Chapter Text
Captain Price had often wondered what hell would be like.
Would it be a fiery, tortuous nightmare of biblical proportions, or simply a never ending loop of reliving all your worst memories? For him, they’d likely invent something new—something far worse, far more monstrous than he could ever comprehend.
There was no denying it; he knew that's what awaited him. He knew he deserved it. Every last second of torment and suffering. After a lifetime of sin and bad decisions, sacrificing the few to save the many, even hell seemed like too tame of a punishment.
Tens of thousands of lives lost by his hand; lives he tried to justify by saying it was for the greater good. Wiped half a state off the map to get his hands on one man. No, he wasn't a good person. He'd come to terms with that a long time ago; his only purpose was to make the world safer for those who came after, no matter what it took.
And the last thing he remembered was all an consuming need for vengeance, gritting his teeth so hard they may have cracked as his hands squeezed tightly around Makarovs throat. The rage while wrapping that chain around it and slamming him against the glass ceiling so hard it shattered beneath them. The way they both fell.
Watching Makarov hang there lifeless didn't make him feel better. The rage subsided, but nothing rushed in to take its place. Not relief, not joy, not even an iota of satisfaction. It didn't make him feel anything . As he sat up, lighting a cigar, he just felt empty.. like a shell. Hollow.
Splintered pieces of glass and metal had been lodged into his stomach, chest, thighs and hands; the pain was dull even as the adrenaline faded and his other senses began to fail. Price had stopped fearing death a long time ago—it was a gift at this point, to ignore his own humanity.
He wondered in that moment, if Soap had felt this peaceful on death's door too; the lad hadn’t shed one tear, or even cried out. He’d only ever made frustrated grunts and put all his energy into running even with all that blood spilling from his guts.
He’d accepted death as Price had done too.
He kept smoking, slowly breathing.. slower and slower each time, until he couldn’t feel anything. Darkness overtook his vision with all his other senses fading until his mind had been the last thing left. And in that quiet oblivion, words—five words; some of the first Makarov had ever said to him:
I’ll see you in hell.
It’s what they both deserved. So why in the hell did he wake up in an unfamiliar, normal bedroom?
For the last several months, he’d been sleeping on the floor, on blankets, on whatever was available in all the shitholes they camped out in while on the run. None of it had been comfortable, and he’d been lucky to get more than three hours a night, but it was just how he operated.
The softness pressing against his back was a foreign sensation; completely wrong with how little his neck ached, since he had a cushiony pillow supporting that too. Maybe that says something about his life, that waking up feeling refreshed sets off a dozen alarm bells in his mind.
He’s out of bed in an instant, reaching for the gun he keeps at his side, but there’s nothing there. The five inch knife he keeps sheathed inside his boot isn't either—in fact, he’s not even wearing boots. Just socks, a plain gray tee shirt, and.. sweatpants? He had never worn sweatpants in his life, didn’t even own them.
Patting himself down reveals just how unarmed and defenceless he is. No guns, no knives, no equipment—he always slept in his uniform since he wasn't given the luxury of relaxation. Someone could bust through the door at any second and they’d have to run.
Speaking of, Price rushes across the room and yanks on the door handle, fully expecting it to be locked from the outside, but it opens freely and nearly bashes him in the face. He sidesteps and is immediately blinded by a bright light, forcing him to wince and bring a hand up to cover his eyes. Floodlights? Enemy headlights?
When no one rushes forward to contain him, he blinks rapidly as his eyes adjust to the light. The source is.. the sun. The early morning sun barely brushes the horizon and according to his watch, its zero seven hundred—wait, his watch? He doesn't wear a watch, let alone go to sleep wearing one. Why is he wearing a watch?
His gaze flicks from it to the outside world. It’s immediately obvious he’s on a military base, in a motel-style row of barracks. There are groups of soldiers doing their morning routines; running laps and other exercises. The atmosphere is calm and no one looks over in his direction, so he quickly closes the door.
Standing still in the middle of the room while he assesses potential threats, he gathers as much information as possible. It’s a standard one bedroom layout but so distinctly military with its plain walls, bare minimum furniture and lifeless vibe—no cameras, chained off doors or any obvious signs he's being held hostage.
