off your IR strobes while you can.”
Archer responded, “Sir?”
“Trust me, they’re gonna pin us on thermal the second they’re in range. We need to make ourselves scarce before then.” He ducked down and kicked through the filing cabinet but found very little of use. There was the bomb kitchen. Ahh, but he wouldn’t have the time to make use of it. He swapped over to the net. “Captain Price, we’re going silent for a while. Good luck over on your end.”
“Roger that.”
“You all had better make it,” MacTavish said over the sounds of a firefight.
“Planning on it.” Ghost swapped back to the low frequency channel and disabled his IR beacon.
With a click and a bang, the first claymores went off. Makarov’s henchmen swarmed the estate in droves, intent on overwhelming them and destroying the DSM. According to Archer, they were swarming in from the solar panels to the east, then the field. Roach and Scarecrow stayed close to the computer to guard it, but the download proceeded at a snail’s pace.
Three minutes until Shepherd’s heli reached their location. Estimated time this download would finish? Either three minutes, twelve, or ninety-eight.
He hated fucking estimated times.
“I’m falling back!” Ozone shouted. Moments later, he charged up the stairs, checking one Russian by the stairs in the chest and shooting him with his sidearm. Blood dripped down his face from beneath his helmet. He joined them close to the computers. “This is bad, man!”
Had to be something. Anything! Ghost scanned the office space again. Little of note: Books, a radio, a burner phone, cigarette in an ashtray—
Cigarette. “Roach, any cans around the computer?”
The Sergeant glanced back at him, perturbed. “What?!”
“Aerosol cans, anything,” Ghost elaborated.
A flashbang clattered between their feet. Someone shouted, but between the flash and harsh ringing, Ghost had no way of knowing who. He instinctively ducked back behind the wall, blinking the white away. Gunfire carried on just outside the room. He came back out and shot at the hostiles converging on Ozone. One of them managed to scurry back into the kitchen.
Roach squinted and looked around the console. “Computer duster?”
“That’ll do, make sure it doesn’t get ruptured.” Ghost grabbed the abandoned nokia phone on the desk, jamming that in his pocket.
The DSM beeped.
“Roach, the transfer's complete! I'll cover the main approach while you get the DSM! Move!” Ghost came out to join them, and shot one of the Russians lurking by the doorway outside.
Roach grabbed the DSM and the duster can.
“Let’s go! We have to move!” Ghost waved his team and they rushed from the house into the driveway. “Sniper team, recommend you get downhill sharpish!”
“What’s the plan?” Scarecrow yelled over his shoulder.
“Just get to the treeline! Roach, hand me the can!” Computer duster in hand, Ghost fished out his zippo from one of the pockets of his tactical vest. He proceeded to blow torch the grass behind him and around the base of a tree.
It’d been a harsh summer up in these mountains, the vegetation was drier than normal, and it caught quickly. Thick, dark smoke plumed upwards as the fire caught and spread, eating the tree trunk, the grass, and underbrush. Once the flames licked the pine needles, it exploded upwards and out, raining embers on the neighboring trees.
Ghost closed the lighter and led his team along the treeline, away from their pursuers, and rendezvoused with Archer and Toad past the wooden fence. Helicopters beat wildly overhead, searching. With all the building fire and smoke, Shepherd’s men wouldn’t be able to get a beat on them with thermals.
If Shepherd wanted this intel, he and his Shadow Company had to get down here and fight them in person to get it. Not easy with Makarov’s men still swarming around the safe house.
Back towards the estate, blasts punched the earth. Screams carried over the side of the hill.
They had only a moment to catch their breath before they needed to keep going. Ghost lit another fire. “They're gonna be after us. No matter what, we have to survive.”
Archer yanked down his mask and the hood of his ghillie suit. Beads of sweat cut lines through the dirt on his face. “We’re on our own out here.”
“For now,” Ghost said. “We’ll head to the lake, it’ll give us somewhere to go as the fire spreads.”
“Fucking hell, man,” Scarecrow breathed. “How’d things go to shit so quick?”
Roach gazed at the fire behind them. “Things were cocked up for a while now. We just didn’t see it.”
As they made their way downhill to the lakeshore, the fighting still behind them, they fell into tense silence. Ghost kept a close ear on the distance of the gunshots, never quite getting further away, but not getting closer either. The fight was slowly pushing after them. Once those bullets stopped though, that was when they had a real problem. He had very little doubt the Shadow Company would eventually punch through the wall of henchmen Makarov sent in and hunt them down. It was just a matter of time.
The water at the lake’s edge lapped the coarse sand. They stayed on the grass. Less tracks that way. The smoke stack grew ever larger, climbing high into the blue and white marbled sky. It curled toward the mountain’s slope.
“Do you think we’ll ever go home?” Toad asked, breaking the quiet.
“Who knows,” Ozone said. He’d fallen to the rear.
Ghost didn’t say a word. He had no family to come home to, no lovely wife and kid waiting back in Manchester for him. If he died out here, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he was leaving behind. Only people who’d miss him were MacTavish and his few friends on base. Unlike him though, Toad was married and Ozone had a longstanding girlfriend he called all the time. Roach kept in touch with his immediate family, not that he spoke about them in any great detail. Surely the same could be said for Archer and Scarecrow.
A long time ago, when Ghost’s head was a lot more fucked, he’d asked MacTavish why he tried so hard to get to know him. “Someone has to be waiting for you, might as well be me,” he’d told Ghost. It wasn’t romantic at the time, but it certainly took on a new meaning over the years.
The gunfire died down and came to an eventual stop. Now they had to pick up their pace. Ghost tentatively turned back onto the TACSAT but maintained radio silence to listen in on the Shadow Company chatter.
“ — targets were last spotted headed north-northeast.”
“Still no lock on with thermal, over.”
“Yeah… they did a number on this place. The smoke’s too thick, you’re gonna need to find them in person, Puma Team.”
“Make it quick, that fire’s starting to pick up traction. You don’t want to be down there when it really spreads.”
“Roger, Viper Two-Six. We’re proceeding on foot with Gold Eagle. Out.”
The hunt was on. Ghost took mental stock of their supplies, what each of them could do, and pushed his team double time to place some more distance between them and the Shadow Company. The lead they had was marginal at best, but they did what they could to stall them. They planted their remaining claymores in the underbrush, and Ghost lit more fires. He’d burn this whole damn mountainside if he had to.
In the scramble to lay down traps and push forward, Roach lost his footing and tumbled into the murky bank. Ghost hopped down the embankment to help him up.
Roach patted his vest, his eyes widening.
“What?” Ghost questioned.
“I think the DSM slipped out.”
“Bollocks,” Ghost hissed under his breath and kicked around in the mud. All the silt had been kicked up, making it a blind fumble for the damn thing and he just wasn’t feeling it.
The click and bang of a claymore some fifty meters back sent a startled jolt up Ghost’s spine. There wasn’t time. They couldn’t both get shot here.
“Roach, go ahead with the others, I’ll find the DSM and catch up.”
Although Roach at first stepped back slowly, he nodded and booked it back towards the rest of their team. Ghost hastened his search.
“Come on, you stupid piece of shit…” He groped around in the silt and weeds, his sleeves and pants getting thoroughly soaked until at last he touched the smooth side of the device. He plucked it out, water dripping from its antenna port, and came splashing out of the shallows to catch up with the others.
“Movement, 11 o’clock.”
“Roger, I see him.”
Ghost barely had any warning when a spray of shots clipped the trees around him. He banked right, when a sudden burning pain ripped through his forearm. His fingers lost their grip on the DSM and it fell in the grass behind him. Ghost ducked behind a tree. His sleeve was staining red.
He could try and get it; just a ten meter sprint back, snatch it up, and run like hell. Trying to get a grip on his sidearm though, he couldn’t get the strength needed to pull the trigger. Either muscle or nerve damage, he couldn’t tell. He needed his offhand to shoot, and if he couldn’t fire a gun he doubted he could pick the DSM up again.
Either he tried to get away with his life or he’d die getting that damn thing. Futility at its fucking finest. Ghost swore to himself and got out his lighter again to set more of the foliage on fire, it was about all he could do. As he broke from cover and sprayed flames across the grass, he caught sight of Shepherd among the black clad PMCs. Ghost took cover again, threw the last couple of grenades he had left, and made a run for it.
“We’ve recovered the goods, I repeat, we have recovered the goods.”
“Gold Eagle is going back to the LZ, we’ll be continuing our pursuit.”
“Roger that, Puma Six. Good hunting.”
--- --- ---
The other shoe dropped with the impact of a bomb blast, and for a solid minute, MacTavish ran on autopilot as all hell broke lose around him. What started as an arms deal spiraled into a full out battle and he was alone in this whole mess. Nary an ally to be seen among the swarm of Shadow Company and Russian terrorists. Soon as he got himself somewhere he could hide, if only for a fucking second, Ghost came in saying he’d be going dark.
And the news just kept getting better.
They lost several men in the span of two minutes, overwhelmed or caught in the crossfire, MacTavish wasn’t sure. A couple of them were still alive; Rook and Neon. They were with Price.
MacTavish managed to shake any attention by hiding out in the shell of an airplane, but he had nowhere to go from there. Not unless he wanted to run the gauntlet with a volley of bullets coming at him from all sides. As the shock dulled, it gave way to anger so intense it twisted his stomach. Even though he suspected Shepherd was up to something, he never expected it to be literal terrorism. Warmongering to some extent, sure, but this ?
Un-fucking-believable.
Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, Ghost broke his radio silence with a single message. “Be advised, Shepherd has the DSM.”
“Ghost, come in, what’s your status, over?”
“On the run, these PMCs don’t let up easy—BOLLOCKS!”
His shout just about blew out MacTavish’s earpiece. “Ghost?”
“I’m fine, still breathing,” Ghost huffed. “I gotta go, out.”
“They can make it, Soap,” Price said. “I’m working my way back to you.”
MacTavish sank lower behind his scrap of cover. “Shepherd betrayed us.”
“Have to trust someone to be betrayed. I never did. Nikolai, come in. Do you have our location?”
“Da. Inbound, Price. But I am not the only one. You've got Shepherd's men on one side, Makarov's on the other.”
“We'll have to take them all out then,” Price said.
“Or let them take each other out. Either way, I'll see you on the other side, my friend.”
Nikolai would be picking them up at rally point Bravo, the airstrip over 400 meters away. Unless MacTavish wanted to die here, he needed to push through all this chaos. All other problems could wait for when he wasn’t caught in a firefight. MacTavish mustered his energy, swapped to his assault rifle, and dashed from the plane to the next piece of cover, an overturned shipping container.
A BTR came rolling by, straight towards the scrambling Shadow Company units, its cannons blasting. And in the distance, Little Birds whizzed by with spooling guns and exploded, flinging debris across the field. The golden sun peered through the clouds of smoke and dust. As soon as he ran from cover, a pair of Shadow Company soldiers spotted him.
“There he is!” One shouted.
Soap shot them both and turned to take down a Russian that yammered in shock at his sudden appearance. The BTR didn’t seem to notice him, at least that was something. He pressed up the slope, through the skeleton of a jet hull.
“Nikolai! This is Price! Be advised, the LZ is hot, I repeat, the LZ is hot!”
“Ok, Captain Price, I am on the way! Try to get the situation under control before I get there, ok?”
“Right, whatever you say, Nikolai! Just get here sharpish!”
Soap already owed Nikolai a palette of Imperia for all the shit he put up with for them. At this rate, he might need to up that to a truck load of vodka and a year’s supply of Xanax.
“Soap, let Makarov and Shepherd's men kill each other off as much as you can,” Price told him.
“Easier said than done,” he retorted, gunning down a few more tangos on his way to the next piece of bullet-pocked cover he could reach. To his right came the sharp barking of attack dogs. “Oh no…”
The first one launched itself over a crate, but he shot it and it fell in a crumpled heap of black and tan fur. He didn’t spot the second one in time. It knocked him off his feet with all its weight and snapped its jaws at his face, held back only by his arm. White teeth flashed as it tried to bite his jugular, and nails caught and scraped at his vest. He grabbed the dog by the snout and snapped its head to one side, the crack of its spine barely audible over the gunfire.
“We can use their comms to listen in on their radio traffic. I'm going to try to contact Makarov,” Price said.
In all this nonsense, MacTavish forgot that Price had stolen a radio off of one of Makarov’s henchmen. It sorta came second to the fact that Heatstroke had mentioned Raptor, one of the men on his team. She was close at the time of her message. She might have still even been alive.
Once they got out of here, finding her should be a priority, while they had some semblance of a clue where she was.
“Makarov, this is Price. Shepherd's a war hero now. He's got your operations playbook and he's got a blank check. Give me what you got on Shepherd, and I'll take care of the rest.”
Dead air. Soap pressed on past a throng of Russians as Price continued to goad the terrorist into a response.
“I know you can hear me on this channel, Makarov.” Still nothing. Price added, “You and I both know you won't last a week.”
“And neither will you,” was the muted, raspy response.
MacTavish had heard recordings of Makarov in the past, of his speeches concerning the “rot of the Ultranationalist party” and security footage mainly. All those contexts tended to be in Russian, and although MacTavish understood it, he never fully appreciated how quietly he spoke until now. His voice was soft as a serial killer hushing his thrashing victim.
He took cover behind another shipping crate as a black armored car with a gunner came barreling past.
“Makarov… you ever hear the old saying… the enemy of my enemy is my friend?”
“Price, one day you're going to find that cuts both ways,” Makarov warned. “Shepherd is using Site Hotel Bravo. You know where it is. I'll see you in hell.”
“Looking forward to it. Give my regards to Zakhaev if you get there first.”
He couldn’t believe this, they actually talked to that bastard. That man had been so fucking elusive for five years, only popping up to stir trouble in the press and then vanishing for months on end.
“Soap! Don't get pinned down out there! Keep heading west for the runway area!”
Just as Price said this, a couple bullets tinged the metal of the crate Soap had stopped behind. He turned just in time to shoot two of Makarov’s men climbing over debris. They collapsed and fell face first in the dust, blood staining their grey camo jackets. Soap broke from his hiding spot and ran ahead while the technical gunner was occupied down the way.
Meanwhile, Price asked, “Nikolai, where the hell are you?”
“Sand storms around Kandahar, Captain Price. I have to fly around them. I am not getting paid enough to crash my plane.”
Considering this perfect shitstorm, Nikolai wasn’t getting paid enough, period. “Don’t tell me you’re already at the rally point, Price.”
“We’re all waiting on you.”
Soap scoffed as he killed two Shadow Company PMCs taking cover inside the split shell of a plane. The uppermost part of a third guy’s helmet poked up in the small, empty windows. Naturally, Soap chucked a cooked grenade through the little window. The PMC’s panicked shout was abruptly cut short by the explosion. Soap slipped inside the wedge opening, but there was no one else inside.
Half the mangled plane tilted upwards, the fuselage pointed to the sky. He walked up the aisle, with its tattered and faded blue seats. At the opening, above the shootout, there was a red sign: Lot 36. The runway wasn’t far from here.
Just then, a C-130 flew overhead, and popped flares in an attempt to throw off a missile. Nikolai said, “Price, I am approaching the boneyard. I see you do not have situation under control. Very unsafe to land. It looks like when I was in Afghanistan with the Soviets!”
“Nikolai! Just shut up and land the bloody plane! We're on our way!” Price snapped.
What followed was a string of Russian ranting and cursing from Nikolai, which MacTavish only caught about a third of before he ended up stuck. Here he thought he knew all the swear words, but apparently he missed one. If they lived, he’d have to ask.
Soap got out his sniper rifle for a second to thin out the mass of hostiles all congregated in the valley beneath him. He popped off about fifteen or so and slid down the dusty slope, a trail of dirt kicking up behind him. At the bottom, he stumbled to his feet and ran along another wreckage, picking off the few that came after him.
“Soap! Hurry! We've gotta get to Nikolai's plane!”
“Working on it!” Soap barely said as much when another BTR came rolling past. The barrel dragged its way around to point towards him. “Ah shite!” He leaped for cover behind a red cargo container. The blast from the tank cleaved a chunk of dirt on the ground, which then rained on his back.
Wasn’t far from here. Fuck it. Fuck all. Soap legged it up the hill and past the crossfire. He stabbed someone on his way, but he didn’t quite get a good look at him as he jouked left to dodge a humvee with a mounted gun doing donuts and spraying wildly.
He was damn close, so close he could practically smell that sun-baked tarmack. Before he could reach it though, another tank plowed past. It didn’t get far before an anti-tank missile hit it and blew its top off. The missile came from Rook, camped by a jeep. Price and Neon were close by, providing covering fire.
“Captain Price, I am taking off in one minute! You better hurry if you want a ride out of here,” Nikolai said.
Price spotted him and waved him over. “Soap! We are leaving! Get in the jeep!”
Soap ran to the jeep, right into shotgun next to Rook, and punched out the windshield in a couple of hard hits. Right then the humvee came banking towards them, and Rook slammed on the gas, sending them in reverse. With a hard lurch, Rook peeled the car around and drove through the mess of wreckages to get them on the runway, all the while the Shadow Company rode their asses in a last ditch effort to stop their escape. While Soap shot many of them, Rook rammed into whatever trucks came remotely in their way. He struck the bumper of a technical and sent the gunner flying.
Up ahead, the runway stood above it all, elevated from the pit of dismembered aircrafts. Nikolai’s plane ran along on its landing gear in preparation to take off again. They just about nearly vaulted over the runway, but Rook cut it hard to the left and stopped them before stepping on the gas again.
“Nikolai, drop the bloody ramp! We're coming in!” Price shouted.
Technicals and humvees came flying up after them, Price barely got out a warning when blood spattered the side of Soap’s face and the console. Rook slumped against the steering wheel.
“Rook is down, take the wheel!”
Soap reached over and pushed Rook back from the wheel so he could steer it towards the ramp of Nikolai’s plane with his off hand. All the while, the truck beside them was doing everything in their power to ram them off the runway. Soap grit his teeth and pushed back until that truck broke off. The jeep swerved, but he managed to save it just in time for them to jump up the ramp and into the plane—
No brake, Rook’s foot was dead on the gas!
Soap grabbed the hand brake and cranked that thing up as high as it would go. They lurched and crashed against the front end of the cargo bay. The momentum sent Soap slamming against the console, the hard plastic hit him in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him with a wheeze.
“Good work, Soap,” Price breathed. “You alright?”
He peeled himself off the console and nodded as he choked on getting a proper lung full of air in him. “Aye. Jes-sus fucking Christ…”
They were alive. Hell’s fucking bells, they were alive.
Neon climbed down from the gunner mount to pull Rook out of the driver’s seat. “Rook! Come on, man!”
Soap got out to help him as well, but Rook had been shot clean through the neck. There was no stopping the hemorrhaging, and before long Rook passed away on the metal floor. Neon remained knelt over him for a while after, the blood soaked in his BDUs and his hands shaking. MacTavish fell back off his heels, and sat against the car’s tire.
His legs hurt, his back hurt, even his arms…. Not only was he sore, but he was also very, very fucking hot. He thought he was sick with anger before, but it very well could’ve been the heat. This ghillie suit had to go. He wrestled off the leafy jacket, chucking it aside. Underneath, his olive drab tee shirt was dark with sweat.
