Chapter Text
Of-bloody-course the Konni couldn't resist rigging Gora Dam to blow, couldn’t help themselves from being utter nuisances. If the ultranationalists were successful in their mission, the whole valley below would have flooded. There would have been civilian casualties. Well, more than there already had been, when accounting for the poor sods working in the electricity plant.
It had been hard work finding the four bombs planted. The whole situation with Makarov was already exhausting, running around the globe and all, but this job in particular was really taking its toll. In and out of the water, swimming against the currents of the Dam, climbing up and down the buildings.
But despite that all, the ever determined Ghost had already disarmed three of the planned charges, soon to be four.
“Got the last bomb, Laswell. Just need a moment to disarm, then I'll be ready for exfil.” The man murmurs into his comms, careful to keep his voice down.
“Good work, 07, I’ll tell Nikolai to get on his way.”
And just like that, Ghost pulled out his pad to disarm the bomb, heaving a sigh of relief at the idea of returning to base. The whole situation had been hell, and he could only hope that Soap was having an easier time up at the reservoir. Ghost hoped that whatever Price and Gaz were finding in Urzikstan would be enough to get a foot ahead of Makarov, or maybe even the man himself. Ghost had huffed at the thought. Sure, like the Russian would just be hanging out in Urzikstan with his chemicals, practically begging for a bullet in the head. But a man can dream.
“Keep it quick with that bomb, Ghost. Nikolai is en-route and we’ll want to make exfil fast.” Laswell chirps up from the comms.
“Copy.”
But as Ghost sat crouched in the back of that truck, working away at the device beside him, he failed to notice the lone Konni struggling up from previously being shot. Ghost didn't notice when the Konni reached for his own comms, moving to inform the rest of the troop that someone was disarming the truck bomb. And Ghost especially hadn't noticed as troops rallied just yards away, silently making their way through the hallways of the inner dam, preparing to approach via the door that opened just mere feet away from where the lone member of the 141 worked.
Ghost didn’t notice, and he would curse himself for it for a long time to come. Looking back, he could try to blame his own exhaustion, maybe his relief at preventing the dam from blowing, or simply his own deadshot concentration on working with a live explosive. But it doesn’t matter the reason, because at the end of the day, when Ghost disarmed that bomb, he didn’t notice the hoard of Konni waiting for him. He simply disarmed, threw the now unnecessary pad aside, and called for Laswell.
“Job done, Watcher. All bombs are disarmed. Moving to exfil point now.”
The lieutenant made it no farther than jumping off the bed of the truck to notice his mistake. The second his boots touched asphalt, Konni began swarming from every side. Ghost didn’t even hear Laswell’s response, too overwhelmed by the soldiers now bombarding him.
In a moment that would be embarrassing if any other member of the 141 were to find out about it, Ghost allows a Konni’s fist to land hard enough and knock him to the ground. Ignoring that embarrassment, though, the most prominent thing running through the man’s head before a knee is rammed into it, rendering him woefully unconscious, is a question.
Why the hell are they keeping me alive?
—--------
—--------
It's been three weeks since the Gora Dam mission went to straight shit. Three weeks since Price and Gaz found information in Urzikstan, along with the chemicals, that allowed them to inform the London police force of a plan to blow the underground tunnels in a coordinated terrorist attack, preventing such a thing from ever taking place. It's been three weeks of Soap feeling like the world had dropped from beneath his feet. Three weeks of Price yelling at essentially any higher up that would listen to him (and a lot that didn't want to) to allow him and the 141 to return to the Dam as a search party.
It’s been two weeks since said man went against what every single one of those higher ups told him, gathering Gaz, Soap, and Nikolai up into a helicopter, and bringing them to the dam himself. They didn’t find anything. Anyone. It’s been two weeks since Price lost hope.
It’s been three weeks since the Gora Dam mission that Ghost never returned from. Three weeks, and today is the day that Laswell is forced to change Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley’s status from ‘Missing In Action' to ‘Killed In Action’, despite the 141’s initial refusal to believe such a thing. Today is the day that Gaz first mentions the mere idea of Ghost being dead, rather than continuing to feed Soaps' delusion.