The best devices were always hidden. He spends the next hour overturning couch cushions, going through drawers, checking under furniture and rummaging through all the hidden compartments he could think of for bugs or trackers.
He heads into the bathroom and rips open the shower curtain, checks the toilet tank, even unscrewing the light bulb, but there’s nothing in there. There’s nothing anywhere , and it didn’t make sense. Then, he turns to inspect the medicine cabinet but freezes like a deer caught in the headlights at what he sees in the mirror.
Price stares at himself in the reflection. It’s him, but.. not. He recognizes the face staring back, but the hair both on his head and beard are far less gray somehow. The nose is more rounded and not as crooked, and his eyes —still blue, but so clear , so bright with alertness and life that he hadn’t felt in such a long time.
Broader shoulders and an overall bigger frame. He’d always been lean and muscular, even when he started drinking and smoking far heavier these last few years, but this was different. He looks healthy—strong, like he was two decades younger and hadn’t gone through that much stress yet.
He frowns. The man in the mirror does the same. He slowly holds a hand out in front of his face, turning his palm upwards while flexing the fingers and the reflection mimics the movement. After a moment, he touches his own face, rough fingers combing the beard, brushing over his cheeks.
There’s no real purpose to it, but he zones out while staring, hand on his chin—it feels real; the rough texture of his fingertips, the warmth radiating from his face, the out of body sensation he experiences. The dumbfounded expression on his face would have made him laugh if not for, well, everything.
Disoriented, he stumbles out of the bathroom and just.. stands there. He’s still tense, every single sense on high alert, even though he isn’t a hostage, or locked in here, or being spied on. So what the hell is going on? How did he get here? Why does he look different?
His attention is drawn to the laptop sitting on the kitchenette table. Standard issue, plain silver colour. Nothing special about it, but it’s the only piece of technology in this room, aside from the cellphone on the nightstand. A part of him wants to destroy it in case it’s bugged too, but he’s still too jarred to do anything except approach the table.
He cautiously sits and opens it. Definitely not a personal laptop, as its loaded with a military grade OS, requiring a password. Knowing he couldn’t sit here attempting all day or someone, somewhere, would be alerted to a potential security breach, he takes a moment to think. One attempt is all he’ll give himself.
One attempt is apparently all he needs, because he types in a string of numbers that he often uses for passwords—and he’s in. He’s greeted with the typical setup that’s far more organized than he's used to. Maybe it's narcissistic, but he pulls up his own file. If his appearance has been altered, he wants to know what else was.
He’s still John Price, but a decade younger, which explains the lack of gray in his hair and the reduced pain in his joints. Only forty four, and what a difference that made. Born in the same place. A little heavier weight wise, which he attributes to the fact that he was now two inches taller. Okay. So, this must be a dream.
He scans through the computer again. Most things are as he remembers: he joined that army at sixteen, became SAS soon after, is a veteran of military operations in nearly every conflict-prone corner of the world and quickly rose through the ranks to become Captain. Highly regarded and well respected.
Mission logs are there too; hundreds of them, going back years. They’re so vividly detailed it’s like he’s reliving memories that aren’t his—he’s never been one for meticulous note taking, so he wonders if someone else writes up the reports in his stead.
No sign of any of the botched or downright heinous missions he’d been on—off the books, or otherwise. This world is still in relatively one piece and the US hasn't been nuked either. They weren’t at war with Russia. All signs pointed to him being on his best behaviour with no history of atrocious war crimes under his belt.
Which just adds more weight to the dream theory. It seems like, here, he’s the best version of himself—something only the conscience of a very, very guilty man would conjure up. He’d been dying right before waking up here, so how long would a dream last? Price shakes his head and continues on.
There were a few key differences in places he’d never been, people he’d never met, but one name seemed to be intertwined with his past quite a lot—A woman named Kate Laswell. Her file was long, detailed and impressive; highly educated and intelligent in the ways of International Affairs. Currently in TS/SCI. CIA shit.
From what he could tell, they met two decades ago and going by how often they communicate, were close friends. He can’t help but acknowledge how convenient it’d be for a man like him to be good friends with someone in the CIA, especially one with the Station Chief rank.