Silence briefly fell over the cargo hold. Nikolai kept body bags ready, so they packed Rook up and laid him aside, strapped down with a couple of carabiners to keep him in place. Poor bastard. Lord only knew how they’d get him home to Australia for a proper funeral.
MacTavish sat down beside Neon to at least offer his support. He ended up stuck on what to say, grief had never been an easy thing for him. Neon didn’t say much either, just asked in little more than a whisper, “So when are we gonna get Shepherd for this?”
“We need to find Heatstroke first,” MacTavish said.
Price had gotten out of the car and leaned against its side. “What we need right now is to kill Shepherd.”
“You heard her, she mentioned Raptor. He was with us, so she must’ve been in the area,” he argued. “We can go after her!”
“I know that, but she might not even be alive right now. Even if she is, we don’t know where she’s being held, it could take us days to search and by then we’ll have Shepherd’s PMCs breathing down our necks. We need to deal with that first, otherwise we’re not helping anyone.”
It wasn’t like MacTavish didn’t understand it from a logical perspective. But still, on principle, they had a responsibility to the men in their company and she’d been MIA for over half a month now. If they didn’t jump on this chance, Makarov would slither back into whatever damn hole he crawled out of and they wouldn’t see or hear her for who knows how long. “We’re supposed to take care of our friends, right? We go to Hotel Bravo, we’re as good as dead, so who helps her after that?”
“We’ll be taking care of a great deal more going after Shepherd. Once Ghost and Roach aren’t being pursued, they can look for her, but they need the PMCs to break off their search.” Price set down his gun in the backseat of the car. “It’ll probably be a one way trip, but I can’t do this without you. That being said, it’s your call.”
It was like he’d swallowed the bitterest drought that settled heavy and curdled in the pit of his gut. Like it or not, there was only one answer. “I’m with you.”
Notes:
I'mma be real, Loose Ends and Enemy of My Enemy were originally gonna be their own separate chapters, but when I actually got close to writing this bit, it dawned on me that neither of these parts needed to take up that much time.
Ghost's section was unsurprisingly difficult to make work. I wanted their escape to make sense, and I hope I achieved that? I don't know if I overthought things. The research alone was goofy. I even booted up Loose Ends on Recruit so I could speed-run my way into the estate and explore the map (you're free to run around if you don't plug in the DSM, Ghost will just periodically remind you). I think it helped me get a grasp of this setting. I wish there were more spots where you could cheese an objective like that, but ah well.
Soap's POV/Enemy of My Enemy plays the mission fairly straight by comparison. I just felt like Price's dialogue with Makarov was a must, and I almost was gonna gloss over the rest, but I'm such a Nikolai stan that I couldn't skip his stuff and I just.... This is a fun mission. It's a bitch on Veteran, but it's fun.
Ah, but right, Plan B. As you may have seen in the summary, Soap and Price talk to Scarab briefly at the end. This is um... odd? I think I mentioned before, Nikolai let her co-pilot in Plan B for these missions despite her having no flight training. Her alias during this was Dimitri, which was such a bizarre choice. Amusingly, Price succeeded on his Insight check, realized she didn't sound Russian, but then she beat that out with a Bluff check and lied saying she was raised in the UK. Nobody mentions the fact that she doesn't sound like a man, convincingly at least. Either she's had voice training, or she's got some damn low vocal cords.At any rate, hope y'all have a lovely day. Stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 23: Hail Mary
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapter 44
44. Tatiana treats the boys. Scarab chats. Ghost doesn't rest. JLOT cutscene.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When Soap was a wee lad, he used to be a big fan of Spaghetti Westerns. He fashioned a “revolver” out of cardboard and popsicle sticks and tried talking with that iconic Texan accent, which was nearly incomprehensible. Those films dictated a lot of his make-believe of being a lone drifter rolling into town, enacting vigilante justice, and vanishing into the setting sun. As he got older though, he retired that old art project toy to the darkest corner beneath his bed and gave up trying to sound like Clint Eastwood in favor of real, tangible things like football and girls. The memory of those old games proceeded to gather dust in whatever mental shoebox he left them in, only to suddenly resurface that evening as he inspected a Vector rifle.
In a strange twist of fate, the situation he and Price landed in felt a little too much like one of those Westerns. Except they were the wrongly accused outlaws out for blood, and Shepherd the corrupt sheriff putting a bounty on their heads.
Wanted for terrorism and conspiracy. It didn’t even feel real to him.
It sent Soap down a spiral. Earlier that day, when Nikolai helped them escape and they arrived in this town to hide for the night, the shock of what had happened fully faded and Soap hit a sudden burst of anger. He ranted, and tried to direct some of his frustration into his journal. His pen wasn’t writing, so he chucked it halfway across the room and got a different one. He eventually gave up and went through supplies.
Of course, while he sat and checked his kit for what must have been the fifth time now, Price stepped to the window to have a smoke. The old man was lucky MacTavish ended up having a taste for Villa Claras, because he sure as shit didn’t have any after so long in the gulag. Must’ve been the nicest cigar he’d had in years, considering how unconcerned about their mission he was.
Sighing, MacTavish put down the rifle and ACOG sight, and rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. He leaned back in his chair until he just about slumped. “We got one good UMP, and they got a thousand. We don’t even know if Makarov’s intel is any good.” The room remained quiet, Soap lowered his hands from his face. “Price.”
Price didn’t move, his gaze still lingered out the window at the street below. He took another drag off his cigar.
“Price?”
Smoke plumed as he exhaled. Steadily, he spoke, “The healthy human mind doesn’t wake up in the morning thinking this is its last day on Earth. But I think that’s a luxury, not a curse. To know you’re close to the end is a kind of freedom. Good time to take… inventory.” Price turned to him now, the end table lamp barely illuminated his face.
Soap’s stomach gnawed uneasily at the look Price had as he tapped ash off the end of his cigar and took another drag off it. He almost replied, but Price apparently wasn’t done with his thoughts and continued.
“Outgunned, outnumbered, out of our minds on a suicide mission, but the sand and rocks stained with thousands of years of warfare. They will remember us for this. Because, out of all our vast array of nightmares, this is the one we choose for ourselves. We go forward like a breath exhaled from the Earth. With vigor in our hearts and one goal in sight: We. Will. Kill him.”
What in the literal hell was he even going on about anymore? Soap listened, his brows slowly but surely bunching tighter as Price carried on with the sort of zealous conviction that only came from a man with nothing left to lose. Price had always been at least somewhat eccentric, that was what he was known for in the SAS, but this was a lot even for him. Apparently being locked up did more than make him grow out his beard.
“You look lost, son.”
MacTavish nodded and looked back down at the Vector he’d been working on and back up at Price. “One objective, no rules of engagement, you make it sound so simple. We don’t have the arms they do, let alone the numbers, we’ll be lucky if we even reach him.”
“The world as you knew it is gone,” Price said, softer now than Soap had heard him in a long time. “How far would you go to bring it back? Shepherd created a war, but only we knew the truth. The only way he’s going to see justice is if we throw him in hell ourselves. This has to end.”
That greater good again. Death wasn’t exactly a foreign concept to him, he’d had enough close calls, but these PMCs weren’t like the Russians or militia they’d been fighting. They were highly organized and well equipped. “You think we’ll be able to pull it off?”
“We either do, or we die trying. If you’re starting to get cold feet, son, then just say so. I’m not gonna drag you along.”
MacTavish opened his mouth to speak, but a knock at the door cut him off. He got up and cracked the door first to check. Just Nikolai, he undid the chain lock and let him in. “Yeah?”
Nikolai had his phone out, his hand over the receiver. He offered it to Soap, “It’s Ghost.”
“Ghost? What?” Soap took the Nokia and answered, “Hello?”
“Evening, MacTavish.”
Ghost’s voice wrapped him with a warm sense of relief. Thank God he gave him Nikolai’s number back when they were in Brazil. “I guess you must’ve made it out if you’re able to call like this.”
“For the moment. We got our hands on a car and lost ‘em in a nearby town in Georgia. We’ll lay low here until the Loyalists can send someone our way,” Ghost summarized.
“How many of your team made it out?”
“I’ve got Roach, Archer, Toad, Scarecrow, and Ozone left. No life threatening injuries, but I did get shot in the arm.”
“Ah, bet that stings a bit.”
“It doesn’t tickle, that’s for fucking sure.” A pause, then Ghost said, “Nikolai mentioned you and Price are going after Shepherd.”
MacTavish glanced over to Price, who watched him intently from the window. “Aye. Once he’s out of the picture, I doubt the Shadow Company will still be after us.”
“Not unless they wanna sink their resources for free.”
“Mhm.”
“How’s your end of things?”
“Oh, fine, more or less.” MacTavish turned away from Price, if only for that illusion of privacy. “Getting ready for tomorrow’s been rough.”
“I’ll bet,” Ghost said, “Hotel Bravo’s tunnel network is pretty elaborate from what I hear. Used to be an old US Army base. Guess Shepherd commandeered it. Not to mention the Shadow Company’s swapped frequencies, it won’t be easy to infiltrate.”
“We noticed. Nikolai knows a guy who’s good with cracking encrypted radio traffic.”
“Can’t be cheap.”
“You’re damn right. So you’re familiar with the base?”
“I heard about it some years back. I don’t have much in the way of helpful advice though.”
“Ah, that’s too bad.”
“... John?”
“Aye.”
“Be careful out there. I don’t think I have enough patience to deal with Price on his own.”
MacTavish sighed like that’d somehow release the pressure built up in his chest. “I doubt you’ll have to put up with him either if I don’t make it out.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He was then tapped on the shoulder. Price was now behind him and asked, “You mind?”
There was so much more MacTavish wanted to talk to Ghost about, and yet none of it urgent enough to insist he have a few more minutes. Now wasn’t the time for chit-chat, no attempts to off-load the tension, comforting words, nor emotional closure to be had. MacTavish handed off the phone and leaned on the wall beside Nikolai.
“Everything is fine?” Nikolai asked.
“I’m just worried,” he admitted, then changed the subject. “Any word back about that decryption code?”
“Da. It’s ready for tomorrow.” Nikolai frowned at the table cluttered with equipment. Some of it was left over from Soap and Price’s escape, but much of it Nikolai had on hand and lent them. “You two had better live.”
“To pay off our tab, right?”
“It would be hard to make you pay otherwise,” Nikolai agreed, and a smile line creased his cheek for a split second before vanishing. “I know what Captain Price said, but I will stay in the area.”
At least someone believed their situation wasn’t completely hopeless. MacTavish thumbed the spine of his journal, tucked in his shirt pocket. He’d considered writing a letter to Ghost and handing it off to Nikolai to pass along in the event that he died tomorrow. He almost did. Something stopped him though, probably the mental block of writing a final message.
He could vividly imagine Ghost’s reaction, the flash of anger that’d rage like an oil fire. Ghost would probably ball the letter up and throw it while cursing his name. This and that and how dare MacTavish resign himself to the end. Ghost wasn’t exactly a touching last letter sort of man. It’d just fuel a downward spiral like the sort he’d described in the past.
It was too bad. There was so much shit he left unsaid and it would’ve been nice to have gotten himself some closure.
“If we don’t make it, mind telling Ghost that I’m sorry,” MacTavish requested.
Nikolai’s shoulders sank. “Da. I’ll tell him.”
--- --- ---
Murphy’s Law was the concept that anything that could go wrong would go wrong. For that reason, it was best to prepare for the worst but hope for the best. Ghost usually skipped the second part of that. No point getting your hopes up and being crushed by the outcome, even if you did brace yourself for it.
From time to time though, it felt good to have his pessimism proven wrong. Such was the case when Nikolai helped him get in touch with the rest of the Loyalists. A team was deployed to get them away from the Russo-Georgian border to one of their sites. Somewhere in India, from what he was told. They were scheduled to meet these people sixteen kilos out the following day, go the rest of the way to the LZ, then fly out of here and arrive approximately four hours later. One way or another, they’d need to shake their pursuers and get out of town by 1500. That was the single good thing going for him and his men right now.
The same couldn’t be said for MacTavish’s end. He might not have spelled it out, but Ghost heard how defeated he sounded. This wasn’t the first time Ghost had to play the optimist, but it didn’t seem to help much this time around. Hopefully MacTavish would push past whatever doubts he was contending with and make it through. He was good at brute forcing his way into success.
The early hours of the morning, Price broadcast a message to any and all remaining Task Force 141 operators, which was sure to get a lot of attention:
“This is for the record. History is written by the victor. History is filled with liars. If he lives and we die, his truth becomes written — and ours is lost. Shepherd will be a hero, ‘cause all you need to change the world is one good lie and a river of blood. He’s about to complete the greatest trick a liar ever played on history. His truth will be the truth. But only if he lives, and we die.”
Ballsy old man. There was no way that transmission wouldn’t get picked up by the CIA. If nothing else, maybe Shepherd would sweat a little while he waited for his reckoning.
How many 141 members escaped besides them? He wished he knew. What men they’d left on the USS Chicago and Dallas and the aircraft carrier were shipped back to RAF Brook Line before they’d set out on this farce of an assignment. It’d been the Shadow Company who transported them, and Ghost had a sick feeling it was to round the leftover Task Force up in one spot to erase them in one fell swoop.
“Ghost, the enemy squad’s breaking from their search,” Toad said.
Ghost got up and peered out the side of the window. They shook off the Shadow Company yesterday, but those shits patrolled the town all evening looking for them. Couldn’t rightly stay in one place too long, because they started knocking on doors and barging in on the unwitting townsfolk. Right now, they were holed up in a derelict textile factory that offered a fair amount of oversight on the main road. There was a group of four PMCs in dark gear that made them blend in with the pavement, that went back to a humvee. They loaded up and drove off.
“Think they fell for the IR strobes,” Scarecrow guessed.
“Maybe.” They’d set up their IRs elsewhere while they were dodging around in hopes of throwing their pursuers off. Ghost got out his pistol. “Whatever the case, we got a lot of ground to cover. Let’s move.”
Sixteen kilometers was a few kilos shy of a standard ruck march, certainly nothing they hadn’t covered. They made it there in a little over two hours with no enemy engagement. The rendezvous point was at an intersection. There was plenty of cover in the underbrush for them to wait for their ride out.
A pair of vans pulled over, and one of them got out from the passenger side. He was armed with an AK-47, and wore work pants and knee guards. A cap shadowed his face as he looked around their general direction. He spoke into the rolled down window to the driver.
“Think that’s them?” Roach asked.
“We’re about to find out. Cover me.” Ghost tentatively stood from his crouched position and emerged from the trees, making his presence known. His Russian was, well, rusty. “[You friends of Nikolai?]”
The Russian watched him approach like he was sizing him up. “You must be Ghost. He mentioned the mask.”
Ghost lowered his gun. “It’s bloody good to see you, mate.” He signaled his team and they all emerged from their hiding spots to join him.
One of the car doors opened on the opposite side, and with it, a voice Ghost hadn’t heard in nearly half a month exclaimed, “I can’t believe you guys made it out!” Scarab darted out in front of him, bright eyed and practically beaming. She then, with no warning whatsoever, hugged him. “You have no idea how worried I was about you guys.”
“Scarab,” Ghost acknowledged, albeit stiffly. He didn’t move his arms, let alone return her overly friendly greeting. “I see you’re doing well.”
“I’m doing a lot better, and should be ready to jump back in the action soon.” She stepped back, but then her attention landed square on the compression bandage around his arm. “Shit, you’re injured?”
“Eh. Yeah.” Come on, keep it professional. “It can wait. We need to get out of here.”
“Is anybody else hurt? We did bring a medic,” Scarab said.
“Nobody else is. Now get the van.”
They loaded up and rolled out. Through sheer poor luck though, Ghost ended up sitting beside Scarab. She didn’t need to do much of anything, just her proximity to him made his skin crawl. It was a good thing he kept his face covered most of the time, because he made all manner of grimaces and she remained none the wiser. He caught himself scrutinizing her from behind his shades, picking her apart all over again from her warm brown hair to the shape of her petite nose.
She was pretty, sure. No denying that. But come on. What did MacTavish see in her? Had to be the tits.
Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair to her. After all, it was kinda MacTavish’s fault for opening the door and letting her in with her romantic advances. She didn’t even know he was taken, much less by Ghost, so as far as she knew they were on perfectly fine terms. And MacTavish sounded certain that she was over him anyway after the Shepherd drama before, so really the problem was over with.
So what was with this nagging twinge in his gut?
"I take it Nikolai explained how I ended up with him?" Scarab at one point asked.
Ghost once again side eyed her. He knew what he saw out there when she'd gone missing. She lost a decent amount of blood, but she looked a lot better off than he expected. Maybe a little stiff, but not in any serious amounts of pain. "He did. You’re lucky, you know that?"
She smiled broadly, laughed even. "Yeah, it's a real wonder, isn't it? I played possum until they left, but I was so dizzy after that I didn't get very far. Apparently the Loyalists have an informant in Makarov’s inner circle who told Nikolai I was out there, so he rescued me.”
“Why didn’t you activate your emergency transponder like you were told?”
The blood and her smile vanished from her face. “I thought I did…”
“If you had, we would have been there to assist within minutes. We would have brought you back then and there, and it’s possible we could have rescued Heatstroke too. Instead we wasted valuable time staging a search just to find your vehicle.”
“I-I’m sorry. It all happened so fast, but I’m sure I—”
“Stop,” Ghost interrupted, and thankfully she did cut her line of excuses short. “This is something you should’ve learned in Basic. You’ve participated in plenty of drills and exercises. You know what that bloody box looks like, you know the button to press, don’t lie to my face saying you thought you did it. Every action counts in moments like that, and you made a mistake that got one of your teammates captured.”
On the bench across from him, Roach and a few of the others were doing their best not to seem like they were listening. Archer, on the other hand, watched intently.
“Ghost, seriously, I’m pretty sure I activated it,” she argued.
Only way she could’ve been telling the truth would be if that damn thing malfunctioned. “Do you still have it?”
She nodded and fished through her vest to slap the small device in his hand.
“You’d better not have switched this thing on Standby mode or I swear…” Ghost got to inspecting the emergency transponder, but it didn’t take him long to realize it wasn’t a simple matter of user error. This damn thing had a technical failure that prevented it from transmitting. He released a long, frustrated breath through his nose. “It’s defective.”
She nodded. “See? I told you—”
“I am still your superior officer, so don’t take that attitude up with me.”
Scarab balked and looked down at her lap. “... Right, sorry, Sir.”
Maybe he was being a bit of a dick, getting on her for the transponder like that.
… Nah, the odds of her getting the one faulty emergency transponder were low as hell. Like a lot of personnel equipment, those things were supposed to be durable and were regularly checked for faults. With luck like that, she’d better not ever buy a lottery ticket because she’d somehow get sacked for missing gambling taxes. How the hell was he supposed to know she’d be that damn unlucky? But also, admittedly, if it was Roach who had this problem (and he often did), Ghost probably wouldn’t have gone so hard on him.
The car soon stopped at the LZ and they all boarded the waiting Pave-Low. Ghost couldn’t get out of the van fast enough. Behind him, he heard Scarab say, “Boy, he seems really stressed.”
“Uh… I think he’s on day three of no smokes, so maybe give him a wide berth?” Roach told her.
Ghost did the one thing he could do, and that was sit with his hands clasped between his knees so he wouldn’t hit something. It’d be an over three hour flight time, and he had every intention of ignoring Scarab the whole way.