Soap hadn't taken that well. Not at all.
Now, the Sergeant sits in Ghost’s abandoned quarters on base, still the exact way that the Lieutenant had left it. It’s an irregularity, to let an unused room go untouched. But nobody had dared to clear it, for fear that one of the 141 might make them their next target. So the tiny room remains a sanctuary for Soap in moments like this, where he’s not sure he can continue to hold out hope.
“It might be time, Soap…” Gaz had said, earlier in the day. He had done it softly, with a hand on his friend's shoulder.
That comforting hand came across more like a slap to the face, “Bloody fuck, Gaz. Naw. Not you too.” Soap had damn near pleaded.
Gaz had guilt written all over his face, but he continued on anyway, “We haven't heard anything, There's been no ransom, no messages from Makarov, no signs of life at the dam or any of the surrounding areas. I know Ghost is always- had always been so… I don't know, untouchable? To us it never seemed like he was capable of death. But, here we are. Soap-”
“Fuck off, Gaz.”
The man sighs as Soap shakes his hand off, “Soap, Please.”
“I said, fuck off! I dinnae ken what the fuck has gotten’ in to all you eejit’s, but damn right pissing me off it is!” Soap had yelled. His outburst had gained nothing more than a few funny looks from other soldiers gathered nearby, but the sergeant couldn't have cared less. At that moment he had stormed off, not a clue where to go.
Muscle memory brought him here.
Ghost’s room is clean. The man was military, after all. He stuck to the habits instilled in him back when he didn’t have a room to himself, sharing barracks among the common soldier. Few items in his wardrobe, even fewer possessions to decorate.
The only thing that could be considered a “mess” in the space is the tin of black greasepaint left open at the bedside.
Soap stares at that tin as he sits on the neatly made bed, topped with standard grey sheets. He imagines his lieutenant waking every day in this room, applying the paint with his hands before donning the skeletal mask and gloves.
He likes to imagine that somewhere in the world, Ghost is doing exactly that right now. Though he only ever saw the man’s face once, in dim lighting and for only a moment, Soap can picture it clearly.
Although now, the image of that face floating pale and bloated among the discharged water from the Gora Dam is more prominent than the glare he once knew. When Soap was just a wee lad, his mother would tell him he had an overactive imagination. Now, he thinks she may have been right. He wishes he could stop conjuring up new ways he might find Ghost laid dead.
Because that’s the truth, isn't it? Deep down, Soap has known since he was standing in the bay of that carrier being flown by Nikolai, waiting for his Lieutenant to come running down the road. Laswell had been yelling in his and Nikolai’s ears, and they in turn were yelling for Ghost to hurry his ass up.
They never got a response. Too much fire was being rained on them. They had to leave.
Soap had never felt so empty, watching the dam fade into the night.
But since that moment, as much as he has denied it, Soap has known. He knows what line of work they're in, and despite what Gaz may say, he knows that Ghost was never immune to its effects.
Soap knows that Simon is dead. No matter how much he wishes otherwise. And sitting here alone in the man’s room, staring at a tin of grease paint that is never going to be used again, Soap knows what he’s going to do about it.
John “Soap” Mactavish is going to hunt down Vladimir Makarov, and he is going to put a bullet between that man’s eyes. It will take time, the bastard is slippery after all, but Soap knows it will happen.
As the sergeant reaches for the grease paint, gently sliding it shut and dropping it into his pocket, he comes to accept these two truths as part of his identity. And he knows that he is going to throw himself into this work, that no matter what, it is going to happen. Soap will kill Makarov, and he will avenge his Lieutenant. His friend. Ghost. No matter how long it may take, how much it may very well carve out of him. It is a truth in his mind.