So, he hasn’t time travelled. Despite all the drinking, he would have remembered a woman like this. He was a hard man to impress, with even higher standards, but this Laswell easily jumped through all those hoops—no wonder he, or whoever's life he hijacked—stayed in contact with her.
The hours pass as he digs further into this new reality. The dream theory seems less and less believable as time goes on—it’s likely just a hallucination one's mind makes up while bleeding out. Maybe his subconscious secretly thinks he deserves to have a good time before he’s sent to hell.
Or hell didn’t exist, nor does heaven, and this was just a neutral afterlife. Or purgatory. You’d think they’d have some sort of receptionist or tour guide if that was the case. Either way, he knew he was dead; no one could have possibly saved him in time and brought him back to safety, or got him fixed up so fast. He had died.
There were no fiery masses of damned, screaming souls, but maybe it was trying to lull him into a false sense of security. As soon as he relaxed, they’d pull the rug out from under him and he’d fall into a pit of all his worst nightmares. Maybe he was doomed to relive his whole life.
Deciding to sigh and move on, he opens more files. If something bad were going to happen, he’d cross that bridge when he got to it—no sense in being bored while waiting. The alternative was going outside and talking to people.
Another name he seems to come across often is Farah Karim. Apparently they met when she was a young teenager while he was on a recovery mission in Urzikstan—she was the leader of a resistance, pushing Russians out of their homeland, soon becoming Commander. Quite accomplished for someone so young.
They didn’t keep in contact as much as he and this Laswell did, but it seems their interests align quite often, sharing intel whenever possible and helping each other's causes. There wasn’t much beyond that. Price puts his face in his hands, massaging his temples to soothe the growing headache. None of this made sense.
With an exasperated grunt, he gets up, stretches his limbs and looks around the room, stomach growling as he eyes the small kitchen. Cooking has never been a strong suit. He always eats the rationed, military slop and hasn't had a proper meal in the last nine months.
But when he opens the fridge, there's the basic necessities, along with three tupperware containers. The top one had a yellow sticky note with the words ‘she made extra :)’. Who’s she? God? He grumbles. No point in questioning it either.
Price returns to the laptop and his eyes flick to the time. Somehow, it’s already five thirty seven pm, and he’d woken up at seven in the morning. It’s a little jarring; he’d never allowed himself to get so distracted before—distracted was how you got killed. Well. Perhaps he didn’t have to worry about that anymore.
His eyelids feel heavy, though, and he tries to fight the drowsiness by re-reading his file two more times, absorbing all the relevant information just in case there was a pop quiz later. He goes through the chat logs with Laswell, too. Most of it was short and formal, mission related conversations, but they also joked around together.
By nine forty six, he calls it a night. Shutting the laptop and getting up from the table, he shuffles over to the bed.
Every single night since Soap had died, he had nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes, the visual of Soap gasping for air as he bled out on that table plagued him—constant reminders of how he failed his team, and what awaited him at the end of the road.
It’s always been hard to fall asleep, even before that. Everyone in the military is a light, restless sleeper, so he’s ready to lay there for hours before dozing off, but only minutes after his head hits the pillow, sleep comes. And he doesn’t dream.
Price opens his eyes the next morning, and immediately knows that’s the problem.
He’s in the same bed, wearing the same clothes, in the same place as before. He bolts upright and scans the room for any abnormalities but everything is exactly as it was last night. The laptop is shut, the chair is tucked in, and the dirty tupperware container hadn’t moved from its place on the table.
Just the sight of it makes his stomach grumble—dream, coma or hell, he still had to eat. Reluctantly, he gets out of bed and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Everything still feels as real as it did yesterday; the cool air from the fridge, the heat of the frying pan as he makes eggs, the bland flavour of his black coffee.
It’s seven thirty. If he’s on duty, or expected to be somewhere, he has no idea but someone will definitely come bust down the door if so. There were consequences for a captain no-showing, but they could add it to the list of things he didn’t care about. He opens the laptop, deciding to eat and read for the next couple hours.
At eleven on the dot, a pop-up window appears in the middle of the screen—it’s an incoming call, and he’s tempted to disregard it until he sees the name K. Laswell. He has no real desire to talk to her, or anyone for that matter, but if he ignores it, either she or someone else will show up to check on him.