The rest of the team offered him space, but, of course, Scarab didn’t take Roach’s warning to heart. She moved in closer on the bench and after an infuriating minute of her hemming and hawing trying to start a conversation, she decided to jump to the question, “I take it you’ll be talking about this with the Captain too, huh?”
Provided MacTavish would still be around to chew her out for giving him lip. That was if he made it out of Afghanistan with a pulse. “That’s up in the air.”
Scarab lifted her chin, her face bemusedly pinched. “You’re not mad?”
Patience was a virtue and a fucking curse. Ghost bit down on his cheek and said, “He and Captain Price are going after Shepherd. If everything went well, they should already be enroute to the safe house.”
“Really? Shit, hope he’s okay.”
Ghost frowned to himself. There were happy lies everybody told themselves in times like this. It was easy to deny the inevitable, bargain with it like there was any changing the outcome. Ghost had been through it too many times to sing that song and dance. "Hope’s not going to get him out of this mess."
"What?" Scarab blinked and laughed again, her brows knitting. "Come on, Ghost, don't be like that. He'll be fine."
Oh, to be young and naive again. "I'm just being realistic. These PMCs aren't like anything we've been up against. They're highly trained and have all the funding they could ever want. They'll do anything to keep Shepherd alive."
"But still, this is the Captain. If anyone can pull it off, he can."
Ghost sighed. "It's a miracle we're alive right now."
“If the Captains can’t make it out, what happens next?” Roach asked.
“Makarov’s still out there, so as long as we can still fight, we need to carry on with the mission.” That’s right. This wouldn’t be the first time Ghost would have to assume command of whatever was left of the company. Granted, the last time, it was only until MacTavish recovered from an injury back in 2013 and they weren’t fugitives.
He’d had his stint of running from the authorities before. He had plenty of experience to fall back on to get him and the others through safely long enough for the truth to come out about what happened. They weren’t alone either, so that was a huge step in the right direction. If it came down to it, Ghost could lead them through.
Ghost didn’t have much to offer in the way of uplifting speeches. All he had was the objective.
What he didn’t expect though was for things to take a sudden, dramatic turn for the worse. Word came in from the Loyalists in India: Nikolai successfully got Price and MacTavish out of Afghanistan…
… MacTavish’s condition was critical.
Notes:
As we speak, I am sipping a rum and coke with way too much rum.
Ahem. Anyways, this was a cursed chapter in its original form. Remember how a million years ago Scarab dialed up Nikolai when she was wounded in the middle of nowhere, and he promptly saved her? Ghost pulled a similar thing in Plan B, because he miraculously didn't die from that point blank shot that was an instant kill in the game. We get such gems as:
**I wondered, am I dead? I was completely numb, and I felt absolutly nothing. If this was what being dead was like then I wanna go back to life!"**
**His hand reached for the mask and pulled it up off his face before finishing, "Shepard... Has one... Fucking... Suckish... Aim... And... Forgot... About my cellphone..."**
Either Scarab or Tatiana make mention of needing to get these two to a hospital, but this in no way occurs, because we cut to Scarab's POV and they're at the safe house. And somehow despite being burned alive, Roach and Ghost get away with no eyebrows and apparently their hair looking like they got buzz cuts???? Idk what went on in my kid brain.
Ghost proceeds to not stay in bed because... eh??? And Scarab lets him. They chat a bit, and then decide they'd like to listen in on Soap and Price. How, you might ask? By... *double checks* plugging Scarab's ear piece into a speaker....? I'm not tech savvy, but I don't think it works like that. They listen to the JLOT speech that Price gives and it ends on this stupid note:
**A minute or two later Soap then added, "For the Task Force."
"Right," Price replied. "For Ghost, Roach, and everyone else who died because of Shepard."
"For Scarab." I was near tears now hearing him say that. "Because she knew before any of us did. But we didn't listen."**
-__________-; Words cannot express how big yet fragile my ego was in middle school.At any rate, that's all for this installment. Remember, drink plenty of water and stay safe! Much love! <3
Chapter 24: Hell's Coming with Me
Summary:
Summary of Chapters 45 and 46
45. Just Like Old Times
46. Ghost checks out dead people. Endgame. Scarab revealed.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Thirty Minutes Prior, Site Hotel Bravo
Sandstorms had been battering the Maidan Wardak Province since late that morning, the perfect cover for infiltrating the repurposed base. They eliminated an enemy patrol, rappelled down, killed the guards at the mouth of the tunnel system, and made their way in. It wouldn’t be for another few minutes until the Shadow Company personnel caught onto their presence.
The decryption code worked like a charm too, something Soap had worried about on their way in. Being able to listen in on the enemy radio traffic was a game changer. They had all the warning they could ever want, making maneuvering the first few junctions a breeze. In their wake, they left behind a growing trail of bodies.
Once they reached the steam room, things started getting hairy. The lights went out, save for the red glow of the emergency lights, and the PMCs breached the room through a cave wall. As the Shadow Company team stormed the room to hunt them down, Soap threw a flashbang towards the bright mouth of their improvised entrance and took cover behind a weapons rack. The stun grenade popped off, stalling the encroaching enemies in that bottlenecked space. He and Price mowed down five or six of them before they got their bearings and took cover.
“They’re here! Open fire!” One shouted.
“Stay frosty. Hunt them down!”
Soap and Price routed the remaining team and continued the way they came in, onto a catwalk along the side of a cliff face. It overlooked the desert scenery and a road in the distance. Assorted aircrafts rushed by, their engines roaring against the wind. Tailing behind two jets was a UAV, its operator reported their location.
“Disciple Nine, your rear guard just flatlined!”
“Not possible. We just cleared that area. Nobody’s that good, Oxi—”
“It’s Price.” Shepherd’s gravelly voice made the hair on the back of MacTavish’s neck stand. He was really here. Makarov’s intel was legit. It begged the question: what other tabs did he have on them? “Backup priority items and burn the rest. Fireteams, just delay ‘em until we’re ready to pull out.”
The clock was ticking.
“Grab a riot shield, we’ll need cover out here,” Price said.
Soap nodded and swapped out his sniper rifle for one of the riot shields left propped by an ammo crate. He took point along the catwalk, which snaked around the outcrop and led to a rickety old bridge. Another swarm of black clad PMCs arrived on the far side to intercept them. Soap stepped out on the bridge, gritting his teeth as its boards sank beneath his boots.
The first bullets clipped the shield's face. No time to worry about the bridge’s structural integrity. He strafed across at an angle to keep the shield between himself and the enemy. Once across, the threat he posed as he encroached on them drew their fire off of Price, who hung back and shot at them.
Through the chipped shield, Soap watched the final guy’s eyes widen with alarm. He retreated up the steps, shot about three more rounds before his mag emptied, and fumbled for his sidearm. Soap charged him and knocked him backwards with the shield, right over the low lip of the railing. His scream carried up the ravine as he fell.
Immediate threat eliminated, Price got up from his prone position and ran to catch up. He didn’t pay the unstable bridge any mind. They arrived at what the radio traffic indicated to be the “crow’s nest,” this roost in the cliff face before it led back into the mountain. Enemy helicopters flew in and air-dropped another squadron of troops to support the ones there.
“Butcher One-Five, rendezvous at the nest and prepare to escort Gold Eagle to the LZ.”
“Gold Eagle must be Shepherd,” Price spat. “We’re running out of time. Let’s go!”
They engaged the troops ahead of them, some of whom carried riot shields. That hardly slowed them down as they punched through and headed deeper into the cave system. A fresh wave of Shadow Company soldiers either came running in or rappelled through an opening in the cave ceiling. They formed a line and popped smoke to further stall them.
“They’re using thermals through the smoke!”
“Always something.” Soap picked up one of the abandoned thermal scoped rifles by a sandbag wall. He crouched down behind it and popped off a few of them when he noticed the distinct weirdness through the scope that was hands poking out from around migrating cover. More riot shields? Jesus fucking Christ, they had enough of those damn things kicking around to arm six or seven police forces.
“They’re digging in, Shepherd must be close! We have to break through!” Price crouched down behind some crates. “I’ll draw their fire through the smoke! Watch for flanking routes!”
Soap ducked back down. Bullets whizzed over his head and pocked the cave wall, one he felt graze through the top of his mohawk. He wasn’t exactly in the best position. This stupid scrap of cover was in no way big enough.
There was a side tunnel that looked like it snaked to the left. He could make it there if he sprinted. “I’m breaking to the right.”
“I’ll cover you, go!”
Soap scrambled to his feet and rushed towards that tunnel. Just as he’d hoped, it opened up to the opposite side of the chamber and there was some better cover here. He tossed a grenade behind two riot shield toting troops.
“Frag, get back!” One of the Shadow Company guys rushed in to throw it away (towards Price, he assumed), but the grenade went off and sent him flying backwards. The blast knocked the two riot shield troops down on their faces.
‘Course, when Soap opened fire on them, this remaining bunch of enemies were divided between him and Price. Pay too much attention to one and the other popped ‘em off. By the time the smoke dissipated, all hostiles were neutralized.
“Oxide, Butcher Five-Actual. I’ve got a severed det cord - we’re gonna need ten mikes to get the trunk rigged, and the EBC primed, over.”
“Negative, Gold Eagle wants those charges hot in less than three mikes. Get it done, out.”
Price ran across the chamber, over the littered dead and weapons. Soap hurried after him, towards a doorway. One of the Shadow Company troops saw them coming and threw the metal door shut.
“They’ve sealed the control room. Get a frame charge on the door,” Price said.
Soap pressed the frame charge to the door. Once Price got into position, he clicked the detonator and whipped into the room. He had that room cleared in literal seconds, so fast he barely processed where all these guys were standing. One ran up to stab him, but was almost immediately shot in the face.
The control room was loaded with C4 and barrels of explosive material, wires snaking over every scrap of equipment. The huge blast resistant doors past all the terminals slid and locked shut with a resounding click.
“All units, be advised, this is Gold Eagle. The site has been compromised. I am executing directive One-One-Six Bravo. If you’re still inside, your service will be honored. Shepherd out.”
He really didn’t care. “Jesus…”
The monitors flashed with a countdown. 20 seconds.
Price ran past him to one computer. “Override the door controls! Hurry!”
Soap shook himself out of his momentary shock and made a beeline for one terminal. For a split second, he hesitated, like he’d been asked to throw codes on a Cyrillic keyboard all over again. He should know this. He did know this.
16 seconds.
Focus. He clicked several keys to access the controls to the doors and input the command to unlock it. From the corner of his eye, he saw it slide open again.
“Run!” Price hurried out the doors. Soap’s legs moved on their own, the uneven, rocky ground pounding beneath him. “Keep moving! This place is gonna blow!”
The first explosions echoed off the cave walls. Rocks fell from the ceiling. The way out was ahead. They were almost there! More explosions ripped the sides of the surrounding tunnel, shooting plumes of dust and rocks in all directions. There was a gust of heat and fire, and the shock wave launched Soap off his feet.
…!
His ears were ringing, his body awash with the most passive aggressive soreness he’d felt in a long time. Gunfire and shouting rumbled beneath the monotonous ringing of his ears.
Shepherd’s voice in his earpiece cut through the haze. “Excalibur, this is Gold Eagle. Fire mission - target package Romeo - danger close.”
Soap’s eyes rolled open, his vision fuzzy. He was on his side, his cheek pressed to the coarse sand. Ahead of him, Price was engaged with a collective of enemies around what looked to be a vehicle depot.
“That’s within a hundred meters of your position, sir!”
“That’s not a suggestion, send it!”
“Roger, fire mission danger close!”
Soap pushed himself off the ground, only for Price to haul him up the rest of the way so they could avoid the rain of artillery fire that ripped the area apart. The air was acrid with smoke and gunpowder, the devastation immense. PMCs littered the depot, either dead or close to it, callously sacrificed in the name of helping Shepherd escape.
Even if these people were a terrifying group of mercenaries, that Shepherd treated them so disposable was sickening.
“Since when does Shepherd care about danger close…” Price patted his shoulder and got up from cover. “You alright?”
“Yeah, just…” Soap got to his feet and took a deep breath. He definitely hit his head. Even bending down to pick up his rifle brought about a stab of pain down his neck. “I can keep going, don’t worry.”
Price nodded and led the way through the maze of irreparable vehicles and burning bodies. “Let’s go. Stay close and follow me.”
Up ahead, a pair of helicopters hovered and dropped in more Shadow Company troops. Soap spotted an AT4 by a stack of net covered crates that were still intact after the firebombing, and so shot down the first chopper before it could finish unloading its chalk. The other started to fly away, but he spun on his heels and launched the next projectile without missing a beat. The aircraft burst into flames and spun out, crashing against the side of the mountain.
“Sir, sandstorm activity is picking up here. It’s too risky for flight ops.”
“Understood. Head for the tunnel. We’ll take the Zodiacs.”
The last bunch of enemies were defending the entrance to a tunnel. Between how many teams of these guys they’d gone through and Shepherd’s callous disregard for their lives over killing off Soap and Price, resistance between them and the mouth of that tunnel was about as durable as plywood. They raced down the sloping ground, barely illuminated by standing lamps.
Down they went, pushing through Shadow Company troops as they’d fall behind to stall them. Rushing of water echoed off the walls up ahead, ambient beneath the gunfire and frantic chatter. Round the bend, the tunnel opened up into a cave. Soap caught the briefest glimpse of Shepherd’s beret as the zodiac revved up and sped off. He fired his Mini Ozi at it, but it continued to rush away.
There were still more boats docked. He and Price ran down the catwalk and jumped in one, and Soap started the engine. They lurched forward so fast that Price had to catch his hat before it flew off his head, and zipped through the tight caves with— SHIT!
Soap ducked before one of the rusted pipes would have clocked him upside the head. They entered a ravine and there was gunfire and RPGs flying. He dodged the worst of it, but those guys didn’t look to be from Shadow Company. Price shifted in the boat to return fire and launch a few grenades their way, blowing up a Technical that’d pulled up on the river bank.
Chasing Shepherd led them to a lake where more Zodiacs and helicopters came after them. Soap weaved in and around the burnt orange rock formations that stood out along the water, never taking his eyes off the back of Shepherd’s boat. The mini guns and RPGs fired in every direction, but never quite meeting their mark. Then it was over the rapids. Soap had no choice but to cut their speed or else be capsized. Water splashed up into their boat, and rocks jarred them left and right, nearly spun them backwards even. Shepherd’s boat fared little better but still kept a small lead on them.
An enemy Zodiac bounced clear over theirs and crashed on a rock ahead of them. Soap swerved around their overturned boat and reached calm enough waters to slam the engine back on. Once again, though, the distance between them and Shepherd was growing.
“Avatar One, gimme a sitrep, over!” Shepherd demanded.
“I have Warhorse 5-1 standing by. Pave Low’s downriver, sir.”
“Copy that! Warhorse 5-1, be advised, we’re coming in hot!”
“Roger - droppin’ the hatch. Keep it above 30 knots and watch the vertical clearance.”
Shepherd’s boat drove up the ramp into a Pave-Low’s hangar. The helicopter raised off the churning water and flew away.
Price looked back and shouted over the water and wind, “Soap! Hold it steady!”
Soap put the boat in reverse and fought to keep it as still as he could against the river’s current. Even so, they kept dragging forward. The helicopter, though, didn’t escape. It came to a hover and banked back to escape the encroaching sandstorm.
This was it. Price fired three times, each shot reverberated in the ravine. On the third shot, the rotor blew, and the helicopter spun out with a thick trail of smoke. Price dropped his gun to look out over the edge of the boat and flagged him. “Back up! Back up!”
The engine couldn’t crank any harder! The river was too strong, and it was too late to do anything. It dragged them over the edge of a waterfall. Soap grabbed the raft for dear life as the water’s choppy surface rushed up to smack him. He hit with such force that it knocked the air from his chest. The waterfall sent him tumbling end over end, white foam and bubbles making it impossible to tell what way was up.
He didn’t remember if he swam to shore or if he washed up, only that he ended up on his back in the sand, his lungs and sinuses burning. He tried to breathe, but instead gurgled. His body jolted as water bubbled from his lips. Panic set in and he rolled over on his belly, coughing up water and retching. Everything hurt, like he’d been slapped by a giant and shoved in the dirt. Hot tears streamed down his already wet face.
… Shepherd… He needed to confirm the kill…. Helicopter didn’t crash from high enough to be sure.
That full body ache only worsened when he tried to stand. His muscles were like putty and threatened to give out as he staggered towards the crackling wreckage with his knife in hand. He could barely see the glow of the flames through the sandstorm until he came closer. Its steel hull was mangled, the blades twisting in all directions. The pilots were thrown from the wreckage, not quite dead, but not long for this world either. One of them tried to shoot him, but his gun clicked over and over.
Something cracked and screeched from the helicopter’s side. Soap shuffled towards the sound when Shepherd emerged from the crash, limping and holding his side. The General spotted him and ran ahead into the storm.
Couldn’t make this easy?
Soap chased Shepherd down into the bustling dust cloud, his arms out for balance. The General had stopped at the shell of an old car and leaned against its frame, cradling his side. Once again, Soap came close to tumbling, but caught himself on the front of the car.
The General looked over at him. “You know what they say about revenge? You better be ready to dig two graves…”
Coughing, Soap pushed himself upright once more. He wasn’t in any good shape for a fight, but then again, neither was Shepherd. He raised his arm to stab him, but Shepherd caught his arm and grabbed him by the back of his neck. With a surprising amount of strength, Shepherd slammed his head against the roof of the car.
Soap fell back, dazed. Above him, Shepherd drew a knife of his own and just about threw his entire weight down to drive that thing into Soap’s chest. It was like a sharp punch; it knocked the wind out of him. No scream, just a wheezing rush of air. He scowled and screwed his eyes shut. His inclination was to take deep breaths, but that was agony.
“Five years ago, I lost thirty thousand men in the blink of an eye, and the world just fucking watched,” Shepherd said.
Soap moaned and opened his eyes. Shepherd loomed over him, emptying and reloading a Magnum with a pair of bullets.
“Tomorrow, there will be no shortage of volunteers. No shortage of patriots.” Shepherd aimed the gun at him and locked the hammer. “I know you understand.”
He pulled the trigger. The barrel barely rotated when Price rushed in and tackled Shepherd. The gun fired somewhere beside Soap. Price and Shepherd fought over the gun, but Price kicked it out of Shepherd’s hand. It skittered across the ground.
One round left. Soap turned on his side and dragged himself towards the revolver. In trying to crawl, the handle of the knife scraped the ground, jarred deeper, pushed dirt in the wound. Soap coughed a mouthful of blood on the sand. Price fell in front of him just as Soap wrapped his fingers around the pistol’s barrel.
Shepherd kicked it from his hand and stomped on his face.
Soap faded in and out of consciousness, only loosely able to follow Price and Shepherd’s brawl. Price was no slouch, but Shepherd caught his second wind and dodged a right hook. That was when he overpowered Price, kicked him to the ground so he could climb atop him and wail on him. Each heavy punch knocked Price’s head from side to side as he tried to defend himself to no avail. Shepherd was just gonna beat him to a bloody pulp.
Soap looked back to the black handle sticking straight outta his chest, his vision hazy.
Time to return Shepherd’s knife….
