Chapter Text
ir·re·den·tism
/ˌi(r)rəˈdenˌtizəm/
noun
a policy of advocating the restoration to a country of any territory formerly belonging to it.
Makarov shot Price first.
He pulled the trigger until the gun clicked empty, mindlessly discharging every single shot he had right into Captain’s face. Defacing him, blowing his entire head apart. Watching as his eyes gape, bulge red from the bullet pressure until inevitably popping.
He had put so much hatred and rage into these shots. Hatred Vladimir held back not just since Zakhaev's death, but something he held for two decades. Hatred for the corrupt government of his country, for the cowards that chickened out and kicked him from the Party like an abandoned dog on a highway, and for the entirety of Bravo Six.
This is the first time he could actually savor the death of his enemy in full.
As Makarov lowered his hand, he stared as blood gushed from Price’s facial orifices, a macabre flower whose graphic nature did not phase him at all. In fact, it infuriated him further. It infuriated that this British cretin got off so light . He should've went through even more torture . Killing him and everyone else he loved wasn't enough. Destroying his world piece by piece wasn't enough ! He needed to see him suffer more… But it was too late.
He couldn't risk it. Not with his own state… Vladimir put pressure on his gut, allowing the pain from the wound in his torso to subside a little. He hissed under his breath, sucking in air through teeth. No time to waste here, he needed to move. Gather whatever is left of the Inner Circle and keep up the pressure. The Russo-American war isn't over. The First Horseman is still standing . The First Horseman… won .
Makarov turned back, looking around in a search of a way down that wouldn't result in his certain death. Or perhaps just a place where he could calmly sit down, lick his wounds and regroup. The fire from the crashed helicopter nearby only made his blurry vision even worse. Wiping the smoke residue from his eyes, he scanned the area again, until a familiar voice suddenly tore him from planning his next move.
“Vova…” The voice was about as weak as a corpse’s.
Vladimir knew full well whose voice it was, even if he struggled to make out the actual shape of the man he knew for decades.
“I should've killed you long ago.” He laments. “I should've gone for the head. Just like I did with him.”
Yuri’s hands shook as he gripped his pistol with both arms, aiming straight at his old friend turned loathed enemy. “So you got him already.”
“Yes, I have.” Makarov lets out a weakened chuckle, which hastily transitions into a cough, agonising pain spreading through his torso, his cracked ribs reminding him of his injury.
He raises his head, finally managing to lock his eyes with Yura’s. A decrepit smile — for once in so long, he had finally smiled — tore apart his lips, a twisted grin that only spoke of one tale. “I won, Yuri.”
Yuri shook his head negative, stepping forward just enough to let his figure be lit by the burning heli, but not even remotely close to Makarov. “Won what, Vova? Everyone is dead. Your people, my people…”
“Your people?” For a moment, Vladimir thought his old friend is intentionally making him laugh to cause him more pain. “You cannot tell me you found allyship within these western pigs.”
Yura’s grip on his pistol tightens. “They gave me more warmth than you or Zakhaev ever did.”
“Then perhaps you should've put in more effort to be useful to the Party, instead of being such a coward.” Makarov hissed, attempting his best to straighten his posture.
He knew he wasn't making it out alive after all. And he wasn't going to die hunched over like a weakling. Even if it hurt.
“It doesn't matter now, Vova. You're through.”
“I know.”
“Good. Because I'm done living with fear of you.” Yuri’s voice broke even further, seeming what is akin to a wheeze more than actual words. “Every single night I was paranoid you will find me and finish the job. Finish me off. Put a bullet in my head. I wake up… with nightmares of your pistol put against my chest, as I relive the pain again and again.”
Makarov does not react in the slightest to the pity party Yuri had thrown. Not a single word he heard had affected him or called out to his soul — because he had none.
“Then maybe you should've died after all, Yura.”
“Some days I hoped you'd put me out of my misery!” Yuri clicked the safety on his pistol and rested his finger on the trigger, threatening to actually pull it. “I don't understand you. I don't understand why I survived that day. Or… Didn't… understand, until now.”
Vladimir tilts his head to the side, his hair once again messy, bloodied and full of loose strands. He dramatically raises his arms in surrender, but not before resting his own unloaded pistol on the ground. Accepting his incoming fate, or, perhaps, playing further with Yura’s emotions. Listening.