He accepts the video call and her face appears on screen; almost exactly as it looked in the file, with slightly grayer hair and more wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, as if this was a woman who laughed a lot. He can’t remember the last time he laughed.
“John,” She says, voice roughly how he’d expected it to sound. Though, he is a little caught off guard by the use of his first name. “You look awful—not used to being on vacation, huh?”
Vacation? How convenient. No one had come looking for him because he wasn’t needed, giving him time to figure out what the bloody hell was going on.
“Hardly a vacation.” He replies, and startles himself. It's the first time he’s spoken since waking up here. Just like his face, the voice sounds off. Deeper and gravelly, less of an accent. Not what he knows. “I thought the point of them was to relax.”
She sighs, “You never were one for PTO. I’m surprised you made it three days without causing a fuss—ready to come back yet?”
So, not only did he take over someone else's life, he also hijacked it in the middle of their vacation.
“Sounds like you missed me.” He replies, not enjoying the sound of his changed voice. It feels like he’s forcing it to be deeper, like some sort of twat.
“On the contrary, John, it’s nice to have a break from covering your ass all the time.”
She smiles, bringing up her right hand to brush the bangs out of her face and he spots a wedding band on her finger—he stills, and for a long, horrible moment, he wonders if he’s married. If they’re married, if he somehow forgot that too and the file neglected to mention it. Personal info like that was usually left out.
His eyes flick down to his own hands, but there’s no matching ring to be found—not even an indent, or a tan line. He’d never been one for jewellery aside from Soap’s dogtags around his neck. He glances back up at her. They had different last names. From all that he’s learned about this woman, she probably wouldn’t change hers for anyone.
“It could be worse.” He says, wanting to get to the bottom of it so this stress doesn’t linger. He’s always been a blunt man: “You could be married to me.”
Simple enough to pass off as a joke if they were, in fact, married, if not a little risky.
She raises her eyebrows, “Some days I feel like we are. Sam wouldn’t like that very much, though.”
He can pick up on context clues. Husband, wife, partner, whatever, as long as it wasn’t him. He didn’t care enough to know more.
"I’m just shocked you aren’t checking your work phone every five seconds.” Laswell continues, “You sent Kyle off solo and never checked on him. It surprised both of us.”
He stops the Who? From leaving his throat; he has to play along, act like he knows who these people are.
"I'm sure he can handle it." Is vague enough of a response as he can muster.
"Of course, but it’s like you finally let him leave the nest for the first time.”
Christ. He thinks, I don’t have kids, do I?
While she speaks, he minimizes her window and pulls up the file database again; Kyle isn’t much to go on, but his name—last name Garrick— appears anyway. Alright, so, not his kid. Unless he was a step-kid. Has he been married more than once? Has he even been married once? Christ sake, maybe this really was hell.
Both his and Kyle's folders were connected to another document with a very familiar name.
Task Force 141.
He swallows roughly as he clicks on it and in the sidebar, where all four members are listed, only two names burn into his brain; John MacTavish and Simon Riley. Part of the team in this new world too, but he doesn't have it in him to click on their individual files and see the deceased next to their status.
He wonders if they died the same way.
“John?”
Blinking back into reality, he sits back in the chair and meets Laswell’s curious expression. She’d been talking this whole time about god knows what.
“And.. you didn’t hear a word of that.” She sighs, though it’s clear shes used to it. “The gist of it is you’ll need to head to Amsterdam ahead of schedule.”
Price immediately begins searching again for any sign of that assignment, “But I was having so much fun on vacation.”
There was a vague outline of their objective in Amsterdam, but nothing concrete so he figures it’ll include a lot of improv. He’s always been good at that. And if this was a dream, things will just fall into place naturally.
“I’m sure.” Laswell responds, and the sound of typing can be heard from her end. “I’ll send you the file, but Gaz will fill you in on the rest. He got back a few hours ago, and should be there any moment."
Gaz?
There’s a knock on the door.
He gets up, heading towards it as Laswell makes a comment about how his ass is extremely unflattering in the sweatpants. Price pulls it open, squinting against the immediate sun in his eyes but it’s quickly blocked when the figure in the doorway shifts their stance.
