Chapter Text
“If You Dance, I’ll Dance”
05/07/2017 - 16:38:56
Sgt John “Soap” MacTavish
Abandoned Warehouse - Suspected Weapons Cache
Karelia, Russia
To say Soap has a bad feeling about this mission would be an understatement.
For one, he’s on his own - not that that’s not normal. He isn’t the youngest to pass SAS selection for nothing.
And, okay, he isn’t entirely alone; he has overwatch nearby, hunkered down between ice-laden pines roughly 700 meters downwind. The sniper (a neat little dude with a raspy accent, who went by the codename "Souris") was on loan from France's Commandement des Opérations Spéciales - he had a decent service record and had been amicable enough on the way over - but still; Soap would rather have someone familiar holding his life between the crosshairs of their rifle.
Price is in his ear, stuck back at base on medical rest with a broken ankle. The two of them had hobbled away from their last mission a little worse-for-wear, but it was only Price who'd been benched - and boy was he unhappy about it. He'd been bitching up a storm from the second he'd gotten checked by medical all the way up to when Soap boarded the helicopter two days ago.
So Soap isn't completely alone, but still - something is stirring in the shadows of the warehouse, setting his teeth on edge.
Then, there's the intel - Look, Soap isn’t the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. A free break is a free break. Yet, it irked him (and Price, he knew) that they’d gotten the intel so easily.
Not peacefully, sure, but the coordinates had fallen out of the mouth of an unsuspecting lackey like a sigh in a breeze. No fanfare, no nothing - the information about a possible weapons cache near Finland’s border casually dropped into an audio bug with the same nonchalance as an update on the weather; the weapons cache supposedly belonging to none-other than Vladimir Makarov himself, the twisted bastard, a man with a reputation stained red by his lack of mercy.
It's just— It's just odd.
The words 'Makarov' and 'casual' don't belong in the same sentence, let alone the same book - it's no wonder the whole situation is making Soap paranoid.
The mission objective itself is simple; a grab-and-go, minimal resistance expected. Get in, confirm or deny the intel, then bugger the hell out of there before trouble shows up.
Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to go in hot. His gun, while locked and loaded, hadn’t been fired once. He’d taken out a masked guardsman outside with a silent knife to the jugular, while his sniper had downed three others.
All of that, and yet - Soap can’t shake the weariness that nips at his heels.
Maybe he’s just paranoid.
Maybe it’d just been a little too long since his last leave.
Maybe he’s just psyching himself out more and more by jumping at shadows.
Regardless, something has him spooked.
His boots are quiet against the concrete floor as he exits the final un-checked office on ground floor. He’s found little of note, just scraps of daily military life: a few Russian MRE wrappers, an abandoned game of solitaire, wood shavings with a small lop-sided carving of a bear (or a horse, maybe a dog?) at an empty table...
So far, so good - but no weapons.
“First floor clear, moving downstairs,” he murmurs into his comms, his pistol held at the ready as he approaches the stairwell to the basement.
“Copy, 7-1. Souris, what’s your status?” Price hums as Soap begins his slow descent. He sticks close to the wall, putting his gun between himself and the musty air of the underground room.
The lights are on.
The lights are on.
The lights shouldn’t be on - unless someone is down here, unless someone was around to turn them on - but there isn't a soul in sight. Something flutters in his gut, coiling with the uneasiness already stirring there. His jaw clenches involuntarily as he begins to sweep the room.
It could be nothing.
Maybe the guards they'd already cleared had just... left the lights onー
(Soap's not a gambling man, though. The chill that'd previously taken residence in his spine has turned into a full-blown blizzardー)
“Souris, do you copy?” Price tries again, his voice nothing but background noise as Soap scouts the area with deadly efficiency.
There’s nothing remarkable about the basement's setup; old folding chairs and empty shelves lined the walls, holding nothing but a thick layer of dust and spider webs. A few crates sit here or there, scattered around the room like someone had started organizing but had given up halfway through. The main feature of the otherwise empty space is a lone shipping container, lodged against the wall across from the stairs.
It's an ugly thing; its blue paint peeling over rusted metal, making it look bruised and beaten. It's almost scraping the ceiling with it's height, and it's bigger than the stairwell - how did it get down here?
Soap shakes the curiosity from his head as he approaches, his steps still cautious. His earpiece buzzes again, “Souris, do you copy? Soap- are you there?”
Soap flattens himself against the side of the metal container, positioned by the door with his pistol poised and ready. Mindful, he takes his finger off the trigger.
(Price would skelp him for shitty trigger discipline if he was there.)
His ear presses against the textured metal as he listens for noise inside, but when he hears nothing, he takes a second to flick his comm on.