“... Now I see why I survived. So I personally could put a bullet in you and put a stop not just to my nightmares, but to your tyranny.”
Makarov rolls his eyes, sighing — very unevenly — yet dramatically, in sincere disappointment. “The hero you see yourself to be is pathetic and weak. You did not save anyone.”
“What are you talking about? No one's going to take up your mantle—”
“You'll only make a martyr.” Vladimir interrupts, revealing his half-baked plan. “My… our country suffered for decades under the Western influence. I do not understand why did you allow them to pull the wool over your eyes.”
“It's not about politics, Vova!”
“Yes it is. All I do is driven by it. All I ever did was only evil because that is what the West wants you to think.”
“Is shooting me justified too?”
“Yes, because betrayal of state should have always been punishable by death.” Makarov hisses, leaning forward a little, which instinctively made Yuri back off. “... Although, my intent was, regrettably, not to kill you.”
“What?” Yuri shakes his head. “No. You're lying. Shut up.”
Vladimir doesn't respond, letting the silence insist for him.
“... You're lying. You cannot possibly tell me my survival was intentional.”
“Do I make mistakes, Yuri?”
A rhetoric question, and a haunting implication. Yura shifted the grip on his pistol, finding any way to soothe himself at least a little bit.
“Then why? Why would you do that?”
Makarov sighed deep, his breath hitched by the pain in his ribs. “Because I hoped you'd come around. You would be my successor, Yura, same as I was a successor to Zakhaev’s ideals. Through you, the real Russia would go on.”
“Bullshit. You know I never stood by you and your unnecessary violence.”
“That's the point. I hoped I'd advance enough to make you realise you were on the wrong side of history.”
Vladimir suddenly chuckles.
“... It's ironic, isn't it? Fate has given you another chance.”
Yuri stares back, confused and lost. “Another… chance?” He felt adrenaline imbue his muscles, run through his veins. But it wasn't perseverance or resilience — it was fear .
Makarov takes a confident step forward. As much as his body burned with pain, he couldn't possibly look weak. The drive, the flash of inspiration that burst through him had given him second wind, as his blue-green glare pressured Yuri into whatever he wanted him to do.
“Price and the rest of Bravo Six are dead. You are the only surviving member of 141 who matters. Even that other traitor isn't nearly as important to history as you are.” Vladimir murmurs, his voice thick with sweetened venom as he weaves his dangerous narrative. “Right now, you are the only man who can decide who wins this war. Russia, or the West.”
By now, he was way too close to Yuri — close enough to rip the pistol out of his hands. Yet, he does no such thing, instead gently and slowly lowering it. Makarov's body language was so dumbfoundingly disarming and methodical as he continued his games.
“You can kill me, and return to status quo — a world of Western imperialism, the entire globe in the clawed grip of the imbeciles who cannot even maintain peace in their own country. A world where you are never going to be welcome.”
Yuri carefully watched every single movement, ready to react to any attempt to attack him. Failing to realise that his former friend is not a threat to his life, for he is a threat to his mind, poisoning him with a web of a complex narrative… he couldn't even dare to call it simply “lies”, because deep down he knew he was right.
So was it really that the lies were working, or did he actually have a point all along?
Makarov continued, resting his arm on Yuri’s shoulder like they're friends again, getting all close in his personal space. Even leaning onto him for support, exhaling a relaxed breath now that he doesn't have to suck the pain up as much.
“Or you could join me again, turn the blind eye not to the hatred that the West always had and will have for our kind, but to all the necessary blood our cause spills. I do not murder for no reason, and I hope you remember that.” Vladimir stares right into Yuri's eyes, gleaming with ardor. “If I was as evil as they make me out to be, I would've killed you by now.”
And instead, allegedly, he offers mercy. A mercy that implies… what? Becoming a puppet once again to his volatile violence? Or perhaps, in a fit of desperation, Makarov offers, for once, equality?
Yuri bites his lip without realising, the truth of the matter dawning on him, feeling like his soul just got crushed under a boulder. At the end of the day, it was a pick your poison situation. He knew, to some degree, Makarov was correct.
Even if he kills him, he will forever feel unease at how this action perpetrated the very thing that will doom this world in the long run. Imperialism. And with imperialism would come along fascism. Democracy — a joke that it always was.