His fingers twitched as he lifted his hand to grab the knife. That bit of contact alone shot pain through him like an electrical current. He gasped and gripped tighter, and slowly pulled it up from his flesh. Blood gushed out from around the blade. The wound gave resistance, like it was trying to suck it back in. He took it in both hands, groaning.
Get it out.
Get it out.
Get. It. Out .
Some guttural and furious slur of nonsense dragged from the deepest part of his sore throat. With one last desperate pull, it came free.
He spun the blade around in his fingers and lifted his arm. “Shepherd…” As the General lifted his head, Soap lobbed the knife at him. It spun and buried itself deep into his eye socket, into his brain. With a spray of blood, Shepherd fell backwards, half laying over Price’s motionless body.
Soap stared at Price, his vision going dim as his blood seeped into the sand beneath him. The sandstorm raging past with its wind whistling in his ears. A sense of calm washed over him. They did it. Jesus, they fucking did it.
This was the end, wasn’t it? He’d hemorrhage and die out here, cold in the middle of a desert. Probably go straight to hell where sinners like him belonged.
Ghost, I hope you can forgive me….
Price coughed. Soap had been seconds away from passing out, but this made him hang on just a little longer. Like Price had just woke from the dead, he lifted his head and continued hacking when he noticed Shepherd’s corpse on top of him. He threw Shepherd’s leg off and rolled over. His head dangled from his shoulders briefly before he looked up at him. Bruises already began to mottle his eyes black and blue, and blood speckled his beard and lips.
“Soap…” Price rasped. He stumbled towards him. “Soap…!”
He was alive…. Soap made an airy, miserable sound that almost passed for a chuckle before his head hit the ground and he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.
He listened to the snapping and ripping of dressing as Price tried to stabilize the injury. But a new sound became clear over the sandstorm; chopper blades cutting the air on descent.
Soap gazed blankly at the Little Bird that landed nearby.
“It’ll hold for now. Come on, get up,” Price said and propped Soap up onto his shoulder. Being vertical really, really didn’t do him any favors. He was dizzy, his feet dragging and numb. Most of his weight was on his CO. Price raised a hand against the flying sand and squinted as Nikolai hopped out of the cockpit. “I thought I told you this was a one-way trip!”
“Looks like it still is. They’ll be looking for us, you know.”
Soap’s legs gave out, and Nikolai hurried to support him from his other side. Warmth seeped down his chest beneath his clothes.
“Nikolai, we gotta get Soap outta here…”
“Da - I know a place.”
Together, they loaded Soap in the back of that Little Bird. Price went on a tear through the trauma kit, trying to staunch the bleeding. Red stained his jacket, which he threw off and bunched up to make a cushion beneath Soap’s head. “Come on, stay with me, son.”
Everything sounded like he was submerged in water. He coughed again, but it hurt like nothing else he’d ever felt, worse than the knife going in or even pulling it back out. Soap pressed his head back into the makeshift pillow, a zipper tag dug into his scalp.
Price opened Soap’s jacket to better access the wound, pressed down with thick wads of gauze. “Don’t close your eyes, you understand? Nikolai, how far is it?!”
“It’ll take an hour—”
“He doesn’t have an hour!”
“You’re going to have to keep him alive until we get there. I can call one of our medics, she can talk you through this.”
There was a lot of shouting, that much Soap remembered distinctly well. A constant pleading for him to stay awake amid the pain and harsh ringing that settled in his ears. Price went between that and receiving instructions over the radio. Basic first aid was mandatory training, but even all that got you so far in a situation like this.
Rule One of being stabbed, don’t remove the object. Nothing was there to plug the wound, keep the bleeding under control. He probably damaged things worse when he ripped it out. Then again, he knew what he was doing. He didn’t expect to live even this long. That he was still remotely conscious was a wonder to him.
God, he was tired.
Despite being awake, most of that flight was a blur. The order of events stopped making any sense. Price asked him questions, and Soap struggled to answer. He may have told Price something that he was pretty sure were last requests, but Price insisted he shut up and put that energy towards staying alive.
Like he wasn’t fighting every damn second…
When they eventually landed, Price and Nikolai loaded him on a stretcher and rushed him through the streets. Soap’s pulse throbbed in his ears, faster than it should’ve been. They say when you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes, but in that moment all Soap’s head conjured was Price. Probably ‘cause this man was yelling over him. Still, he devoted a lot to his captain over the years, trusted him more than a lot of other people.
In some sad way, he felt like a second father. He opened up to Price about things he never would’ve expressed to his very Catholic dad.
Dad… How the hell would he take the news? And Bridget?
“He needs help now!”
A stranger in a white apron rushed up to him, but his face was indiscernible.
His heart stopped.
Notes:
And with this chapter we *finally* conclude MW2's campaign. We now move onto the portion of the program that heavily focuses on Plan B's stinky concept of what MW3 would look like, which was obviously way off. The bright side about rewriting this over a decade later is that we've had the third installment for a while now, so I can use it to give the next portion the structure it desperately needs.
Growing up, I was a huge fan of Endgame. Used to play it all the time. It's a little stupid how well I have some of this dialogue memorized. That being said, I believe I mentioned that I was watching videos of the remaster in order to write some of these missions. I didn't for this part because Endgame felt... weird? I guess? Idk how to put it. There's a lot that the remaster does so well, I love the added PC noises for example, but there's something so visceral about the original when Soap yanks that knife out. And Price just looks a little... eh.... And Nikolai.... What'd they do to my boy? Not only was he redubbed (for just that line? I never noticed a difference in his earlier dialogue) but they also completely changed his model.
That being said, there's a specific change I made from Plan B to this. Plan B includes all of Shepherd's mini speech at Soap in the middle of the sandstorm, the revenge one. I ended up just having him say the first part. I wanted to include more, and I considered having Soap respond in some way, but I just couldn't make that dialogue work. It didn't feel right, so I stuck to that first line.Alright, until next time, stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 25: Aftershock
Summary:
Summary of Chapter 47a
47a. Soap wakes in safehouse, panics. Gets doped up.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Death was an occupational hazard for a soldier, one Ghost assumed he’d come to terms with. MacTavish went after Shepherd knowing full well that he might die in the process, and Ghost in turn braced himself for the news that he was killed in action. If he was ready for it, then he could carry on with a degree of functionality.
He wasn’t prepared to hear that MacTavish was wounded and dying . Instead of the news being quick, the details and developments were drawn out like the slow ripping of his skin off his back. Whilst the medic, Sgt. Tatiana Morozov, sequestered herself to one end of the heli’s cabin to talk Captain Price through first aid, Ghost listened over the radio like a bystander to a seven car pile-up on the motorway. Mortified but too engrossed to take off his headset.
A perversely morbid urge kept him listening, in case MacTavish died. Like an itch, the thought needled beneath his skull, that if he stopped listening, that would be when it happened. As long as he kept torturing himself, it’d draw out longer and longer and eventually get better. Absurd, superstitious nonsense.
They nearly lost him twice before Ghost’s team could even reach India. Sudden cardiac arrest from severe blood loss. Damage to his lung and an artery. The Loyalists scrambled to keep him alive. A field doctor began emergency surgery as soon as he arrived in order to close the wound, but the extent of the damage was worse than anticipated, and it needed to be flushed of dirt.
“Hey, Ghost? Are you alright?” Roach asked him, quietly so as to not be overheard by the rest of the team.
No. His insides were in knots. Ghost broke his staring match with the floor to push up his sunglasses. “I’m not the one you should be worried about.”
“I know….”
Then Sgt. Morozov addressed everyone in the helicopter. “Is anyone either O Positive or O Negative?”
Direct donation. Warped as it might have sounded to civilians, soldiers served the lesser known function of being walking blood banks. If Ghost could have, he would have gladly volunteered. He was AB Positive. The universal receiver. Utterly useless in this situation.
Scarab spoke up, “I’m O Positive, I could—”
“No. You’re still recovering from your injuries.” Tatiana shot her down before she could even finish.
Scarab’s jaw dropped, and she immediately protested, “But he could die! If I were dying, he’d do it for me!”
Ghost glowered at her, fighting the mounting urge to snap. Of course MacTavish would’ve volunteered to donate if it came up — he had before — he’d do that for any of them! Scarab was in no way a special case as far as his compassion was concerned.
All the same, the medic didn’t relent. “If I took blood from you, it could affect the healing process. I’m sorry, Pvt. Macey, but you are not eligible.”
Scarab’s face fell, and she sank in her seat. Crestfallen, she folded her arms over her chest and sulked.
Roach cleared his throat. “I can.”
“Same here,” Ozone added.
From the cockpit, one of the pilots said something in Russian. He also had O Positive blood, at least that’s what it sort of sounded like. Ghost’s conversational Ukrainian was gonna be both a blessing and a curse, he could already tell.
Sgt. Morozov responded with a definite uplift in her voice, “As soon as we land, I will need you three to come with me. We need to move fast,” she said.
Miraculously, MacTavish survived long enough for them to arrive at the safehouse late that evening. Just long enough to receive a life saving blood transfusion that upped his chances by a not so insignificant margin. It got him through surgery.
Sleeping bags and even a few cots were made available to Ghost and the rest of his team, and an ex-Spetsnaz Private doled out MREs. Ghost made sure the others were taken care of — Scarab was still sulking — but then left to meander through the safehouse. The place was run down and shabby, but clearly the Loyalists were making steady progress at fixing it up. Tool boxes and lumber sat in piles alongside paint cans. The banister was so new that it still smelled of lacquer. Upstairs was a little smaller, a hallway that branched off into a bunch of rooms.
Ghost could only tell which one was MacTavish’s by the steady beeping of medical equipment. The couple of guards stationed in the hall didn’t stop him from opening the door. On the contrary, they seemed to understand his intentions.
The room was dimly lit by a single ceiling lamp and the color coded lines that danced on the vitals monitor. A slightly elevated but steady heart rate beeped along, lower than normal oxygen, low blood pressure. Beneath the display was MacTavish in a stretcher, much of his layers discarded with the exception of a mutilated black tee shirt and grungy camouflage BDU pants. A thin pale blanket had been hastily thrown over him, but its presence was an exercise in futility, as it ended up bunched at his waist.
Sat in a metal folding chair beside the stretcher was Price. His face was partly swollen, and heavily bruised. A few butterfly closures kept a cut on his temple shut, and his lip sported a beefy scab where it must’ve split. Without even looking Ghost’s way, he uttered, “Here for that second punch?”
Ghost stopped dead in his tracks. “... Looks like someone already beat me to it.”
Price chuffed and got out a cigar from his shirt pocket. He opened the door to the balcony, with the full moon hanging over the brim of his hat, and held the cigar in his teeth while he lit it. “Mm. I’ll put you on the waiting list then.”
“You’ve been outta the gulag for a few days and you already got a bloody queue?”
“Yeah. If I buy you a lager when this all blows over, can we call it even?”
“Make it bourbon and you’ve got yourself a deal.” Ghost leaned against the wall beside the stretcher so he could get a better look at MacTavish. They hadn’t even bothered cleaning the blood off of him, let alone the copious iodine stains. There were other injuries too, hastily dressed in red and white dressing. His eye sockets were dark beneath the shadow of his brow, giving the illusion that they were empty. “What’d the doctor say?”
Price didn’t answer right away, just stared down at the line where the discolored wall met the scuffed floor. The faintest glint of moisture collected in his blackened eye. He sniffed and puffed on his cigar. “It’s very touch and go at the moment. He’s not gonna survive if we don’t get him to a hospital, but moving him’s going to be difficult.”
It wasn’t surprising, but all the same Ghost felt an upset twinge in response. He should’ve been thankful that MacTavish lived even this long, that there was still a life left to save. This felt less and less like a miracle by the hour and more like a cruel joke. The punchline would be that despite all the blood, sweat, and tears, MacTavish may very well die regardless. “He’s not outta the woods yet.”
“No.” Price exhaled a plume of white smoke. “Dr. Bulganin is going to try and get him a bed in the hospital in Haripur. He knows the director there.”
Ghost nodded. It just wasn’t gonna stop, was it?
“Ghost?”
It then occurred to him that his hands were curled into fists at his sides. He took a deep breath and folded his arms. “Yeah?”
“You ought to get some rest. We’ll be sure to get you when we plan on moving him.”
“Fine.” Ghost stepped off from the wall and left him. Despite knowing he needed to rest, he wandered the safehouse on autopilot. Must’ve circled those halls two, maybe three times. He felt dizzy, and yet disconnected from himself. People talked to him, but he couldn’t remember the conversation as soon as it was over.
He must’ve run into Sgt. Morozov somewhere in that time, because next he knew she was attending to the bullet wound in his arm. He’d stopped feeling the injury during all the chaos, but now it was a throbbing numbness. Local anesthesia.
It’d been a long time since he dissociated that hard.
She cleared her throat to get his attention.
Ghost glanced down at her, hunched over his arm as she prodded around in the wound with a pair of forceps. “Sorry, what?”
“Where are you from?” She asked.
She must’ve been making small talk then. Ghost was slow to answer. “England. Manchester.”
“Oh. Is it nice there?”
“Not really.”
“Ah.”
“Yourself?”
“Me? Nizhny Novgorod.”
One of the largest cities in Russia; it’d been hit hard during their civil war. It was no wonder what she was doing here then. “Must’ve been rough.”
“Yes. Rough.” She bandaged the wound and splinted his arm. “We will need to monitor this for infection before it can be fully closed. You are lucky the bullet didn’t sever any arteries.”
“Thanks. So I should make a full recovery?”
“Chances are good, yes. I am sure Sgt. Bulganin can take a look once he’s finished with your friend.” She packed away her tools and smiled politely. "Let me know if the pain becomes a problem, and check with me tomorrow."
He agreed to and broke off to return to the wing that'd been sectioned off as the barracks, intending to lie down at the very least. Once he arrived, he was met by a familiar throng of men, one of whom slapped him on the back.
"Ghost! Did you see that medic?"
"Gator?" He wasn’t part of his team. Come to think of it, most of these guys who approached him weren’t. They were aboard the USS Dallas, last he knew. When did they get here?
“Sup, Lieutenant.” Gator’s dense brows pushed together. “Hey, you doing alright? You’re looking a little out of it.”
“I just need sleep,” he told him. They must've arrived at the safehouse earlier. Now that he thought about it, he had the vaguest recollection of talking to them before. “And yes, I saw the medic.”
“Oh, good,” Hannibal replied and leaned in to add, “Dude, can you believe how hot she is? Where the hell did they pick up a chick like that?”
“Nizhny Novgorod,” Ghost deadpanned.
Hannibal stared at him and traced his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “Gazoontite.”
“It’s a city, bonehead,” Poet grumbled.
“Oh. Say, you didn’t happen to get her digits too, did you?”
Ghost rolled his eyes and promptly excused himself from the conversation to at last retire in one of the laid out sleeping bags. That musty thing was better as a mat, because it was too bloody hot and humid to sleep under anything. Using his jacket as a pillow, he made himself almost comfortable and crashed within minutes.
Restless dreams bled into the first morning light, when he awoke to the safehouse in a panic. Not only did more of the scattered remains of the 141 arrive, so too did Makarov’s henchmen. Enemy helicopters were inbound. The safehouse exploded with activity. Ghost didn’t waste time. He grabbed Roach and a rifle with low recoil, then hurried upstairs to help Price.
On their way into the room, a Loyalist ran past them. Inside, Price and Nikolai watched over the doctor as he intently prepped MacTavish for what was shaping up to be a hasty exfil.
“What’s the plan?” Ghost asked.
“We need to hold them off until we can move Soap,” Price said. “How’s your arm?”
Ghost opened and closed his hand, the tendons in his forearm giving a fresh stab of pain. “I can shoot.”
Fingers latched onto his sleeve. MacTavish looked up at him with blown out pupils and a string of bloodied spit hanging off his lips. “Si-imo—” He coughed and dropped his head back down on the table, his teeth gritted through a few crackling breaths.
The bitterest smile played beneath Ghost’s mask. “Mornin’, John.”
“Just rest, son,” Price said. He then asked the doctor, “Can’t you work any faster?”
“If we are not cautious, he will start bleeding again.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Nikolai insisted. The door then opened and he waved the newcomer in. “Yuri! Yuri, over here!”
The man that came to join them, Yuri, was what some might call awkwardly middle-aged. The decades didn’t make him look dignified or wisened, just generally worse. The standard military shaved head didn’t do him any favors either; if anything he resembled a sleep deprived tuber. And what was with the gang tats up his forearms? Did they extend past where his sleeves rolled at the elbows?
Who in the hell was this guy?
Outside, a low flapping noise became steadily louder. They all turned to the far wall just as a whole ass fucking helicopter punched a hole through it, sending Ghost stumbling backwards into Roach. Others either fell completely over or to their knees. The aircraft slipped free and crashed into the courtyard, taking a bunch of the wall with it.
“We need to buy the doctor some time,” Price shouted. “Keep your eyes on the courtyard.”
They took up positions as hostiles breached the front gate and swarmed inside the perimeter, only to be met by heavy resistance. Ghost knelt by the hole in the wall, taking down enemies as they entered, that is until smoke popped.
“Bollocks,” Ghost swore under his breath. Another helicopter came flying their way. “Enemy bird! Get down!”
Its machine gun spooled up. Roach shouted and tackled the doctor over as a spray of heavy duty rounds carved a fat line up the wall where he’d just been standing. Moments later, an RPG launched from the courtyard and struck the helicopter’s undercarriage, sending it careening off course.
“You alright, mate?” Roach asked, helping the doctor to his feet.
“Da, da,” he breathed. “Is too dangerous to continue here. We need to leave, now!”
Nikolai’s voice edged with alarm, “Can we move him?”
The doctor looked down at MacTavish as he still writhed in pain on the gurney. “We will have to.” He reached for a syringe and injected it into his arm.
With a loud crack, the door flew open and one of Makarov’s goons tried to storm inside. Price wrestled him towards the wall and shot him with his pistol. “They’re on the roof. We’ve gotta get Soap to the chopper.”
“I got him!” Nikolai took MacTavish by the arm and heaved him up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. MacTavish made a scratchy sound like a dying cat and futility pushed at Nikolai’s side before going limp.
Price jammed his pistol back into its holster and readied his rifle again. “Ghost, Roach, cover them. Yuri, you’re with me.”
While Price and Yuri stormed ahead, Ghost and Roach stayed back to guard Nikolai, MacTavish, and the doctor as they went through the screaming hell that became the village. Loyalists and 141 operatives alike took to either helping civilians escape, or covering them so they could make a run for it. The Loyalists had contingencies in place to escape en masse as soon as they could. They’d reconvene at another of their bases, somewhere Nikolai only loosely referred to as “the farm.”
The big problem was the drone that kept making bombing runs on their asses. The solution? A UGV.
… Words could not begin to express the weapons envy Ghost had in that moment. This rag-tag bunch of displaced Russians got their hands on all manner of goodies. Shit even Shepherd rarely let them play with because he struggled to get the funding.
And boy, was that RC tank a little beastie, how it tore through the enemy line with a mini gun and grenade launcher. Yuri was one lucky bastard for getting to operate it. And when it appeared over the ledge to cover them on their last push to the chopper? Ghost might’ve been in love.
That is until the fucking drone flew by and bombed the shit out of it.
Better to have loved and lost, they say. Ghost climbed on the edge of the Little Bird while they waited for Yuri to catch up. The drone made another pass and blew the platform apart, sending it and Yuri rolling down the cliff. They took off to search for him, assuming there was much to find.
