Chapter Text
Soap woke up slowly, his eyes still closed stubbornly shut against the dingy, barely-there glow of the utility lights. He grimaced and ground his teeth together. He took a chance and cracked one eye open but slammed it shut just as quickly as his skull was wracked with a persistent sharp ache.
Eyes still shut, he took a moment to examine himself mentally, head to toe- or, toe to head. He rolled his ankles, right then left- it appeared, at least, that his feet were still attached.
He bent his knees. Still intact, although his right knee twinged with the movement and let out a deafening pop in the otherwise silent room. Overall solid, reason for concern, maybe, but not right now.
Pelvis, intact. Hips, intact. Ribs- fuck- definitely not intact, but likely bruised rather than broken- he would know the difference- and shoulders rolled back on command, as expected, check.
Hands, he clenched into fists at his side- intact, a little stiff- okay, more than a little- wrists, sore and rubbed raw from handcuffs or shackles or, at one time or another, both- but miraculously not broken. Check.
Shoulders- upon closer examination and since he’s being honest with himself- incredibly fucking stiff. It’s probably from how he had been lying, flat on his back, head propped up on something at an incredibly awkward angle- and, continuing on with the self-assessment, his neck protested as he tilted his head slightly, but obeyed nonetheless.
That left his head. His arm didn’t complain all that much as he slung a hand towards his face, his clumsy fingers taking stock of the damage.
All of his teeth were there, thank fuck; there was a gash along his chin that smarted something fierce when he prodded at it, and he probably had a wicked black eye or two for his troubles.
His hand was sticky and wet when he finally removed it from his face. Blood, most likely, and he hoped to god there weren’t any tears somewhere in the mix. He was too tough a bastard to cry over a little rough treatment. Once again, he would know. He’s been through much worse.
Body- bloodied and battered but not broken- overall solid. Head still pounded like a bitch, but the cobwebs had shaken themselves free at this point, and he was willing to take whatever consolation prize he could get.
He forced his eyes open, top eyelashes glued to the bottom ones with half-dry blood. It made the whole already unpleasant ordeal that much grosser, but he pushed through the discomfort and pain to finally take in the sorry state of things.
He was in some type of dark grey jumpsuit with obnoxious orange accents. He pushed down a groan and forced himself to lean up and away from the crate he was half propped against like a sack of potatoes.
The room he found himself in was dingy, dirty, and tinged with the smell of blood, but maybe he was just getting a whiff of his own. Either way, he stumbled his way to his feet and caught a glimpse of a gas mask sitting on a dilapidated table. The glass of the eyeholes gleamed back at him, almost halfheartedly in the scant light afforded to it, and he scooped it up and strapped it over his head before he could think about it for too long.
He’s sure he looked a right mess- blood seeping down his neck if the itchiness is anything to go by- his mohawk sticking haphazardly between the straps of his new mask- and now, he had a slightly embarrassing limp, to boot.
Shuffling his way further into the room was a Herculean task, but Soap was a tough bastard, as he’s content to continuously remind us, so he staggered only slightly as he dragged one boot in front of the other as he went.
Lots of dust, no doors, plenty of wooden crates and empty metal drums- his eyes trailed along some kind of pipe embedded into the windowless wall and led him to a very large, very thick metal door with a lever to the right of it.
Fuck.
He’s really done it now, whatever it was he did.
Well, realistically, he knew exactly what ‘whatever it was’ he did. He had gotten restless, angry, and violent over the past few years. The Gigastructure had a way of crawling under your skin, living in your veins, burrowing into your marrow- and, good as a bloke as Soap had always considered himself, he was no less corrupted and mutilated by his environment all the same.
It must’ve been his last stunt that got him sent here, or maybe a combination of the last three. Either way, it didn’t really matter, he mused to himself, and staggered his way over to the glaring bright green glow of the lever.
He had done the crime, and Kletka was here to make him pay the price.
The lever groaned in protest as he forced it downwards. The screech of the metal doors opening crashed around his skull like nails on a chalkboard.
Finally, after the prolonged screech of metal on metal ground to a stop, the gaping maw of Kletka, his new home, his new prison, greeted him.
Something dark and strange in the back of his mind would’ve preferred being sentenced to death, but as he crossed the threshold and into Kletka, he had to admit he kind of got his wish.
Kletka was just as gnarly as the rumours had suggested. Her interior consisted of a red, angry fuel tank with a rack for fuel canisters, an operational lever, a screen- currently blank- and an exposed panel ready for repairs.
A drip of… Something landed on Soap’s shoulder, and he slowly turned his gaze upwards.
A massive mouth lined with teeth the size of his head and a dangling lantern was embedded in the ceiling- or was the ceiling itself, he wasn’t really sure- and his reflexive scream was muffled and drowned out by his gas mask.
He stumbled backwards and fell flat on his ass, his bum knee straining with the impact.
“Hell’s fuckin’ bells,” he breathed, eyes locked onto the undulating mouth.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, lass,” he mumbled to Kletka and was equal parts relieved and disappointed that she didn’t reply.
The screen to the left of the lever had stark white words across its face.
PULL THE LEVER
With a laboured sigh, Soap dragged himself to his feet and followed Kletka’s instructions, sending him down to the first of many floors.