But on another, he would finally put a stop to his nightmares. To nightmares of thousands if not millions of people who were terrified of Makarov’s actions across the world, those who lost and those who narrowly dodged death but survived with scars that will never heal. He would kill what is nothing short of a pure evil. Even if it is the evil he knew for decades.
“You can justify the possibility of killing me all you want in your head.” Vladimir spoke as if he knew all about what's going on inside his former friend’s noggin. “Mass-murder is only a problem when an individual does it. But when it is the Western war machine that chews up anyone opposing it, then any sort of genocide is excusable.”
Yura shook his head in despair, pulling back from Makarov, his own body echoing the pain from his earlier injury. “Shut up.”
But Vladimir doesn't let up, resting his hands on Yuri's arm as he inches closer, gripping him like his life depends on it. “You know I'm right. You refuse to admit it, because you've already been brainwashed to ignore atrocities. Perhaps I am in part to blame, blinding you to the suffering we cause. But they taught you that you can slaughter everyone in your path while staying morally correct.”
His hand trailed up, resting on Yura’s cheek as he caressed it, deliberately soothing him and wiping the ash from his stress-ridden skin.
“I never morally justified anything I've done. My decisions were to pressure and coerce one measure after another from our enemy, forcing them to act in ways that will benefit us or open up possibilities for victory. I never had to vilify those who end up victims. Because I know what I'm doing is, at the end of the day, terrorism . But it's the only way we can win against an enemy that convinced the entire world we, as Russians, are okay to kill only because we're bad and they're good .”
Yuri simply stares back at Makarov, dumbfounded and surprised at his entire monologue.
The more he heard of it, the more sense it started to make. And that scared him. He grew scared of the very idea that all along, his former ally might have had a point.
“Is there… no other way, really?”
“Revolutions were violent, Yuri.” Vladimir stayed on the offensive, words coming naturally to him as his passion for Russia was nothing short of genuine. “They wouldn't be if there was any other way. But you and I both know democracy is a joke .”
Silence. Makarov still stares deep into Yuri’s eyes, hoping it will achieve him the effect he wants. Hoping he made him see things from his perspective, what drove him, what led him to be the way he is. He was never this open about anything he ever believed.
It was working.
Yura’s face stayed still, only interrupted breaths hitching in his throat. Much like back then, back when he decided to betray Makarov… he felt conflicted. Both sides had a point, again, and the fear of losing what’s familiar clashed with a desire for a better future. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. As his expression shifted, so did Vladimir’s, softening.
“I don’t trust you, Vova.” He sounded tired more than actually frustrated. He was exhausted from having to deal with someone who hadn’t been genuine for a single day of his life. From someone he knew would kill him one day. Yuri just wanted certainty.
“I don’t trust you either.” Makarov’s rebuttal mirrors Yuri’s low energy, mimicking everything in a desperate attempt to call out to empathy. “You were the one who betrayed me first. But unlike your new friends, I am willing to look past that and put my faith in you again. They never fully believed you were on their side.”
“But they trusted me regardless…”
“Because they had no other choice. You were their golden egg. Their only shot at me. That is the only use they ever had for you.” Makarov had an answer for everything, quick as a wink. “A tool to be used. They never cared for you, Yuri. They don't know you like I do.”
Yura conceded. “You're… You're right.” He felt defeated. Knowing full well he's being bullshitted through and through, but unable to find any arguments against anything Vladimir said. His words felt flawless. “I hate to admit it, but… you may be right after all.”
Makarov’s heterochromatic eyes lit up, and the spark in his stare seemed actually genuine for a moment. Like even the possibility of being reunited with his old friend was something he blissfully hoped would happen. Or was he just happy his persistent manipulations were working? …
It was impossible to tell.
“No need to hate it. I'm not holding a grudge against you for betraying me.” Vladimir spoke like he wasn't the one who shot Yuri in the chest and stepped over his unconscious body in that damned parking lot. His hand shifts to Yuri’s shoulder, lightly gripping it like he's chatting up a comrade. “You were blinded by the Western lies. It happens to the best of us. All that matters is that you've woken up.”
He sounded almost cheerful, given his usually cold voice. There's excitement running through his tone, hidden well, like it usually is. Makarov would rather kill someone than show any genuine emotion.