“Aye, ‘m here sir. Dinnae ken what Souris’ status is,” he pauses, inching closer to the door and keeping his voice low, “May have found somethin’ though - permission to proceed?”
There’s no movement anywhere else in the room - in fact, he hasn’t seen another soul since the guard at the door.
(Yet the lights had been on downstairs; the only people here had been guarding or patrolling outside, so why were the basement lights on?)
It’s beginning to eat at him.
The coiling in his gut is acidic; he wants to flee, his body in fight or flight despite there being no visible threatsー
“Proceed, Sergeant - with caution,” Price warns. There’s a grit to his captain’s voice now, one that Soap is very familiar with; a low growl of unease, a verbal cue that Price is just as apprehensive about whatever fuckery is going on as Soap isー
Soap swallows a wave of anxiety, calming his jittery nerves before moving forward.
“Rog, movin’ forward now,” he says, shuffling ahead.
He’s barely eased the metal stoplock off the container door when it jolts open. He has a second to register that someone had kicked it open from the inside before he’s face to face with the barrel of a gunー
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The shots are loud, echoing around the expansive empty room, and Soap gets a few off of his own before he hits the ground. He keeps shooting as he goes down though, curses falling from his lips like shell casings—
He drops two assailants as they pile out of the container, and tags another in the leg before they get smart enough to use container hull as cover. Their guns still peak out around the corner, firing with abandon as Soap heaves himself up on shaky legs and dives behind a crate.
His mind is lagging behind due to shock, but he’s able to pull himself together long enough to make it behind the meager cover.
The acidic burn has moved from his gut to his throat, but thatー ohー that’s not anxiety anymore; he goes to drag in a breath and instead inhales a splash of warm, wet blood.
His hand flies to his neck and immediately he feels it; a deep gouge through the flesh where a bullet had torn its path through, now an angry volcano of blood beneath his fingertips. He gurgles on it, unsteady as he presses his hand to the wound.
It’s— fuck, it’s not good.
He gasps, his breathing wet. The shooting behind him hasn’t stopped; he can feel his flimsy cover shudder with each impact, splintering under the hail of bullets aimed his way.
“Soap! Soap, how copy?!” Price shouts in his ear, voice distressed, “Sergeant?!”
Soap can’t respond; gun in one hand and throat cupped in the other, he pulls himself up enough to let out a few more shots before his gun clicks empty. The desperate bullets find home in a few brave suckers who've come out of hiding - no doubt to finish him off - but Soap’s kills are rewarded by a flash of white hot pain through his shoulderー
He yelps, the bullet's momentum pulling him down on his back once moreー
This time, he realizes with a flood of panic, he can’t get back upー
He’s lost all feeling in his right arm, and his pistol clatters to the ground uselessly, slipping through numb fingers. Soap flips himself over and begins to crawl his way forward - driven by the frenzied rush of fear gnawing at his coreー
If he didn’t— If he couldn’t get out of here now, he wasn’t getting out at allー
The pulse thundering in his ears makes him deaf to the approaching enemy, so he's caught off guard when a hand tangles in his hair and yanks his head back.
It pulls at the throbbing wound on his neck and it burns, and he screams with a mix of agony and defiance. He manages to elbow his assailant, but gets a swift and vicious kick to the stomach for his troublesー
More hands grab him, wrestling him onto his stomach and pinning his arms painfully behind his backー
“Le’ go o’ me, yeh fuckers!” He gurgles as he thrashes, words lost between mouthfuls of blood. He’s maneuvered to his knees, the world blurring with the movement before it clears. The fist in his hair remains, wrenching his head back at an angle that has him seeing black at the edges of his vision.
A pale face appears, looming over him like a hunter over fallen game. Soap’s stuttering breathing nearly stops, lungs seizing when he recognizes the thin facial scar that blemishes the man’s foreheadー
Makarov stares down at him with dead eyes, expressionless besides the pleased raise of his brows. He reaches down, nearly cupping Soap’s face before his hand drops to the comm on his shoulderー
“I have to borrow this,” he says, plucking the earpiece from Soap’s ear and silencing the tinny, frantic voice that pours from the small speaker. Makarov considers the device with mild disdain before unplugging it, detaching the comm from Soap's vest and holding it by his face instead.
(Soap’s frightened and woozy mind finds it hilarious that the mighty Vladimir Makarov may be a germaphobeー)
“Captain Price,” Makarov’s voice is steady and loud in the echoing room, “I’ve been hoping to talk to you. A heart to heart, as it wasー”
“Makarov, you bastardー” Price snarls, a deep wounded sound highlighted by rage. It’s clearly the reaction Makarov is looking for, because he smirks with too many teeth and those dead fucking eyesー
Soap… he’s not getting out of here, is he?