All things considered, that guy should’ve been very dead. He slid down a slope amid crumbling buildings, fell tens of meters down into a raging river, and washed up a bit downstream. Against the odds, he limped away with only bruises and scrapes, a level of bullshit hardiness he’d only ever seen in Roach up to this point.
“Who the bloody hell’s Yuri,” MacTavish mumbled and reached up for something to grab and pull himself up.
“Stay down.” Dr. Bulganin pressed down on his shoulder to keep him lying flat. “You do not want to open the wound again.”
MacTavish's chest rose and fell with a few audibly painful deep breaths before they became shallow and uneven. The heel of his boot scraped against the metal ground at Ghost’s side, unable to keep still.
“You will be alright, just do not try to move.” As the doctor spoke, he prepped a needle and cleaned some of the dirt off his arm with an alcohol wipe. “That’s it. I am giving you morphine to help with the pain, okay?”
Not much of a dose. Must’ve been worried about his heart giving out again. Ghost scooted off the bench and into the cabin. “Would propping him up help any?”
“Da. He just shouldn’t move or he will open the seal.”
With a little careful maneuvering, Ghost situated himself directly behind MacTavish so he could lean against him. The new position seemed to alleviate some of the strain on his chest wall and was all around more comfortable. MacTavish’s hair prickled through the fabric around Ghost’s throat.
As the morphine kicked in, MacTavish spoke through airy breaths. “I got such great mates… You know that? I love you guys…”
Price reached back and patted MacTavish on the arm. “We know, son.” He glanced at Ghost from beneath the brim of his hat with a bemused snort.
Ghost lowered his mask down to his chin to mouth to Price, “Has he been saying this a lot?”
Price nodded. “This morning.”
Welp, at least the morphine was working, if nothing else. Ghost fixed his mask and returned his hand to where it’d been by his side. It was then MacTavish clumsily knitted his fingers in with Ghost’s, or tried to at least, his pinkie and ring fingers were loose. A feeble smile tugged lightly at the corners of Ghost’s lips.
They flew west-southwest for a few hours, before eventually landing to refuel. There’d been a lot of radio chatter along the way, but it’d been predominantly in Russian. If he could’ve heard the exchanges slower, he might have been able to tease some broad idea of what they were talking about, but he only picked up fragments. Eventually he’d given up trying.
Ghost wasn’t sure where they stopped, somewhere in the Middle East. They had a contact out there who got them ready for the next leg of their journey. Additionally, they were able to get their hands on a stretcher to properly batten MacTavish down. It’d take up more room, but Ghost could only hold that position behind him for so long before his back started hurting and his leg went numb.
While there, waiting for the bird to refuel, they were joined by another group escaping from Himachal Pradesh in a C-130; a mix of Loyalists and 141. There were more wounded among them, but they were people who could largely be moved. More severe casualties were left behind because transport was too dangerous, they’d stay in India until they could be safely transferred. Scarab was aboard this plane on account of her still healing injury, but she had to be one of the lowest concerns there.
Also accompanying this group was none other than Doc. That bloody Texan made it all the way to India and then here? “I can’t believe you’re still around, mate,” Ghost remarked.
“So am I, to be real with you. It got hairy after y’all left,” the 141 medic glanced past Ghost at the stretcher set up. Dr. Bulganin was again attending to MacTavish with what little he had to work with. “The Captain’s not doing too hot from what I hear.”
“That’s putting it mildly. We’re doing what we can, but what he needs is an ICU.”
“He responsive?”
“As much as he can be. The next leg of the journey’s going to be long, I just hope he can hold out.”
Doc chewed the inside of his lip. “Can’t just take him to a closer hospital, huh?”
If only that were an option. Would’ve made their lives so much easier right about now. “When we do, we’ll need to dig in our heels and wait for him to be discharged. With Makarov out tying loose ends, we can’t stop until we’ve thrown him off.”
“You think ol’ Kingfish pulled his attack in India to pursue you guys then.”
“Captain Price thinks it’s a possibility.”
“Damn. Well, I sure as shit don’t envy you.”
“Doc! Can you come here?” Scarecrow shouted from the plane’s hangar ramp. He knelt over a man laid out on the floor.
The medic sighed and called back, “Be right there!” Doc punched Ghost in the chest. “See ya when I see ya, Sir.”
Back at the bird, Ghost came around to catch Price, Nikolai, and one of the pilots from the plane talking. There was a change in plan. The other aircraft could get them where they were going a lot faster, so they’d move MacTavish on that. Dr. Bulganin would then be able to help Doc with the other casualties. They had room for a few more passengers, but otherwise some shuffling meant Yuri, Roach, and a few others would be taking the Little Bird. Nikolai was also trading seats with the other plane’s pilot, who, frankly, looked dizzy with relief now that the aircraft full of casualties was no longer in his hands.
Ghost’s arm injury necessitated him staying with the lump of casualties, which he was more than grateful for. It kept him with MacTavish that much longer. He walked beside the stretcher as they wheeled it up the ramp and locked it down with pins to the floor. Ghost watched the pair of crewmen shove those pins in place, but he still ended up double checking them when they’d left.
“Oh my god, Captain?”
Ghost’s shoulders hunched at the shrill panicked cry of Scarab as she rushed towards them. Her gawking eyes were practically bulging from her skull, her face pale.
MacTavish gave a strained laugh that ended in a few coughs. “You’re looking a bit peely-wally, lass.”
She blinked, clearly at a complete loss. “I-I-I don’t understand…”
“Come’ere…” He waved her in closer and dropped a heavy hand on her head to tousle her hair, in turn dislodging her knit cap. It plopped at her feet. “Tit’s good to see ya…”
“Oh, Captain,” she murmured with tears in her eyes and hair askew.
Oh, brother…. Ghost briefly entertained chasing her off, but — and he couldn’t believe how fucking stupid this was — this was the first time these two’d seen each other since she went MIA and he’d be a tool if he interrupted. He let them have their moment, with her crying into his shoulder and him having to comfort her, before Ghost decided he’d seen enough and intervened.
He picked up her hat off the ground and pressed it against her arm. “Oi, you should sit down, we’ll be taking off soon.”
She wiped her eyes and took her hat back. “Right, okay… I’ll be back, okay?” Patting MacTavish’s arm, she went to sit down with a few other 141 operators.
MacTavish coughed again and groaned.
He’d worry about Scarab later. “Want me to get Doc over here?”
“No, no, I’m fine, just—” More coughing, he pressed his hand to his chest. “ —Jesus…”
Yeah, no. He went to get the medic without a moment’s hesitation. Doc slipped on his stethoscope and took a listen. He frowned. “I’m getting reduced breathing sounds on his right side. His lung’s probably partly collapsed from the stab wound.”
“Anything you can do?” Ghost asked.
“Looks like he’s got an asherman’s seal on his chest, that should help get the air out of the pleural space so his lung can re-expand.” Doc took off his stethoscope. “I’ll talk to the other doctor, don’t wanna intervene and make it worse if I can help it.”
There was little else Doc could do at first. MacTavish was in a very awkward spot of equilibrium where they worried more dramatic intervention would destabilize him. One wrong move and he could become a heavy bleeder real quick, or added strain could throw his heart off.
In short, the situation was fucked.
For hours he got along like that. The doctor continued to closely monitor MacTavish’s condition with growing unease. The pulse oximeter’s readings were slowly but surely dropping, at the same time his coughing steadily got worse. MacTavish spoke less and less. It hurt him to talk or breathe too deeply. His nostrils were perpetually flared as he took quick shallow breaths. Fearing the collapse was getting worse, they “burped” air out of space through the wound and resealed it.
During all this, Scarab started getting very, very frustrating to deal with. She wanted to be right by MacTavish’s side, and insisted he’d want her to be. Her behavior resembled a distressed girlfriend. She wanted to know exactly what was going on, what his condition was.
Ghost snapped at her. “Sit down and stay out of the medic’s way!”
“Ghost, please, let me be with him,” she pleaded. “I can’t lose him like this.”
“Nobody’s losing anybody,” Price retorted, inserting himself into the situation. “Now do what he says and sit down.”
Scarab huffed, her face wet and red, and slunk back to her seat. Now a small, begrudging part of Ghost felt a tiny shred of empathy towards her position. Clearly she cared a great deal for the man, and she was worried sick over him. Being a pest was her way of handling that. That being said, it was kinda gratifying watching Price tell her no.
Ghost proceeded to put her out of mind for the remainder of the trip. There was plenty else to focus on, like how MacTavish’s condition continued to deteriorate over the trip, so much so that Dr. Bulganin resorted to needle decompression to get more air from his chest cavity. He got put on oxygen and another small dose of morphine to help him breathe.
They arrived at the Loyalists’ West African base late in the day. It was an old farmstead on the mountain side, converted into a staging ground for operations. Doc and Dr. Bulganin loaded MacTavish in a van. Not enough room for more than them to go. They peeled out in a hurry, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Can we follow ‘em?” Price asked.
“I know where they are going.” Nikolai led them to one of the vehicle lots, with its canopies of netting and foliage. He climbed into the driver’s seat of a jeep, Price and Ghost were in seconds after and they drove from the base, past its perimeter of wire barricades and sandbags.
Twenty kilos out, down a snaky dirt road into the nearest village, there was a clinic the Loyalists had lovingly fostered a rapport with. As Nikolai explained, the PRF were waging genocide in Sierra Leone, and the clinic’s staff hired the Loyalists as a bit of protection so they wouldn’t have to evacuate and abandon the people in the area. The Loyalists trusted the staff with a number of individuals over the last few years who needed treatment but were in some way being pursued. They’d keep quiet about MacTavish and any other casualties they needed to bring in.
Before they arrived at the clinic, MacTavish had been rushed into surgery. No estimate on how long it’d take, or where he’d be after. The three of them loitered around the building or in the dingy waiting room. Ghost was both exhausted but too wound up to sleep. He sat on one of the benches — across from a man and his son who sounded like he’d swallowed a kazoo — his leg bouncing to the point of soreness.
Price handed him a water bottle. “We’re getting supper, you should come along.”
“Not hungry.”
“I’m worried too, lad, but passing out isn't gonna help.”
Although Price had a point, leaving wasn’t an option. Not now at least, not when MacTavish was actively in the OR. “I won't pass out. Just go on ahead.”
Price sighed. “He’d want you to take care of yourself.”
Ghost’s hands clenched in his lap. “He’s a bloody hypocrite anyway.”
“You being here will not change the result,” Nikolai said. “This is out of our control now.”
Of course he knew that. They got him this far, and now they had to place their faith in some medical staff on the border of Sierra Leone. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t even like Ghost helped all that much either. Nikolai physically brought them to safety, Price administered first aid. Even Roach did much more than he could. The least he could fucking do was wait until they got word how the surgery went.
Eventually Price and Nikolai relented and went without him. Almost an hour later, they came back and Price thrust upon him a paper box that smelled heavily of peanuts and chili. Its colorful mix of contents were in turn wrapped in a bag to contain the loose nuts and chunks of… avocado? Ghost couldn’t really tell what the heck he was looking at. At this point, the triage nurse gave the three of them a hard stare. He begrudgingly took the to-go container outside to pick through. The other two followed him, probably to make sure he ate. Nikolai said something to the nurse on his way out.
There was a spot along the side of the building with a tin awning and a pale tarp that blocked the faint drizzling rain on one side. Cigarette butts littered the ground around a half full trash can and the damp seats.
Despite his stomach’s protests, Ghost choked most of that meal down. If the situation wasn’t what it was, he probably would’ve enjoyed it, but instead he was fighting with his nerves just so he wouldn’t get sick.
“Excuse me,” a woman with a heavy accent called from the corner of the building. Her hair was woven up in a bright orange scarf. Ghost had seen her come through the waiting room a few times. “Were you here with John?”
“That’d be us,” Price answered.
She came over to the grungy smoking spot, unbothered by the light rain as it speckled her powder blue scrubs. “He just got out of surgery and is recovering in the Intensive Care Unit now.”
Not surprising but still not good. Ghost slowly closed the box. “So the surgery went well then?”
“Yes, he is very lucky. The pressure in his chest was putting a lot of strain on his heart. He lapsed into tachycardia soon after he arrived, but he is stable and resting now,” she explained.
Nikolai exhaled sharply. “Oh thank god.”
“We are in the process of draining the air out so that his lung can open again. If it does not, we may need to consider a more hard procedure.”
“Can we see him,” Price asked.
“That should be fine as long as you let him rest. We have him in a separate room, as you asked, I can show you where.”
Notes:
Originally, I planned on having this chapter cover the content of all of Chapter 47 and part of 48. This ended up being way too much to jam in there. The chapter came out originally very choppy and my beta reader advised I split it up in two chapters and expand on events more. I'm glad they told me to, because I'm liking how this chapter looks a lot more.
I think you could tell in Plan B that I didn't really understand Soap's injury. Dude wakes up, runs around, and is then tackled to the floor. I dunno if my stupid kid brain just figured the knife miraculously missed any vital organs, but Soap in Plan B recovers absurdly quick. Now, because I'm an adult who believes in the power of detailed research, I spent many days and late nights trying to piece together what the heck Soap's injury entailed, because we only really get clues between the games and his journal. I ended up also consulting my mom, who used to watch heart monitors in an ICU, because in Persona Non Grata we see a heart rhythm, blood pressure reading, and oxygen. She took one look at that and laughed at it because that what they put in the cutscene makes no sense. Also his blood pressure and oxygen are surprisingly good despite losing enough blood to suddenly have cardiac arrest like in the prologue.
Did I also mention the wiki really threw me for a loop? The plot summary says that shot Yuri gave him is a sedative, and the transcript on the same wiki called it adrenaline which, I'm sure you know, are not anywhere near the same thing. Upon doing more research, I found that the only time you would "stab" a syringe in somebody's heart (You don't punch that shit like it's Pulp Fiction, Yuri....) is if you're using adrenaline to restart it. We're talking cardiac arrest. There are several problems. One, Soap's not uh... having cardiac arrest? Not when Yuri's giving him the shot anyway. At least, I don't think he is? Two, that shit is a last resort at best, it's incredibly risky and can do more harm than good. Apparently it was how people got revived in the olden days when chloroform was being used as an anesthetic, because that shit was dangerous and people could literally have their heart stop during a procedure. It's not that people don't get needles to the flipping chest, it's just not as common nowadays.Now to lie down and try not to think about chest tubes long enough to get some sleep. Good night, folks. Stay safe and much love! <3
Chapter 26: Structural Integrity Compromised
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 47b and 48a
47b. Soap and Scarab make out before Roach interrupts.
48a. Scarab's angsting because Soap's on pain meds.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Despite being cleaned up and stripped of his soiled clothes, MacTavish still looked like utter hell. The amount of equipment was overwhelming; practically overtook his body with wires and tubing that sprouted like weeds. Alongside the standard monitors, an IV bag glinted in the dimmed lights from its hook, its line snaking down into the crook of his discolored arm, and a chest tube led to a bubbling drainage system. An oxygen mask sat over his face, not set flush to his skin because of an NG tube taped to his cheek. Beneath all that, the faint tan he’d gotten over the last several days had washed out, replaced by pallor and bruises.
Ghost had seen some intense shit in hospitals over the years, especially between his dad’s terminal illness and his brother going through rehab. He was intimately familiar with it all, but still he drank it in from the doorway, his feet and tongue like lead.
A couple years back, he and MacTavish went on one of their secret dates away from base. They got in their civvies and descended on a dive bar, then shacked up in MacTavish’s oft neglected flat for the night. Ghost had stumbled upon a patient ID bracelet in a kitchen drawer alongside a few half full prescription bottles. MacTavish scoffed, closing that drawer and opening the one above it to retrieve whatever the hell it was Ghost had been looking for in the first place. Then, over more scotch, he proceeded to describe being laid out in a Russian hospital before he was flown back to the UK for rehab. He’d hated the lack of activity, the sense of stagnation.
The second he was awake and able to fully process the state he was in now, he’d be itching to leave — assuming nothing went wrong past this stage. And a lot could still go wrong.
What if he didn’t recover?
“Ghost, you alright?” Price asked, taking a seat beside Nikolai near the window.
Ghost snapped back to the moment, and that’s when his stomach lurched. He swallowed a mouthful of bile, the acidic taste still hanging in his throat as he said, “Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He then diverted down the hall to the nearest toilet, and yanked his mask off his head just in time for him to retch. Undigested rice and chili sat in a vibrant orange heap at the bottom of the bowl.
He stayed hunched there for a few minutes, his harsh breathing echoing off the walls of the tiny space. Using the sink for leverage, he picked himself up off the floor, a little weak kneed but able to stay standing. He rinsed out his mouth and then splashed cool water on his clammy face. His blood shot eyes stared back at him in the mirror.
It’d been a long time since he’d broken down like this. Not in a while, anyway. For one reason or another, he’d managed to get this far without feeling the full gravity of the situation, like he was moving through a dream. This felt all too real now. It was one thing to look at the stab wound, or to see MacTavish injured while they were transporting him, but that never tells you the full story like a hospital room can. The nurse had explained it all on the way in, and yet Ghost still hadn’t been prepared to see it.
“Bloody hell, get a grip…” He took a few deep breaths, fixed back on his mask and shades, and returned to the room. Nikolai gave him a concerned look, but otherwise nobody said a word as Ghost pulled one of the few chairs over to the bedside and proceeded to rest his arms and head on the edge of the thin mattress.
The vitals monitor beeped on, accompanied by the persistent bubbling of the chest tube system and MacTavish’s shallow breathing. Ghost watched his chest rise and fall, the right side not quite as much as the left. In some fucked up sense, this was probably the best sleep he had since July.
“What now?” Nikolai asked.
“We wait,” said Price. “The world’s got enough problems right now. We’ll be able to slip through the cracks if we just keep our heads down a while.”
“Da, of course. I mean now. We are here, we can stay, but I would strongly recommend we go back to the farm first and prepare for that.”
“Let’s leave in an hour, then come back first thing in the morning. Is that fine with you, Ghost?”
Ghost picked his head up to look at them and nodded.
“Good. We’ll keep watch on him, in case anybody comes looking for us.”
The rest of their initial visit was uneventful. The nurse came in a couple of times to update MacTavish’s chart or check his chest tube. They left sometime around 0300. Ghost didn’t even bother doing anything else besides shed any excess gear before collapsing face down in a cot. He was out before his head hit the pillow.
The next morning came far too soon. Ghost woke himself up with the briefest, lukewarm shower of his life, and borrowed a fresh change of work pants and a gray shirt. Amongst other things, he got together a change of clothes and the barest of toiletries in a pack. A moment of self awareness creeped over him concerning his mask though as he drank his tea; he was going to a hospital, in a skull mask. He went last night like that. Not only was it painfully conspicuous, but he’d probably scare some poor old sod while just passing by. He took the mask off and shoved it into his pants pocket.
He’d been wearing that damn thing on the regular for too long. So long in fact that he felt naked without something there, so he nabbed a stray houndstooth scarf off the counter to cover his neck and made a point of wearing his sunglasses.
Admittedly, Nikolai’s surprise was fairly amusing when the three of them all met up at the jeep to head out. Nikolai not so subtly kept glancing at him as he drove. “I did not expect you to look so…” He finished his sentence in Russian, probably stuck on the word.
“What?”