“Hey, I didn't say I completely agree with all you said!” Yuri retorts, even his voice lighting up a little. Nostalgic feeling fills his insides, leaving him reminiscent of the times when he actually felt a sense of kinship and sort of brotherhood with Vladimir.
Makarov’s brows furrow, looking at Yura like he just betrayed him again. Of course, it was in jest, but that didn't stop the latter from feeling like he's about to get a dagger stabbed through his heart in the blink of an eye.
“... Of course. But you don't really have time to ponder on your allegiance. Neither do I have that time.” Vladimir mentions, returning to his calm and oddly disarming demeanor. “You're bleeding, and I have a few broken ribs. You can doubt yourself again later, unless you want to do that for the rest of your life.”
This time, he was right without any hidden meanings and implications. Yuri especially could die if he doesn't end up getting help. He almost forgot his entire body's falling apart…
“So, what will it be?” Makarov bellows, looking him right in the eyes. “Allies, once more?”
Yura falls silent, overtaken by his many thoughts. Allies. Ally, friend… a betrayer…? He blinked, washing old and unpleasant memories away, the day still haunting him. And yet now he's about to join the very man that shot him. Even if, allegedly, not to kill, it was still an event that caused him so many irrational phobias and horrific nightmares.
“Or, perhaps, not just allies.”
Makarov’s chilling voice ripped Yuri from reliving his worst day, actually startling him.
“Ough- not jus… Not just allies?” He asks, attempting to find his footing in the real world. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don't know. You looked weird at me, so I asked. Guessing what's on your mind.”
There's no way this man just tossed a blind guess. He's playing.
“Uh-huh. What exactly was on your mind?!”
“Nothing. Just curious.” Makarov lightly shakes his head. “Enough playing, Yura. What's it gonna be?”
Yuri takes a deep, shaky breath, looking down at his arms, already imagining just how stained with blood they are going to be.
How they already are, after two decades of violence.
Born and raised a soldier, a soldier who chose this life.
And now, he was about to choose it again .
“You're not going to shoot me again, right?”
Makarov chuckles, puzzled by the question. “No. You're my only ally who I know I can truly rely on. Like always.”
“I just don't want to…”
“I know.” Vladimir cups Yuri’s face, another soothing gesture. He never did that to him before. He's not very touchy in general. “But it won't be necessary. You know I had no other choice .”
Yuri doesn't buy it. He doesn't. He knows it's all bullshit. He could've done anything but that . Anything. Whatever excuse he's giving him is trash, nonsense. And yet here Yura was, sipping this venom from a wine glass, buying it like a royal buying overpriced clothing to look rich. Choosing to believe this lie, like usual. Like it was about to become usual.
“Jesus… Are you sure you're Vova? You're unusually touchy.” He shifts the topic to anything but that fucking shot. He's tired. He can't think about it anymore. It scared him.
“... Am I?” Makarov shrugs nonchalantly, like they weren't actively dying at the moment. “Well. Maybe I missed you.”
“M-... Missed me?” To Yuri’s relief, his attention was finally shifting to this new baffling concept. “You? Missing someone? Bullshit.”
“Then perhaps you didn't know me as perfectly as you think you did.”
“Not my fault you're a complete enigma…” He hissed quietly.
“I suppose it's your chance to find out?”
Yuri sighs, as carefully as he can.
Ready to sign the contract with the devil.
С нами Бог, he said. During that cursed day…
“Okay. Then I’ll…”
“Yes?” Makarov leaned closer, watching every single miniscule shift in Yuri’s expression. Pressuring him to hurry up.
The latter didn’t back down, as uncomfortable as he felt. “... Then I’ll… trust you … again . But just this once.”
“That’s the right answer.” Vladimir replied, turning cold all of a sudden. “You just survived one more day of your life, comrade.”
Yuri looks down, realising his not so trustworthy old friend was this close to stealing his gun and shooting him with it. Sleight of hand, eh…?
Makarov rested his hands on the sides of his newfound ally’s cheeks, pressing their foreheads together. His voice was but a whisper, enticing and dangerous, a snake in the grass. “We’re blessed, Yura. By God. This just proved we’re right . Because we won.”
“W-what are you on about…?” Yura attempted to back off, but found himself locked in position, in fear, once again. Stiff as a soldier.