Honestly, it’s not looking great for him.
He’s wounded, probably mortally so - the bullet he’d taken to the neck had ripped through the outermost flesh, but it still must have nicked an artery with how swiftly his left shoulder and chest are being bathed in fresh blood. The wound to his shoulder isn’t nothing either; his right arm is completely cold, out of commission (now, and maybe even forever). He's surrounded too, four men at his back and a Russian warlord chatting like a schoolgirl on the phone a few feet awayー
If he didn’t bleed out, there's no way they weren’t going to kill him.
This whole thing must have been a trap anyway.
(Briefly, Soap’s mind wanders to his companion Souris; either the man was dead, in the blind, or had sold them out to Makarov. He’s hesitant to point fingers with such little evidence, but his head is growing increasingly muddled and some of his fear is burning into blazing angerー)
He doesn’t realize the grip on his hair has been dropped until his head falls forward, chin awkwardly knocking into his tactical vest. The hands on his arms have eased up, too; he’s propped up against two sets of legs, a loose bracketing to hold his limp body up.
Suddenly… Suddenly Soap has an opening.
He keeps his body loose and limp, slouching down farther to sell the act (not that he has to try, seeing as he is still actively bleeding out).
The burning rage in his chest bids him to wait, so he does. He slowly works his emergency knife down his sleeve towards his handー
If he’s not making it out of here… he’s going down swingingー
Makarov’s boots reappear in his line of sight.
He’s a few feet in front of Soap, still exchanging threats with Price on that damned radio. Then he crouches, reaching under Soap’s shirt and pulling his ID discs free.
“It was good to talk with you again, Price. I've missed our chats. Too bad your soldiers had to die for it,” the thin metal discs clink together between his fingers, “MacTavish, J.H. - what a shame. Goodbye for now, John Price.”
Captain Price’s response is cut short by the telltale click of the "off" button, the comm tossed carelessly to the side.
“Ладно, ребята, готовьте машины, мы выезжаем,” Makarov demands, and two sets of footsteps retreat. Makarov leans forward as he moves to get up from his crouchー
Soap pouncesー
He snaps his head up, catching Makarov’s chin with the top of his skull.
The connecting clack is nauseating, but Soap doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He launches himself forward and out of the Russians’ light hold, tackling Makarov and landing on him, pinning the man's arms to his sides using his legsー
He twists his torso mid-movement, his knife flashing as he slashes it across the legs that had been behind him. The distracting pain gives him an second to make another swing, and he sweeps the henchmen's firearms out of their handsー
They clatter to the groundー
It buys him the time he needs to turn again, the bloody blade reared back to slam down into Makarov’s chest.
For a millisecond, there's a flash in Makarov’s eyes - it's something vibrant and flammable, something akin to fear - but it’s gone just as quick, buried under dark pits of vile sin.
A hand from behind grabs Soap’s wrist inches from Makarov’s ribcage, and he’s torn off of the Russian with a rebellious yowl.
He squirms in the hold, twisting his knife to sink it into flesh, but his small victory buys nothing but another body barreling into his own, followed by a fist slamming into his faceー
His whole world whirls around at that, his consciousness threatening to flee him as the adrenaline rush subsidesー
He still fights, flailing his arm out and kicking his legsー
He feels feral; disconnected from his body, his subconscious taking over in one last vicious struggle to cause pain.
But it’s not enough. He’s pinned again, rougher than last time; his face is slammed down into the concrete floor with enough force to rattle his teeth.
This is it, he thinks dizzily as he’s hauled back up onto his knees. This is where he dies.
He hopes his mother doesn’t take the news too harshly.
His father had passed only a year ago, and Soap had gotten last minute leave to attend the funeral. His mother had been solemn through the whole thing, through the funeral and the prayers and the wake ー but once they’d closed the doors, it'd all fallen apart.
She held him tightly in her arms and begged him to stay, begged him not to leave her behind like his father had - and when he refused, she’d begged him to stay safe. He’d only seen her cry once before in his life, yet her teary eyes were the last he'd seen of her when he leftー
Someone grabs his chin and Soap focuses his eyes forward.
He’s seeing double for a second, but the image clears; Makarov is looking down at him with detached interest. Soap has enough energy to gather a mouthful of blood and spit it towards him.
He can’t tell if it hits.
Makarov says something in Russian that's lost on Soap’s ears. He fights the call of unconsciousness for long enough to feel himself being hoisted into the airー
Then nothing.