“Normal?” Nikolai readjusted his faded blue cap.
Price remarked from the backseat, “He didn’t always wear it. It’s good to see you again, Simon.”
Oh, for the love of… “You’re making a much bigger deal of this than it is.”
Upon arriving at the clinic, Ghost took note of a reduction in uncomfortable looks from staff and patients. If anything, he felt more anonymous now than with his whole head covered, which he hadn’t expected at all but made a lot of sense. Of course that mask drew a lot of attention. Probably for the best he ditched it, they were carrying concealed firearms.
In the reception area, Dr. Bulganin was waiting at the desk. He and Nikolai had a brief exchange in Russian.
“Go on ahead,” Nikolai told them, “I will be there shortly. I am going to check on a few people first.”
“Do what you gotta do,” Price said. He and Ghost continued on their way to MacTavish’s room.
Maybe it was the sunrise casting warm light into the room, but MacTavish didn’t look quite as colorless as the night before. The oxygen mask had been replaced with a nasal cannula. His vitals were a little better too. Ghost took all this in as he approached the cot, figuring he was probably asleep. When he got closer though, MacTavish cracked his eyes open and gave him and Price an acknowledging huff.
Price patted MacTavish’s hand. “How are you feeling, son?”
“I cannae feel ma toes....” As if to further his point, he wiggled his feet.
“Well, they’re still there.”
“Aye. When can ah leaf?”
Ghost double blinked. MacTavish wasn’t incomprehensible, but he only ever sounded this cotton mouthed when he was half a handle deep.
“You leave when the doctor says you can,” Price replied.
“Baaah...” MacTavish pushed his head back into the pillow. In doing so, he must’ve pulled something because he grunted and readjusted, going as far as flipping the blanket off his chest. “Tired.”
Ghost tried not to stare at the chest tube sticking from a dense wad of dressing on his side. Not longer than a couple of seconds anyway. He pulled one of the chairs back over to sit by his bedside and tousled his mohawk. It’d probably be the only time he’d ever get away with it. “Get some rest then. We’re not going anywhere.”
MacTavish stared blearily at him, and with a couple slow drawn out blinks he made the astute observation, “You’re not wearing your mask.”
“Didn’t feel like scaring someone’s nan,” Ghost said.
MacTavish chuckled, then grimaced and sighed faintly. He nudged Ghost’s hand with his knuckles. “Hey...”
“Hey.”
“M’sorry...”
This guy. Ghost clasped his hand. “Don’t be. You’re alive, that’s what matters.”
MacTavish smiled and closed his eyes. Soon thereafter, he was out like a light. Ghost fixed his blanket and stayed close by, only moving to give the nurse room when she made her rounds.
That day began the slow cycling of two people consistently being by his side. At first, it was just himself, Price, and Nikolai. While two of them sat there, the third left for four or five hours to take a walk, or get lunch, or nap in the jeep. Whatever needed to happen. Occasionally Price or Nikolai stepped out for one reason or another while on watch, leaving Ghost alone with MacTavish for short spans of time. Ghost didn’t tend to leave except when it was his turn to cycle off. This system of theirs carried on over the next few days. It’d be him and Nikolai; then him and Price; he’d go; come back and relieve Price; wash, rinse, repeat.
The hospital’s staff chose not to comment on this. So long as they stayed out of the nurses’ way and kept their guns concealed, Ghost doubted they’d take issue with them standing guard.
Throughout those first days and nights, MacTavish lapsed in and out of consciousness, usually coinciding with when they’d give him his oxycodone. When he was up, they tried to get him moving in one way or another to facilitate draining the blood and air still in his chest, or take deep breaths to help get his lung to open back up. It was visibly uncomfortable for him, but MacTavish rarely bitched about it.
“He’s on his best behavior,” Price said at one point, flipping through a newspaper Nikolai had brought in from the market.
Ghost nodded, watching the nurse change the dressing around the chest tube and check for any signs of infection. “Was he when he had rehab back in 2011?”
Price snorted. “No. A pain in the ass was what he was.”
“Haud yer wheesht, I bounced back, didn’t I?” MacTavish grumbled.
What in the hell was he—
“You were coughing up blood doing burpees when you should’ve been resting,” Price retorted, unphased by whatever the hell a wheesht was.
“One—agh!” He cringed as the nurse taped down a fresh pad of dressing to his bruised and tender side. “—one time.”
Generally speaking, he was being remarkably cooperative, especially compared to the lengths Doc often had to go to make sure he heeded his advice. It was a pleasant surprise. On the third day, his x-rays came back good enough to have the chest tube removed. With that out, they pulled out the NG tube and in turn started moving him onto oral pain medication instead of intravenous.
So really, big progress. And the reward for MacTavish’s good behavior on the fourth day?
Cherry jello.
MacTavish gave that sad cup a sardonic smile and picked at its jiggly contents. “What’s the point of getting these tubes out if they’re basically gonna give me nothing at all?”
“Progress is progress, mate.” Ghost sat on the edge of his bed. They were alone for the time being, Price was out for a smoke. He kissed MacTavish on the brow.
Grabbing Ghost by the front of his shirt, MacTavish tugged him in for a kiss on the lips. Bold of someone with a bad case of hospital breath.
The heart monitor picked up in tempo. Ghost broke off and laughed. “Careful, you might get someone in here.”
“It’s a little late for that,” MacTavish said and sat up a bit more. He untucked the bottom of Ghost’s shirt. “I thought you liked playing nurse.”
So much for being a good boy. Against his better judgment, Ghost didn’t stop him. “You’re playing a dangerous game, I hope you know that.”
“Aye. Don’t tell me you’re not bored too.”
…. There were significantly less things at risk of being pulled out. Maybe if he was careful, and quick, they could get away with a light amount of fooling around. He leaned in and kissed him again, and MacTavish carded his fingers through the slightly longer hair at the top of his head, played with it.
All too soon, he was breathing fast, the monitor beeped more emphatically. His face was turning red. Ghost made note of MacTavish’s sweatpants tenting. “I’m surprised you can even get it up in your condition.”
“Same here. I’m… kinda lightheaded.”
This was probably a bad idea. He’d better nip this in the bud. “Roach’s blood is working overtime.”
“Roach’s…?”
Ghost couldn’t help but bite his lip in an attempt not to laugh. “You lost a lot of blood and now you got about a pint of Roach’s.”
As this new information sank in, MacTavish sucked in his lips, and stiffly replied, “You know, I don’t think anything’s made me go soft that fast in my life.”
“Just doing my due diligence, love. We’ll have time for it when you’re out of the hospital.”
The door opened behind him, and Ghost looked back in time to see a nurse hurry to the bedside to check MacTavish over.
“You should not be getting him excited,” she chided. “He needs to rest.”
“It wasn’t anything like that,” MacTavish said, flustered.
“Right, there was a spider.”
“On the bed.”
“It ran off somewhere.”
The nurse lowered the clipboard halfway through jotting a note down, shook her head, and wrote something else. “A spider?”
“Yes,” Ghost further lied. “A big one, ma’am.”
“Right…” She hung the clipboard back on its hook. She didn’t look all that convinced. “Just be sure you kill it next time.”
“Will do.” Once she left, Ghost sank down on the edge of the bed again. “You’re such a handful.”
MacTavish laid back and tried to take a deep breath. “Can’t wait to be out of here.”
Instead of Price returning to the room, the next person in was Roach, who was followed immediately by Scarab.
Roach pulled one hand from his pockets to wave, “Afternoon, Captain.”
“Hey, Captain,” Scarab greeted and slipped past Roach to approach the bed. She sat on the opposite side from Ghost, dangerously close to his IV drip, and took a long moment to process all the nodes and lines he still had going.
Ghost lifted a brow at her, not that she noticed. Price had mentioned adding one or two more people to their rotation, if only to give them time to return to base and catch up on much needed sleep. Roach made perfect sense. The sergeant may have been fresh to the Task Force in the weeks before they lost Price, but Price knew and trusted Roach. Price never met Scarab though before just the other day, when they were in the middle of exfilling MacTavish. Despite being a pain in the ass on the plane, Price never made mention of her or asked Ghost who she was. And if she was any interest to him whatsoever, he would.
She continued, her voice softer now, “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” MacTavish assured and sat up more, which he cradled his stab wound to do. “Better than a few days ago.”
“From what Captain Price said, it sure sounds like it,” Roach replied. He stepped in beside Ghost and asked him, “How’ve you been holding up?”
Ghost shrugged. “Could be worse.”
“Figures.”
Scarab finally broke her attention off of MacTavish for two seconds to actually look at Ghost now, her eyes widening as the revelation dawned on her. “Holy shit, Ghost? I didn’t recognize you without the mask!”
Ghost caught himself starting to make a face when she said this and reeled the annoyance back as far as he could. “Keep your voice down.”
“Oh, shit, sorry.” She pulled off her backpack and rifled through it. “Anyway, I figured you probably didn’t have a whole lot to do, so I brought some sudoku puzzles and coloring books.” From her bag, she produced a short stack of activity books and placed them on the end table.
MacTavish regarded them with lifted brows. “Where’d you get all these?”
“The market in town. You should see it when you get out of here, it’s so cool and lively. And there’s this one place you can go and it lets you see the whole block, I gotta show you sometime.”
“For sure. And thanks, I appreciate the consideration.”
Her cheeks tinged an unsubtle pink. “You’re welcome.”
Over the course of their visit, Ghost had slowly been relegated to sitting in one of the chairs off to the side, out of the way. He watched the three of them through the yellow tint of his sunglasses. The fresh faces certainly did MacTavish some good, that wasn’t a question. Scarab’s presence just never sat right with Ghost ever since she kissed MacTavish back in Germany. MacTavish said he’d deal with the problem a while ago, and for a little bit before she went MIA it seemed like he did. Here she was though, acting sweet and supportive, especially after her initial distress and worry.
She didn’t do anything yet, but Ghost could feel it in his bones, she was testing the water before attempting to reconcile. Worst yet, she picked the best time to do that, when MacTavish was vulnerable and it was a bad time and place for Ghost to interfere.
With her foot in the door and MacTavish not immediately rejecting her, the next stage gradually unfolded over her next few visits. She doted on MacTavish, likely to endear herself to him, doing shit he normally couldn’t stand like helping him drink a glass of water or fixing his blanket. MacTavish had a weird line with Ghost, where helping could almost never cross into nurturing. If Ghost offered to fluff his pillow or the like, he’d be rebuffed and hear the tired old line of “I can do that, don’t worry about it.” But apparently Scarab had a pass.
“You know, it’s okay to tell her no,” Ghost mentioned when she’d left to use the latrine.
MacTavish chuckled and shamelessly pinched Ghost’s chin. “What? Did you wanna nurse me too?”
“That’s not exactly what I’m getting at,” Ghost replied.
“Oh? Then what’re ya...?” He trailed off as the question seemed to answer itself and his brows pitched up. “Ooh... She’s just tryin’ to feel helpful, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“But doesn’t it bother you?”
“Eh... She’s a wee lass, I don’t have the heart to tell her no.”
Maybe he didn’t, but Ghost already had what he’d tell her planned out. When she came back, Ghost got up, “Scarab?”
She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “Yeah, what’s up?”
Before Ghost could say it, MacTavish tapped Ghost’s back and wordlessly pleaded with his eyes for him not to start this here. Ghost brought his hands behind his back so he could hide his curling fist from Scarab. “I’m gonna take a walk. Be back in a few.”
“Oh. Sure, okay. Have a good walk then.”
Ghost left the room to kick around the outside of the building, his blood boiling. If he cared a lot less, he would’ve gone ahead and told her to bugger off with her nonsense. This had to be a hospital, and MacTavish had to be in rough shape. As he rounded the corner, he spotted Price and Nikolai already under the awning, chatting.
Price took notice of him first. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine.”
The Captain nodded. “Good, the sooner we can get him discharged, the better.”
“I thought we weren’t gonna rush him out,” Ghost said.
“That was the plan, yes, but the last of our men made it from India and brought worrying news,” Nikolai replied, “Several more hostages were taken, including Tatiana. The few that made it here were let go so that we knew Makarov’s terms. ‘Bravo Six surrenders himself by the end of the month, or he starts killing the hostages.’”
“Bravo Six, ey?” Ghost crossed his arms. “We’re assuming he means Price, right?”
“Seems like it. Probably still wants me dead as retribution for Zakhaev’s death.”
“Thought MacTavish finished him off.”
“He did. Don’t think Makarov knows that though.”
Nikolai leaned back in the discolored patio chair and rubbed the sparse stubble along his jaw. “We are working on pinning down the hostages’ location. Our informant can track where they may go and narrow it down. Once he does, we need to go in and stage a rescue. Your missing operative may be there too.”
Ghost raised his brows. “Assuming Heatstroke’s even alive.”
“Our informant believes the possibility exists. If nothing else, it can help lead us to her.” Nikolai’s radio clicked with an incoming transition. He got up and excused himself.
Price waited for him to leave and asked, “And how are you holding up?”
Ghost sighed.
“Right then.” Price adjusted his hat and carried on, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought you and Soap were involved before. Did that change while I was gone?”
He may have had a few more screws loose, but Price was still frustratingly observant. Ghost took off his sunglasses to clean the dusty lenses with the bottom hem of his shirt. “We still are.”
“That’s what I thought. So who’s this woman then?”
Ghost cringed and very nearly jammed the lens he was cleaning out of its frame. “Private Alex Macey, callsign ‘Scarab.’ She joined the 141 last year, mostly got in through sheer talent, but has limited experience. That doesn’t stop her from thinking she’s something special.”
“I see,” Price muttered, and stroked his beard. “So she’s acting closer to Soap than she really is, is that what you’re saying?”
“Not exactly.”
“Care to fill me in then?”
Ghost pushed his sunglasses back on. “I don’t know where to even begin... I wanna say some six or so months back, she was trying to make friends with the senior staff of the company. I figured she was just working her way into a promotion.”
“Seems par for the course.”
“Right, my thoughts exactly. But back in July, she started dropping hints at MacTavish. And he thought it’d be bloody hilarious to flirt with her back to bother me, so then she actually confessed to him like a grade schooler.”
“What a train wreck…” Price adjusted his hat. “And knowing Soap, he didn’t give her a straight answer.”
“Nope. She asked if he had a girlfriend, and he’s so bloody closeted that he danced around that instead of just saying he had a boyfriend. I mean, he almost did, I guess, but she’s so dense that she didn’t take the hint and kept pushing. I told him to fix it and he said he would, said he did even. Here she is though, acting like she’s his girlfriend.”
“Hm... Soap’s a bit of a muppet sometimes. You’ll have to sort it out with him when he’s more recovered.” It was the sort of obvious advice Ghost had expected to come out of him.
“I’m tempted to start loading her up with duties around the farm,” Ghost grumbled.
“I’m sure there’s plenty that needs to be done. It might do her some good to have to work on something productive for a while.”
And so, with Price’s blessing, Ghost began subtly trying to keep Scarab from the hospital as much as possible. He asked around the base, and sure enough there was more than enough that the Loyalists needed help with, so he picked one or two things at a time and assigned her to them. She protested at first, but he was quick to smooth it over with his prepared explanation: “They’ve got a lot of work to do if they’re gonna be in any shape to go after Makarov. We have to help however we can. You can go in to visit MacTavish when you’re done.”
Ghost wasn’t stupid though, he picked some generally time consuming or exhausting tasks for her in the hopes that she’d be too tired to go afterwards. That kept her out of his hair for all of about a day. She had to inventory the supplies in the barn, that’d take anybody a while.
What he hadn’t expected to happen though was for her to start cranking through the work he gave her much faster than anticipated so she could slip into the clinic for a couple of hours. Ghost checked her work, but she usually did it right the first time. Anything he could’ve pointed out would’ve been a useless nitpick that took a minute or two to fix at best. She stood at parade rest, watching him with wide eyes and trying not to fidget.
Begrudgingly, he’d let her go. She’d smile ear to ear, thank him, and run off. As she’d tail it, his stomach twisted with growing agitation.
Of course, she told MacTavish all about how good and productive she was when she’d show up at the hospital. MacTavish usually gave her a pat on the back, and said he was glad she was keeping busy. Depending on how recently he had his meds, he’d lump on a bit more praise. He seemed happier at least now that she wasn’t able to linger over him.
Ghost couldn’t tell if he was sabotaging her time or enhancing it.
One week now, MacTavish had been in the hospital. Ghost and Scarab sat in the room for a few uneventful hours while MacTavish slept, but that evening when Price and Nikolai came to swap out with them, Scarab leaned down and kissed MacTavish’s scruffy cheek.
Her stupid fucking mouth needed to stay where it belonged and that was off his sleeping boyfriend’s face. An irrational, angry impulse screamed in the back of his head to slap her so hard her head spun backwards. Better yet, drag her to the bathroom and jam her head under the faucet.
Ghost apparently didn’t hide his anger well at all because Price took hold of his shoulder and muttered, “Easy lad.”
In a massive show of restraint, Ghost didn’t kick her ass into next Thursday. They left together, him falling slowly behind and burning holes in the back of her neck. The two of them got into the jeep and he drove them back up along the winding roads. She remained utterly oblivious to his intense anger, instead staring out the window with her damn shoes propped up on the seat.
Ghost stewed for a bit, shifting through the mess of questions that screeched like nails on metal in his brain. How often had she been kissing him? Did MacTavish know about this? Why the hell was she still into him when MacTavish made it sound like the situation was over with? Against his better judgment, he let slip one of his passive-aggressive thoughts. “You’ve gotten awfully cozy with MacTavish.”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling to herself. “He wanted to keep us a secret, for both our reputations’ sakes, but If there’s anyone I can trust to know about this, then you’re it.”
“Did he now?” He never said anything like that in Germany. Ghost’s hands clenched the wheel a little tighter, his gloves scrunched. “When’d he say something like that.”
“In Azerbaijan.”
His lip curled in a contemptuous smirk. He called it. “That right? You’re gonna have to tell me all about it.”
With a curt giggle, she remarked, “Ghost, I didn’t think you were such a gossip~"
His eye twitched.
"—but sure, I can tell you. So, you know how our exfil got delayed and we had to spend the night, well while we were there, MacTavish said he couldn’t share my feelings. I’d confessed back in Germany, I don’t know if he told you.”
“I know you did.”
“Oh. Well anyway, I asked him why and he was like, ‘if word got out, we’d be in a lot of trouble.’ So I told him I could keep a secret.”
Which, clearly, she can’t. This stupid bitch… He could already kinda guess the exchange, MacTavish probably fumbled for an excuse that’d stick and it completely missed its mark. If he hadn’t shot himself in the foot before and said he had a partner, then he would’ve saved himself a lot of hassle. “Is that all?”
“Not exactly. See, he mentioned before that there was somebody he cared about, and I kinda figured it had to do with that person again. He’s scared to disappoint them.” She shook her head. “I know he said he didn’t have a girlfriend, but I got a feeling he was lying. If he’s willing to lie about being in a relationship like that, it must be a toxic mess.”
She fucking realized he was taken? And she still pursued?! He could kill her. Wouldn’t be hard, if he swerved left, he could smash the passenger side of the jeep into a tree. If that didn’t kill her, he could snap her neck. It’d look like a bad accident. Nobody’d know.