“You don’t get it, do you?” He sounded almost feverish. “We’re soulmates. This is it. The world is ours, Yura. The world is ours .”
Vladimir, seemingly overwhelmed with emotion all of a sudden, jumping between feelings and coldness like a calculated madman, wrapped his arm around Yuri, very gently squeezing him before cupping his face again. “I…” His tone shakes, unstable and weakened. “I love you, Yuri.”
“WHAT-”
Before Yuri could even process the statement, he felt his former enemy’s lips press against his, with so much eagerness that it seemed genuine. Was it genuine? He didn’t know. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe anything Vova pulled. None of it. All of it had to be bullshit. But… To go this far…? There’s no way he’d do it. He was never this insane. This isn’t real…!
And yet once Makarov pulled himself back, gaze blurred and empty, lost and dazed, Yuri found himself missing it. Missing something he didn’t even get the chance to comprehend. He… He never thought himself to … be like this. Nor did he expect Volodya to be like this… But it seems victory had unlocked something in him that neither of them knew about.
“... Sorry about that.” Vladimir uttered, looking away dramatically. Now that one was definitely fake. Somehow, Yura could tell. Or perhaps because it was obvious…
Yet he took the bait. He has no other choice anymore. He’s hooked on the poison, and there’s nothing breaking these chains. “That’s … fine.”
“...You’re not mad?”
How long are you going to play these games, Makarov?
“No… Just surprised.” Yuri didn’t know how to react. His expression stayed still, almost disinterested, from how overwhelmed he felt. “You’re… not just pulling my leg, right?”
For a second he could’ve sworn he saw evil flash in Vladimir’s eyes.
“Has knowing me taught you nothing? I’m not crazy enough to fake relationships. I mean it, Yura. I mean it. I love you .”
There. He said it again. The words. Love . He never said that word before.
Perhaps he means it, this time?
Yuri closes his eyes, reluctantly leaning more into Makarov’s embrace.
“I… I guess then…”
Does a snake’s bite really hurt just as much the second time as it does the first?
“I don’t know why, but…”
Besides, it’s not like he has any other choice. For all he knows, the pathetic remainder of Makarov’s men could be already on top of everything. Cleaning up. Looking for him. Looking for them.
“I feel like…”
This is the doomed world. The world where Makarov won. The world where nothing but Russia’s greatness exists.
Yuri hesitated, trying to find any confidence by looking deep into Vladimir’s eyes. Surprisingly, finding genuine comfort inside.
And right here, in his grasp, was the only chance he had to not become a statistic in this new world order.
“... I love you too.” He finally confided, although unsure of how truthful his words really were.
He felt Makarov’s arms wrap around him just a little tighter, with great care not to injure either of them further, and exhaled an uneasy breath. An embrace he had never experienced before, let alone from him.
Yet, the air shifts, and Vladimir’s next words, accompanied with his signature monotone, cold voice, feel like a stab in the heart, reminding him of his worst days.
“Then why did you betray me?”
He wasn’t smiling. There’s rage in these words. Before Yuri could even respond, Makarov suddenly grabs him by the neck with one arm, pushing him away. If he could, he’d lift him up, but his ribs hurt too much.
“You’re lying to me again.” His fingertips dug into Yuri’s skin, pressing against the veins. “If you want to earn my trust again, you have to stop lying, Yura.”
Yuri retorts, way more forcefully than he expected himself to. Desperation to survive overtook his entire body, and he was only looking for ways to survive this encounter. “I’m… I’m not… lying to you.”
Makarov’s eyes narrow, studying his expression. Waiting for more excuses.
“... I’m honest. Please, just trust me.” Yura’s voice weakens. “I mean it. I missed- I missed you too. I didn’t betray you… easily. I doubted… myself every day.”
Go on. It’s working.
The grip loosens, letting him continue.
“I… I really didn’t know whether I should go with it or not. Parting with the only thing I knew for the last 20 years. Parting with you. It was tough. I missed you. I’m… Addicted to your presence.”
Poetry, right here.
Makarov shakes his head, letting go of Yuri, albeit reluctantly.
“Hmph. I suppose you wouldn’t have the guts to lie about this. Not like you at all.”
He wanted to believe. Maybe?
Yuri exhales a sigh of relief, stepping closer to him again. “Yes. Let’s get out of here, okay?”
Vladimir nods.