It's been nearly a decade since he's seen gaz, but his memory wasn't that bad—he'd been an older guy, mid thirties, light brown hair and scruffy beard with dark green eyes. Others often joked that he most resembled an American redneck, given the cap he always wore, and the frequent farmer's tan on his pale skin.
Standing in front of him is the kid he saw in the file—what was it? Kyle? He’s pretty much the complete opposite. Younger, maybe mid to late twenties, dark skin, short, black, curly hair with light stubble across his jaw. He had deep brown, yet bright eyes that seemed to shine—definitely not Gaz.
It just meant that this was an entirely different man with the same call sign. That sort of thing happens all the time, call signs get recycled. A deep ache grips his gut at the memory of a man he hadn’t seen in years; on that bridge, too weak to move and too far away to help, as Zakhaev put a bullet in Gaz’s skull.
“Mornin’ Cap.” says Gaz—Kyle? He steps past him into the room. “I didn’t realize you knew what pyjamas are.”
Price can only nod, which isn’t a good start to this whole ‘blending in’ thing, because the kid’s expression changes at his silence. That, and he realizes a few seconds later that it wasn’t exactly a yes or no question. Or a question at all. Kyle’s—Gaz’s eyebrows knit together as genuine concern flashes across his face.
“You feeling alright, sir?”
“That was his first vacation in six years, Kyle.” comes Laswell’s voice from the computer. He’s thankful she answered for him. “I’m sure those four days felt like four years.”
That answer seems to satisfy Kyle, because he nods along. “Ah, maybe we oughta check him into a retirement home then, huh?”
“I’ve been considering it.” She replies, “But John doesn’t like applesauce, and I worry he’d pull a gun when he starts losing at Bingo night.”
He huffs, “Couple of comedians, you two.”
“It’s why you keep us around, John.”
“That—” Gaz interjects, now standing next to the laptop. “—and we do all the work for him. Where would he be without us?”
Though he looked completely different, there was a lingering sense of familiarity—that playful smile following the off-handed cheeky comment.. the mannerisms screamed Gaz— his Gaz. Maybe it wasn’t a different man at all, rather just his soul put into another body.
“I’m sure he asks himself that every day.” Laswell replies, leaning away from the screen. “Go get ready, boys. And ditch the sweatpants, John, I’ve seen enough to last me a lifetime.”
He eyes the laptop, hands going for the waistband of his pants. “Well, since you asked so nicely—”
That gets an alarmed yelp from her as the video call immediately ends. At the same time, Kyle squeezes his eyes shut and puts a hand over them, doing a dramatic full body turn in the other direction.
“Even after everything we’ve seen,” He says, heading towards the door. “That would’ve definitely been the worst. I’m too young to go blind.”
“Alright, get out then , smart ass.” Price mutters, heading towards the closet as the front door opens and shuts.
In the closet, everything is neatly hung up or folded. It takes time getting dressed, given the amount of buttons, clips and straps required for the bloody uniform. There’s more parts than he remembers, but then again, he’d gotten used to only wearing regular clothes with a bulletproof vest.
On the hook is the old, beige bucket hat that’s been with him through everything. If everything else had changed, at least this was the one constant. He picks it up and examines it; far cleaner with less wear and tear, but still the same. Wearing it is the only thing that feels right, and he's slightly more confident heading to the door.
Gaz is waiting for him nearby. “About time. Vacation really did a number on you, eh, captain?”
“Watch it.” He says, “Are you ready, or what?”
From the kid’s reaction, It’s clear he’ll have to work on the tone and mannerisms if he wants to avoid the constant questions about his well being. Apparently, the John Price they know isn't a bitter, short tempered old man—he hadn’t suffered the same losses. He hadn’t been broken over and over again.
Price wouldn’t allow himself to be jealous. He still feels a little lost in whatever new world or reality this is supposed to be, but it’s made easier by this sense of pre-established belonging. All he had to do was step into a role already cut out for him, and behave accordingly.
Kyle just nods. “On you, sir.”
For his first act as their John Price, he reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. Little displays of affection had never been his strong suit, but evidently it's the right move because the remaining concern drains from Kyle’s face. Good. One issue solved. The next will be figuring out what bloody chopper or plane to get on.
“Alright.” He says, walking towards the airfield. “Let’s go.”