Scarab carried on, “I brought up the other woman, and he didn’t deny it. So I told him if she makes you feel like garbage then fuck her. Nobody needs people like that in their lives anyways. I think that’s what he needed to hear because he kissed me back. I wonder if he ever got around to breaking things off with her while I was gone.”
Ghost’s chest hurt; it was nine parts anger, one growing part guilt. If only he hadn’t pushed so hard and yelled at MacTavish to begin with. MacTavish even apparently tried to appease him and break things off like he said he would, but Scarab had him caught up in her web of bullshit. Whether she knew it or not, she was manipulating this man around one sore spot in his life, and had the gall to act like she was helping . Ghost was right, MacTavish should’ve picked anyone else to join him on that mission.
What’s more, he was stuck hearing this from her of all fucking people. MacTavish probably had no intention of telling him this happened either. Sweep it under the rug and act like he only did what he had to do. That being said, Ghost couldn’t direct much of that anger towards him, not after he nearly lost him and he had yet to recover. MacTavish still felt strongly for him, of that Ghost didn’t doubt. It just would’ve been nice he didn’t lie. When he got out of the hospital, he’d bring it up. No sooner though.
This trollop though, any sympathy he managed to foster was deader than a doornail.
And she kept going on . “I bet I could treat him so much better than this other girl.”
“You don't know his situation, or the other person involved,” Ghost bit back, anger slipping into his tone like a leak in a dam.
Scarab finally took her boots off the seat and into the footwell where they belonged. “I love him, okay? Isn’t that enough?”
Don’t say anything. Don’t say— “Seems a bit premature, don’t you think?”
“Have you ever been in love?”
If there was a god, he was mocking him. “That’s my own business.”
“Aw, Ghost, there’s no shame if you haven’t,” she said. “It’s like — how do I put it? — like when you just need to be with somebody, and once you are, it all just falls into place like this missing piece. He feels so right.”
She really was going to start preaching the meaning of love to him? What kind of naïve Hallmark bullshit was this? Was her life somehow not whole despite being clearly talented in her career because she was short a man to sweep her off her feet? Love didn’t guarantee anything except attachment, for better or for worse. It was messy. If Ghost didn’t need to keep his eyes on the road, he would’ve rolled them.
“It’s this gut feeling, you know? You just click well and it couldn’t be more obvious that you should be by their side…. Even if, well, maybe they aren’t totally ready to love you back yet.”
“Not ready, or not willing?” Ghost retorted. He drove in the barbed wire perimeter and briefly stopped to check in with the guard posted that evening. He parked the jeep in the lot.
“He likes me back, I know it. It’s just this other woman. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do. Thanks, Ghost, I can always count on you to bring up important points.” She got out of the car and left, her figure illuminated by the headlights as she walked off. Before she completely vanished from sight, she met up with a few guys and they all went off together laughing.
Ghost turned off the car and ambled to the storage shed, shutting the door behind him. Alone in that dark space, he shouted and kicked a bunch of shit over. Wasn’t enough, his chest still hurt. He punched the side of a metal shelving unit, the impact rolled up his arm. His fist had dented the flimsy sheet metal.
Fucking Scarab. What the hell did MacTavish see in her? Why was he the only guy who saw how much of a problem she was? She got away with too much bullshit. It was like everyone around him was under her spell, unaware of the petty, little gremlin beneath her sweet face and nice tits. She deserved to have her mask ripped off and her disgusting insides on full display so she could be laid into for every little transgression.
Notes:
Another day, another chapter. Ghost was a bit of a trip to write, as we see him start having destructive intrusive thoughts. Back in the Ghost comics, his therapist made mention of an anger issue as a result of the trauma he endured (makes sense). I personally head canon he still has those issues, but he's generally gotten much better at dealing with them now that he has a few close friends in the 141. Namely, MacTavish, who got him out of his self-loathing shell. Here he's starting to struggle with his temper again after weeks of stress, his main pillar of support being taken out of commission, and now Scarab pushing herself onto said supportive figure. His intrusive thoughts aren't good, but they are something I feel he as a person deals with on a regular basis.
At any rate, this is just the saga of long ass hospital stays. As mentioned in last chapter's notes, Soap sort of just recovered in Plan B after a loose period of being "injured." I really wanted to push that this was gonna take a bit before he was okay.Happy Holidays, folks, and much love! <3
Chapter 27: Keep Treading Water
Summary:
Summary of Plan B Chapters 48b-49
48b. Gonzolo mentioned. Scarab gets captured. They go to rescue her. Scarab gets interrogated.
49. Scarab's dumb. The rescue fails spectacularly. Heatstroke is back from the grave. "I know you're in there" fight ensues. Tatiana's killed. Gonzolo saves the day, and Makarov flees.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Ghost? Yeah, he got back a little bit ago. Pretty sure he went to the barn for something.” Ozone then replaced the flashlight between his teeth and rolled underneath the truck he’d been working on.
Roach followed his directions to the barn. It’d been converted into munitions storage, since it was separate from the farmhouse and other structures on the base. Normally he would’ve left things alone, but lights were supposed to go out in ten, and walking from the barn would be a nightmare. Besides, Ghost had been pretty worked up these last few days. It didn’t seem right leaving him alone.
The large wooden door squealed as it rolled open on its track, revealing the immediate front in disarray. Roach trailed the beam of his taclight along the uneven and disorderly stacks of hardware and the glistening shine of broken glass beneath a palette. It looked like someone knocked over a bunch of shit and hastily tried to clean it up. That Kamarov guy was going to be annoyed when he saw it. Or upset. Probably upset, honestly.
No sign of Ghost though. Unease gnawed at him as he continued his search deeper into the barn. Towards the back, a warm glow flickered off the sides of wooden shipping crates with boxy Cyrillic text. Closer still, sharp breathing made itself clear over the ambient chatter of nighttime creatures. Roach’s heart thumped in his chest as he rounded the corner in this maze of palettes, shelves, and crates.
In the middle of a circle of tealights, Ghost sat cross-legged, a book with scrawled writing and scratchy triangles open in front of him. The candles cast inky shadows across his face, making it impossible to tell if his eyes were closed. By all accounts, it looked like Ghost was trying to summon a demon in the back of the barn.
Slowly, Roach asked, “He-hey, Ghost, what’s all this?”
Ghost turned and canted his head to look up at him. “Oh, you’re here.”
“Yeah. Are you feeling okay, mate?”
“Yeah.”
“Right. So uh, what’s going on here?”
“I’m attempting mindfulness meditation and breathing exercises. I already tried writing down my feelings and drawing zen triangles,” Ghost uttered. Without even looking, he shut the book in front of him.
He’d gone full nutter-butter. “Why?”
Ghost never sounded this calm. It was almost reminiscent of the bizarre euphoria associated with some seizures or heart attacks. “It’s something they teach you in anger management. Thought I’d give it a shot.”
“Uh-huh…” Roach glanced back around the satanic set-up again, running his tongue inside his cheek. “And the candles?”
“Mood lighting.”
“So you’re not summoning a demon,” Roach asked.
Ghost brushed his finger in idle circles on the ground. “Maybe next time.”
“Okay. Sooooo…. What’s got you so wound up?”
“I’ve got a pest problem.”
“And is any of—” he gestured broadly to the candle circle. “— this helping?”
Ghost took a deep breath, the exhale especially drawn out. “No.”
Roach couldn’t even fathom what sent him down this spiral to begin with, but he was at least willing to find out. “Then let’s put out these candles. Do you want a drink? We can talk about your pest problem.”
“Let’s do it.” Licking his fingertips, Ghost proceeded to methodically put out the candles. They left the barn and made off with an unguarded bottle of vodka that night.
The pest in question happened to say hi. Ghost took a much longer swig of vodka, but otherwise didn’t utter a word to her. Roach’s stomach twisted as he told Scarab she ought to get to bed. There was no sign that she picked up on the tension. She really had no idea.
Between his daily trips to the clinic and making sure Scarab stayed away from Ghost as much as possible, Roach paid special attention to the ongoing investigation into the whereabouts of Makarov, the hostages, and —with any luck— Heatstroke. Kamarov had this ex-Spetsnaz friend by the name of Yuri who had a bone to pick with Makarov for unspecified reasons. At least that was the story they were given. Roach briefly “met” him during the escape from India, but Yuri spoke very little and exuded an antisocial aura. A lot of thousand yard stares and scowling. Roach didn’t have a real conversation with him until this hostage situation started.
“So how much do you know about Makarov?” Roach had asked.
Yuri frowned deeply at the map he’d been writing over, measuring fuel distances and the like. “Enough to be of use.”
Very specific. “And you think you can find them?”
“I can narrow it down.”
Roach had two guesses what his deal was; either he used to spy on Makarov for the Loyalists or there was more to him than what Nikolai and Kamarov were willing to disclose. He probed a little further. “I heard the Loyalists received a tip about Scarab and Heatstroke from a contact within Makarov’s Inner Circle.”
Yuri remained hunched over the table, but gave him an enigmatic glance. “What are you implying?”
“Not implying anything. Figured you might know who I’m talking about, being a Loyalist with special interest in Makarov.”
“His codename was ‘Pavel.’”
“Was?”
“His cover was blown.” He need not say more than that.
Roach set that name aside for later, when he had to sit in the hospital for a bit with Nikolai. Nikolai at first seemed confused, and asked where Roach had heard it, but ultimately corroborated Yuri’s story. Weird as it was, this Pavel character was a dead-end. It was one of several he encountered. The biggest mystery though were Yuri’s sleeves of Russian prison/gang tattoos, but Roach couldn’t get a better look at them, let alone find a good and tactful way of bringing it up. If anything, he got the strong sense that he was better off leaving it alone.
Hats off to the scary son of a bitch though. In a couple of days, Yuri had a working theory into Makarov’s whereabouts. The exchange was supposed to happen in the Red Zone, implying they never left their hideout, or otherwise stayed somewhat closeby. Makarov had contacts in and around Kabul, making it the best place for him to stay for this long, and send his men after them in India.
“We must have lost him during the escape. He does not usually resort to trading hostages,” Yuri said between grinding his heavily abused pen cap with his molars.
“Seems likely, we finally got one over on him,” Price replied. “Our primary objective is getting the hostages out. If we slot the bastard while we’re at it, it’s a bonus.”
“It is more likely that he already left, and one of his lieutenants is overseeing the hostages in his stead. Tracking them down in the city will be difficult.”
Roach frowned and fished out a plastic bag from his pocket. In it was the scrap of fabric with Heatstroke’s message. “Think we can use this to pinpoint their hiding spot? A trained dog could still get a scent from it.”
Price raised his brows. “If she’s with them, it’d save us a lot of time. You find that in the estate?”
Nodding, Roach laid the blood stained fabric on the table. “In a bathroom cabinet door.” He glanced across the table at Yuri, who stared hard at the cloth scrap. “What do you think?”
“...” Yuri pressed his lips thin and lifted his chin. “It might lead us to a shallow grave.”
“At least she’ll be found,” Roach replied, although the prospect of that weighed heavy in his chest. Once more, grim scenarios played in the back of his mind of the sort of cruelty she must’ve endured all alone. There were signs someone had been in there a good long while, along with dried blood around the drain of the tub and piddled across the tile floor. Signs of struggle, scratches in the wood of the cabinet. If she did die, he could only hope it was quick….
He stood a little straighter, tried not to linger too much on the intrusive mental image of the estate bathroom.
Later that morning, a group was assembled for a rescue mission. They had three teams: Team One would go in and secure the area so Team Two could secure the hostages. Lastly, there was the extraction team. Price specifically nabbed Roach with a gruff, “You’ll do.”
Apparently Roach made a good enough impression back in Russia.
Another person on the mission was Ghost, who insisted he could handle it despite the healing bullet wound in his arm. He’d lucked out with no real nerve damage, thank goodness, but Price still relegated him to Team Two, just to be safe.
Much to Roach’s surprise though, Scarab didn’t join them. Didn’t even push to. Roach mentioned the mission to her as she was on her way out to the clinic after the briefing, but she fiddled with a loose strand of hair by her ear, unable to look him in the eye. “I think it’d be best if I stayed here… Somebody has to keep Captain MacTavish company.”
“Scarecrow, Archer, and Neon already volunteered to sit in with him,” Roach pointed out. “I thought you would be chomping at the bit to rescue Heatstroke.”
“Assuming she can be saved,” she replied. “She’s probably dead by now….”
“You don’t know that.”
“You don’t know if she’s alive either.”
Roach stepped back from her, his brows arched high and jaw tight. He hadn’t expected such pessimism from her, but like how she convinced herself of the existence of Brandy’s suicide note, there was little Roach could say to change her mind. The only way she’d believe Heatstroke lived was if she was standing here alive and well. “That’s it then, you washed your hands.”
Her nose crinkled with the beginnings of a sneer. “No, but I’d rather just focus on the living, Roach. I don’t got time for this.” Scarab turned and fled the conversation. Roach let her go.
Of course, Ghost had a radically different take when Roach mentioned the exchange to him on the way back to Afghanistan. “The little bitch is looking to snuggle up to MacTavish,” he said with an added huff. “Focus on the living… What a load of bollocks.”
--- --- ---
Heatstroke’s swollen tongue had the texture of a popcorn ceiling in her mouth. The thirst was so bad, her throat scratched. Anatoly liked to taunt her periodically by pouring her water out on the dusty ground for the parched sand to instantly absorb. If she begged and pleaded and… ugh… sometimes he gave her a drink. He’d been doing this a lot now.
His worsening attitude lined up with when Makarov flew the coop. Makarov was a quiet but intimidating presence, and in a backwards sense almost a blessing to have around. His men feared his wrath if they let themselves get side tracked, so it put a cap on how often they could come and fuck with her. The second he left Anatoly in charge of her and seven other hostages, the abuse spiraled.
Makarov left him one instruction: don’t kill a single hostage until he gave the word.
Like a good goon, Anatoly didn’t kill anyone. Instead he funneled much of his frustration onto Heatstroke, forcing her in positions and situations that merited “punishment.” At this rate, she might have a permanent boot print on her neck.
Heatstroke only stayed in the same room as the other hostages for maybe a day before she was separated. There’d been some argument between one of their captors and a woman, but Heatstroke could barely pick up any of it with how fast they spoke. The other woman was cut off by the sound of a gunshot and a shrill, pained scream. Heatstroke only caught a brief glance on her way out of the doubled over figure clutching her bleeding leg.
It was a side room off the main one, with a small window towards the ceiling. They must have been in a basement. Anatoly threw her in there, and that was where she remained for the next while. He may not have had time for her back in the other safe house, but she saw a lot of him after that point. He wasn’t as big as Kiril, or as overall intimidating as Lev, but he made up for it in persistence.
At least, unlike in the bathroom, Heatstroke had a better grasp of time. She scratched tallies in the mud wall for every day down there. Was it even still August? She lost track of how long she’d been their captive. Multiple weeks, either she was entering week four or five. Whatever the time, her shoulder hurt a little worse every day. She was sure she had a fever too. She gave herself another day, maybe two at best, before she wouldn’t be able to walk around the small confines of her room without the wall for stability.
She must’ve dozed off, because suddenly it was pitch black and outside was filled with suppressed gunfire and shouts. Someone slipped into the room, she couldn’t discern the features, but she was pretty familiar with the tread of Anatoly’s boot to her neck by now. A slide and a click, he hissed, “Do not scream.”
Heatstroke shivered, and her nails bit the ground. Every noise in the house resounded in her ears; the recognizable burst of a flashbang just outside the room, and boots down the stairs. Shots and shouting.
“One hostage down,” a man had said. She felt like she heard the accented voice before, but couldn’t place it. “Roach, on me.”
Roach? Her eyes stung, but no tears formed.
With a kick, the thin wooden door flew open on its hinges and a muzzle flashed in the darkness beyond the doorway. Hot fluid dripped on Heatstroke’s jaw, and then Anatoly crumpled in front of her like a potato sack. She could barely make out the whites of his eyes.
“Basement’s clear!”
“Team Two, you’re clear to proceed.”
Someone entered the room now, and stepped over Anatoly’s body. “Heatstroke?” Roach. He knelt down. “Bloody hell…”
“She alive?” The gruff British guy asked.
“Yeah.” Something tore open, and a crinkly noisy space blanket was laid over her. “Try not to move, okay?”
Heatstroke pressed her cracked lips together as a dry sob caught in her throat. Roach left the room, soon to be replaced by Ghost, who checked underneath the space blanket.
“We’re getting you out of here. I’m going to pick you up, okay?”
Her voice was unrecognizable in her ears. “Yeah.”
Ghost made sure she was fully wrapped in the blanket and slipped his arms beneath her. He lifted her off the ground like nothing carrying her through the basement, which was now lit by portable lamps. Bodies littered the blood spattered floor. The other hostages were being addressed, some receiving medical aid. A body bag lay by the steps. Heatstroke didn’t see that other woman anywhere.
The cool night air brushed her bare feet as they exited the house through a courtyard. Heatstroke looked up at Ghost in the dim moonlight, and the bulky shape of night vision goggles that clung to his face. He walked her to a waiting Pave Low and sat her down on the bench. She released a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
Ghost took off the goggles and handed her his canteen. Didn’t so much as bat an eye as she practically drained it in one fell swoop, so fast that she sputtered and coughed. The cool water soothed her mouth and throat.
From the house, more people started to funnel out to board the helicopter, this team of theirs alongside the hostages. A couple of people needed to be carried out on stretchers, followed by the body bag. Among the men, she spotted a particularly familiar face, one that left her stunned still, staring in disbelief. There was no mistaking him. “Yuri?”
Yuri stopped dead in his tracks, like a startled buck in the woods.
“You know him, Heatstroke?” Ghost asked.
The way Yuri looked at her — the absolute dread. They didn’t know….
She licked her dry lips, tasting a speck of blood. It was too late to backtrack. “... He was a member of Makarov’s Inner Circle. I saw him at the safehouse. But he—”
“He’s what?!”
The cabin exploded into chaos, people yelling. Roach and Gator got a hold of Yuri and pushed him to the floor, not that he put up much resistance. An older man, the guy with the gruff accent, readied a pistol. “This bastard?”
“Price! No!” A Russian pilot with a faded blue cap shouted.
“You didn’t think to tell us something like that? What the bloody hell’s your problem?”
“Wait!” Heatstroke’s voice cracked. She got to her feet and grabbed the man’s forearm. “Wait, please, he helped me! I don’t know how he ended up with you guys, but he said he’d get me out and here he is.”
Price’s gun lowered slowly to the floor as he gave her a miffed look. “What?”
“He contacted the FSB,” the pilot continued, “if not for him, there’d be many more deaths in the airport.”
“Alright, alright, one at a bloody time.” Price decocked his pistol, and with it a not so insignificant bit of tension in the cabin eased. “Yuri, you’d better have a good story or I swear, I’m throwing you out right here.”
Yuri sighed, his shoulders sinking further under Roach and Gator’s grips. “I was young and patriotic when I first met Vladimir Makarov,” he said, launching himself down a mercifully brief sum up of his involvement with the terrorist. Apparently they went way back, and while Makarov descended into megalomania, Yuri eventually became disillusioned with their cause and Makarov. By the time Heatstroke met him, he’d resolved to right the wrongs he participated in. He contacted the FSB, but Lev had caught him and ratted him out. Makarov shot him and left him for dead, only for him to be saved by the paramedics. Had it not been for that, he had every intention of returning to the safehouse and escaping with Heatstroke. “I was a soldier of Russia, not a taker of innocent lives. But in his eyes, that marked me as the enemy.”
Price holstered his pistol, a bitter frown etched to his face. “You should have told us from square one, Nikolai.”
The exasperated pilot tsked and turned back in his seat. “Whichever way you turn, the wedge is everywhere. There was not a good time to explain. We can discuss this when we return.”
“We’ll do more than talk it over,” Price grumbled. “Let him go, lads.”
Roach and Gator released Yuri. The former of the two turned to Heatstroke. “You should probably sit back down, you’re looking a little pale.”
She pulled the space blanket a little tighter around herself and shuffled back to the bench, the metallic sheet ruffling as she did. A brief, tense silence followed, she could scarcely move without the space blanket being deafening.
Price killed the quiet though with an attempt at being casual, “So you must be Corporal Jays. I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
After what had just transpired, it felt too normal. Hell, she was sitting here with a stupid scrap of tin foil protecting what little modesty she had left. Would’ve been nice if she could have gone this whole trip not talking to anybody until she could get cleaned up first. She looked about as shitty as she felt. Being grunged out after field work didn’t used to bother her any, but she had this pervasive desire to soak in a bleach bath. She pulled her legs in a little closer, crossed her arms and the blanket a little tighter. “That’d be me. You’re Captain Price, right? I heard the boys mention you from time to time.”
Captain Price should’ve been dead. Everybody talked about him like he was. His name was only ever brought up in hushed tones away from Captain MacTavish, because the second it came up you could see the light die in the younger Captain’s eyes. Where’d they dig this guy up?
“I’m sure they did. The 141’s changed a lot.” Price took a seat on the other side of the cabin. “But it’s to my understanding you’ve been MIA for a month. A lot’s happened, and I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”
“I’m sure I can think of a few.”
Heatstroke’s time in captivity earned her a one-way ticket to the clinic as soon as they landed in West Africa. Thankfully Roach took the spare minutes before they left the Loyalist base to grab her a change of clothes. The biggest concern was her shoulder, which had already started to heal in the time she was gone, but the wound was inflamed and tender to the touch. Heatstroke hadn’t taken the bandages off so when the dressing was cut from her shoulder, she was floored by the foul smelling discharge that’d soaked into the gauze.
In the midst of them flushing out the wound and treating for infection, concerns arose about other injuries she’d sustained. The nurse practitioner shooed out Roach, who up to this point had been there to keep her company, to ask for her account. Heatstroke could only summarize it as a whole because there was no way she could recount every individual assault. She was littered in bruises, some bone deep, there were lacerations both obvious and subtle. The pattern of the injuries left very, very little to the imagination.
The doctor was a sweetheart about it, very soft spoken as he asked, “There’s a chance you may be pregnant. Are you on any birth control?”
She wanted to shed her skin and crawl off somewhere. The revulsion was so intense that she must’ve made a face. The doctor picked up the empty waste bin and moved it closer to her bedside.
“I got an IUD, but maybe it could’ve…” For fuck’s sake she hoped not…
“I see. We’ll run a few tests to make sure, okay?” He gave her a reassuring smile and ordered a litany of screenings be run. That female practitioner stepped in for a large portion of it, which was a slight comfort. STI and Hepatitis B tests came back negative, but the pregnancy test took a little longer on account of some clerical overload. Busy day. In the meantime, they got her started on the first round of shots and medication.
While she was waiting though, Scarab stepped in to visit her. She was looking well, if not a little sleep deprived, and was dressed down in cargo shorts and a black tee she’d tucked in. Her beanie was missing from her head, but Heatstroke suspected it was in the bulging pocket against her thigh. She smiled that sweet smile of hers, the one that narrowed her eyes in the cutest way. “Hey, Riley, it’s good to see you.”
Heatstroke made sure the covers were still over her bare, mottled legs and sat up in the cot. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Can’t say the same for you,” Scarab chuckled and sat on the side of the bed. She ruffled some of Heatstroke’s coiled knots of hair. “Girl, I thought you were dead for sure.”
“Same here,” she said, biting the inside of her lip. This reunion played out in her head so many times now, it kept her going through some of the worst moments. She didn’t have the nerve before, but this time she’d say it. “I missed you so much.”
Scarab hugged her, careful for her shoulder. “I’ve missed you too. I’m so glad to be wrong for a change.”
Curling her fingers into the back of Scarab’s shirt, Heatstroke took a deep breath and mustered her courage. This wasn’t exactly the romantic atmosphere she envisioned, and she looked more battered than a tenderized steak. “I uh, I’ve got something I gotta tell you.”
“Mhm, same here,” she replied and leaned back from the hug. With an expression so warm it colored her cheeks, Scarab continued to pet her dirty, mangled hair. “I think I’m in love.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. Hope clenched her throat like a vice as she mustered a small, “You do?”
Scarab nodded and looked down bashfully. “Yeah, with the Captain. I’m just waiting for him to realize—”
There was more attached to that, but Heatstroke felt her soul slip from her mortal skin to scream agonizingly into the void. She watched her mouth move, but the words stopped making sense. That major hope that kept Heatstroke going through all the hell she endured crashed and burned like the Hindenburg.
“Ah, I’m sorry, what did you want to say?” Scarab asked.
Heatstroke was at a loss for words. Why had she expected anything else? The truth was simple, she indulged in wishful thinking to survive, but she wouldn’t get that sappy confession or the happily ever after. At the end of the day, Scarab was her straight-as-a-pencil friend, forever oblivious while Heatstroke yearned and toiled in frustration. It was like high school all over again, except this time she knew she was lesbian and not just maybe a little curious. “I…” She choked up. Her chin quivered as she contemptuously stared down at the beige blanket. “I think I need some space. This last month, it’s… been hard.”
Scarab’s hands slid down the short sleeves of Heatstroke’s johnny, and finally pulled away. “I mean, sure. Take all the time you need, but I’ll still be here for you.”
“Thanks,” Heatstroke mumbled.
It was then that the doctor returned and asked Scarab to leave in order to discuss the pregnancy test results. Scarab gave her a small smile and left. Once she was gone, the doctor took a deep breath. “Your results are negative, Riley. You are not pregnant.”
Heatstroke cried on the spot.
It was a full blown ugly, laughing/sobbing fit, the kind that hurts your face and leaves you choking on snot. How the hell was it possible to feel so much relief bundled up around so much pain? People weren’t meant to be this fucked on the inside, their emotions dragged about like heavy chains anchored to their skin, pulling and pulling. Ripping. She didn’t even know she could cry this hard.
The doctor tried to console her, and once the initial breakdown subsided, he offered to have a nurse escort her to the showers. Heatstroke couldn’t speak, her neck hurt too much, so she nodded and was traded off to a young woman with colorful pasley patterns on her scrubs who ushered her to a communal bathroom and handed her a few simple toiletries.
“Do you need any assistance?”
Heatstroke shook her head and closed the door. She proceeded to give her body the most desperately needed scrubbing of her goddamn life, as if she could peel off the top layer of her skin and pretend none of it ever happened. She scraped her mouth out so thoroughly she gagged on the toothbrush. By the end, she was sore and pink and her face had apparently broken out in little red spots among her freckles that resembled a rash.
Petechiae, the nurse had assured her, it’d clear up on its own. Apparently she strained her face so much crying that she ruptured blood vessels.
When she envisioned freedom, this wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.
They kept her overnight for observation, got her running on a couple of antibiotics and a morning-after pill just to be sure. The nurse guided her through a few stretches to help with scarring.
Just when she thought she’d finally have some peace and quiet, she had another visitor. MacTavish leaned in the doorway, out of breath and his hand pressed to his ribs. His arms were covered in healing bruises, and much of his hair in the process of growing out. She’d never seen him with much more than a light beard, but it’d fully sprouted into a dense, curling shrub.
“Evening,” he greeted between short breaths.
Heatstroke sat up in bed. “Captain. I wasn’t expecting you’d come down here.”
“Nurse almost wouldn’t let me. It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, yeah, likewise. You, uh, you look like you had a rough time while I was gone. I mean, the others said you’d been stabbed but…” She trailed mid ramble.
“Aye, it was a bit of a mess. I can’t imagine how much worse it would’ve been if you hadn’t warned us though.”
She frowned. “I was just trying not to die.”
MacTavish shrugged one shoulder, a half smirk with it. “Mission accomplished.” Someone, probably the nurse, spoke behind him, he glanced back at them. “Aye, aye, I’ll get goin’. We’ll talk soon, alright, Heatstroke?”
“For sure. Rest up, okay?”
And as quickly as he had appeared, he lumbered off. Heatstroke pulled the blanket up over her head and laid in silence that night. In the quiet of the ward, she plucked at the fibers of the thin mattress, her mind shut off but stubbornly still on. The most bullshit of sleep modes.
The following afternoon, Heatstroke was discharged with a small list of medications to get her through and the instruction that if she experienced any worsening symptoms of infection to return as soon as possible. Of all people to drive her back to the base, it ended up being Ghost.
She wasn’t used to seeing him without the balaclava, how angular his features were. He was handsome for a guy who walked around with basically a halloween mask all the time.
Maybe she’d been studying it too long, because he glanced at her from the corner of one droopy eye and asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” she answered and turned her head the other way. “I just, I don’t think I ever saw you without the mask before.”
“Don’t get used to it. Soon as MacTavish is outta the clinic, it’s going back on.”
She twiddled her thumbs. “Any reason you wear it so much?”
“Privacy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“As in I don’t like talking about it.”
“Ah.” Guess there would be some deep secret why he wore it. Not like anybody knew to begin with beyond scant rumors.
Ghost thumbed the wheel and sighed. “You hungry? There’s a market in the village.”
Was this an attempt at levity? Heatstroke stretched her legs out into the footwell, her heels dredging up cigarette butts along the mat. It didn’t help much with the nerves. “I could probably use it. Think I lost weight.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything.”
She snorted. “You’re too kind.”
“Hopefully you still got an appetite.”
“Not really, but I gotta start somewhere.” Before the clinic, she must’ve gone about three days without food. Before that, probably another four or five. Meals were inconsistent, which made it easier to threaten her with taking them away if she wasn’t compliant. Just another tactic to break her down.
Ghost turned down a road that cut back around the way they came. Soon they arrived in the sprawling village of short buildings with tin roofs and vibrantly painted walls, wire lines of fluttering banners and clothes. Beyond this outer edge, the buildings became more compact and scaling. They parked out of the way and walked into the market, which was just far enough that she was short of breath by the time they reached it.
The streets were bustling, crowds of people chattered and slipped through stalls of vibrant clutter and strong smelling foods. The sounds of people working, smashing bananas to a paste, or butchering chickens, and children shrieking as they darted through with a soccer ball. So many people not to bump into — she already did — would they understand her if she apologized? Heatstroke went too long isolated with limited human contact, grasping onto every conversation she could hear outside to pick apart for context. She slowed down and covered her ears to try and block some of it out.
A tap to her arm. “Hey, let’s find somewhere quiet.” Ghost already had a paper box in hand.
They stopped halfway back to the jeep, where all the hustle and bustle was a lot more tame, and sat on a bench.
Ghost handed her the box and got out a pack of cigarettes. “Hope you like spice.”
“My dad’s from New Orleans, I like to think I got a bit of a spice tolerance.” Heatstroke cracked open the box and took in the pepper laden rice with chunks of chicken(?) and fried plantains on top. She wasn’t exactly a West African cuisine connoisseur but she had a strong inkling that this was jollof rice. There was also a generous amount here. She offered the fork. “You want any?”
“Don’t worry about me, just eat what you can,” he said and patted himself down for his lighter. The top edge of the metal casing was discolored.
Heatstroke twirled the fork back around in her fingers and dug in. The spice had to be the best bit of pain she got slapped with in a while, as it sank over every inch of her mouth and burned. This rice was the sort of spicy that clears out the pores and sinuses. Even though it had her turning red, it still had to be the best damn thing she ate in a long time. Her dad and sister would be all over this. It was a shame she couldn’t eat more of the hefty serving.
She closed the box, surely someone else would enjoy the rest of it back at the base. For now though, Ghost put out his cigarette and they returned to the jeep.
In the idling car, with the radio music barely a murmur over the engine, Ghost said, “I’m not the best person to come to for advice for this sort of thing, but if you ever need to talk about it, I can listen.”
It took her by surprise. She glanced down at the oil stained box on her lap, stuck on how to answer. “... I’m not sure how I’d even talk about it.”
“It’s not easy to talk about.”
“Yeah. I just wanna scrub it away, like it never happened. Get on with my life.” Her wrists were still bruised and cut from tape and zip ties digging into her skin. “That way nobody has to worry about me.”
“It’d be nice. People mean well, but they just don’t get it.”
“Right… I’m sure everybody’s heard by now what happened.”
“Captain Price handled the news, but he kept the details vague. It’s up to you who you want to know, if anybody.”
“Somebody’s bound to ask.”
“Sure. And if they do, tell ‘em to fuck off. It’s none of their business.” There was a hint of bitterness to his words as he stared out the windshield.
Heatstroke’s brows pinched. This wasn’t the first time she came to him with her problems, but this was the first time he reacted this way. She didn’t know when or where, but she got the sense he understood her on a real and uncomfortable level.
He got out his pack of cigarettes again and slipped out another. “Want one?”
She stared at the cigarette between Ghost’s fingers, initially ready to say no but hesitated. At no point in her life was she a smoker, not that she ever minded the smell or anything, but the health risks were always a bit daunting. Then again, she didn’t exactly expect to be alive right now anyway. If she could survive all that bullshit, she could have one smoke, right?
Ghost was kind enough to light it for her, and she went right for it. Didn’t exactly dawn on her that she didn’t understand how it worked until she sucked in a hot lungful of smoke and immediately started hacking. Like a dweeb, she fucked that up so spectacularly that Ghost laughed and took it back.
“Never smoked before, I take it?”
She coughed into her arm, tears in her eyes. “N-no.”
“Good. It’s a nasty habit,” he said, proceeding to smoke hers and flicking the ashes out the window.
They lapsed into silence, a natural end to that discussion. Ghost burned through half that cigarette and Heatstroke plucking at loose threads of her pants.
Did she want to talk about it? No, certainly not with most people. Especially not Scarab right now. She didn’t want anyone’s sympathy and pity in the form of consoling words. They’ll surely say they’re sorry for her, or try to find some grand meaning in it all, like what happened to her was more than violence to enforce power. There was no goddamn reason for it, no greater purpose.
… But she supposed, if there was anyone she wouldn’t get that from, it’d be Ghost. Maybe someday, when this wasn’t so hard to put to words, she’d talk to him.
Today though, she said nothing else. Ghost finished his cigarette and drove back to base. She quietly cranked up the radio in hopes that she could drown out the endless loop of her searching for something to say and second guessing. There wasn’t pressure to make conversation, at least on Ghost’s part. But Paralyzer wasn't helping and she felt the need to fill the silence.
Not what happened. Something else. "You know what makes all this even worse?"
"Go on."
"Yesterday, I botched a love confession like a fucking high schooler."
"Haven't we all," Ghost snorted.
Heatstroke scratched her cheek. "This is seriously awkward, so don't laugh, but I had this crush on Scarab since like… middle school."
Ghost pushed his knuckles to his mouth to stifle a laugh. "Scarab?"
She batted his chest. "Stop laughing! Yeah, Scarab. I always meant to tell her and I never could. But after everything that happened, I didn't think I'd live this long, I figured I might as well tell her. And I didn't think she'd accept anyway, I just wanted to get it off my chest."
"So what happened?"
"I didn't even say it before she told me she loved someone else."
Ghost’s eyes narrowed and he drew a sharp breath. "MacTavish."
"I—wait, you knew about that?"
"Frankly, I think half the base does. Subtly is not her strong suit." He rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel.
"Damn. Apparently I missed a lot. Either way, it really sucked, you know?" Heatstroke knocked her head back against the seat. "But seriously, what the fuck? I was captured by terrorists for a month. You'd think that'd mean I get to say my shit first before she goes off about how happy and in love she is. I don’t usually stay upset for long, but this was bullshit."
"Yeah, that is bullshit. Honestly, I'm not surprised though, she likes the attention," Ghost remarked, then must have thought better of it because he locked his lips shut and gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Heatstroke double blinked. "Whoa, I know why I'm mad, but what's got you in a tiz?"
He cleared his throat. "Let's just say MacTavish has already told her a couple of times now that it’d be unprofessional, and she is still pursuing it for some reason."
She cringed heavily. "Yup, that's Scarab for you. Follows her heart, never her head."
Ghost laughed and shook his head. "No, no she doesn't."
Some time later, the jeep rolled into the barbed wire perimeter and parked in the lot. Heatstroke reached for the door handle.
“Heatstroke,” Ghost said, causing her to give pause. “Things won’t be easy, so no matter what, take care of yourself first. And if you need to talk, reach out.”
She wrapped her fingers around the door handle tight, a fresh prickling of tears building in her eyes. “I will. Thanks.”
Notes:
We've got some major changes from Plan B in this chapter while still overall covering the plot beats. This was a pretty stupid, but hilarious arc in Plan B to read. Scarab gets abducted out of nowhere, and the rest of the gang give chase to rescue her. This includes Soap, who has barely even started healing, he's on pain meds and everything, which Scarab has been making a stink about. They get captured, there's a dumb bit of description about how people are shackled in a dungeon, and then Makarov's like "let's let our newest member execute them." Enter Heatstroke, who was somehow revived from her injuries (the bullet only grazed her head apparently?) and brainwashed into joining Makarov's Inner Circle. She and Scarab cage fight, prompting a pretty run of the mill "I know you're in there" fight. Heatstroke wakes up, Makarov's pissed, and they start executing. Starting with Tatiana for some fucking reason. Then Gonzolo breaches the room, Makarov flees, and they just don't go after him and instead are gonna divert to Columbia for a bit.
I hemmed and hawed about whether or not I was gonna kill Tatiana or not here like in Plan B. For a bit, I considered letting her live and having her and Heatstroke get close, but overall Tatiana wouldn't have had anything to do plot-wise, especially since I saved both Doc and the Doctor from MW3. Any shit she could've been doing, I had already planned to have happen with Ghost. I wound up killing her off-screen, hence the body bag.
Then there's this Gonzolo character who simply does not exist in Plan A. I think I mentioned before, Gonzolo's role is replaced by Yuri, a canon character. Let me touch base on Gonzolo's character real quick. He's from the Columbian Army and stops drug runners from going up into... all of Central America and by extension North America? He was orphaned and fostered, because drug dealers raided his hometown, and he has a special hatred for marijuana in particular. Additionally, he's a huge ass Scarab simp. Doesn't matter how obvious it is that she's with Soap, he still will love her from the sidelines and talk about how perfect she is in every way. The plot forgets he's there half the time until he's suddenly Soap's best friend in the stupid unfinished sequel.
Yuri isn't going to simp over Scarab, don't worry. That guy has to be like mid to late forties by now, and Scarab's way too emotionally young for him. Instead, we get Heatstroke inadvertently revealing his origins early, thus resolving any late game suspicion. Yuri can now speak more freely about his intel on Makarov. He's basically giving the same speech he did in Blood Brothers here.That's all for today, folks. Stay safe and much love. <3
Dotso (Guest) on Chapter 1 Wed 30 Nov 2022 04:45PM UTC
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