—-------
—-------
Ghost is not dead. A few times, in the past- three weeks? Four? It’s difficult to keep track of time in the cell. Nevertheless, a few times in the past weeks Ghost has more than wished he was dead. Now, Ghost has never been a symbol of self love or mental health, but he’s far from suicidal. No, the only reason he’s been wishing such a thing on himself might be out of pure boredom and embarrassment.
Makarov has kept Ghost in a dingy room, poured out of concrete and somewhere under the earth’s surface, if the constant moisture is anything to go by. He hasn’t seen the sun since before the Gora Dam mission, which can make it hard to keep track of time. But the days have gone by dully, different people came and they all had their own methods to try and make the captured lieutenant speak. Initially, Makarov had been asking what all Price and Gaz had learned from their mission in Urzikstan, which Ghost truly had no way of knowing. The Russian was frustrated, and his captive delighted in that fact. It meant that the rest of the 141 had been successful on their missions, and had the upper hand, if only for a moment.
Honestly, one of the worst parts of the imprisonment is Ghost’s missing mask. Obviously the covering had been gone when Ghost first awoke tied down in the cell. It would make no sense for his captors to leave it on, but Makarov loved to bring this weakness up. The man often taunted Ghost for his features, the scars, the Glasgow smile. A face not even a mother could love, soldier. Anybody warned Mactavish about this? But the Lieutenant is a master of tuning out annoying noises, and tried not to let the words get to his head. As if he had any care in his mind for what a Russian terrorist thought of him.
A few days into the monotonous torture and lifestyle, though, Makarov had come in completely furious. Ghost didn’t understand much of what the man was saying, as he was used as a human punching bag for the following hours. But what he did get was about some sort of plot in London, having to do with the underground? Ghost could guess there was some sort of bomb involved, how original. And the reason for Makarov’s anger, it seemed, was that the 141 had foiled the plan. When Ghost finally understood that between the beating and screaming, he couldn't help a bloody-toothed grin. Which had been a mistake, clearly, as the next thing Makarov did was plunge a knife into his shoulder.
Since that day, Makarov has not come for much information. Occasionally he will ask something, some tidbit that half the time Ghost can’t possibly know the answer to, but it’s been feeling more like an excuse. Makarov is angry. Furious, really. At the 141, that they've been steps ahead of him, that they're closing in. So he takes it out on the Lieutenant.
The days blur together, now. Ghost’s mind has fallen hazy, his body weak from disuse and misuse. Food and water are scarce, just enough to keep the man alive. Overall, he feels incredibly weak, and it takes him back to a dark place in his mind.
But, mostly, Ghost can deal with it.
He knows how to withstand torture, how to compartmentalize. What really helps the Lieutenant to push through is the knowledge that every day Makarov takes his anger out on Ghost, is a day that the 141 continue to win. So, in a weird, possibly fucked up way, Ghost has come to enjoy the anger. It means his team is still living, thriving, even without him there. He looks forward to the hatred, the fists, and the anger.
That’s why, when Makarov walks in today, a grin on his face and hands to himself, Ghost's heart drops.
“Congratulations, Simon. You’re a dead man.” The Russian says, giddy even in tone. Ghost doesn’t reply, doesn’t even change his expression. Makarov clasps his hands in front of his chest, moving to walk around the seated captive. Ghost doesn’t bother tracking his movements, too tired to care. “Simon ”Ghost” Riley, now officially killed in action. They've given up hope for you.”
Honestly, Ghost is surprised it took so long. Through the fog that is the Lieutenant’s mind, he has enough to worry how Makarov is getting this information on the members of the 141. But, just as the thought comes to him, it flees.
It’s been difficult to keep things straight, in the cell.
Makarov continues to circle, much like a shark would stalk its prey, and he rounds back to Ghost’s front. “How does it feel, to know that nobody is coming?”
Ghost hasn’t really been imagining that anybody would come for him, before this. Hell, Ghost himself isn’t even sure why he’s still alive, he certainly hasn't expected his team to still think of him as living and breathing. If he were in their position, he’d assume himself KIA. The idea of nobody coming to rescue the lieutenant is not a new one.
Makarov doesn’t seem to care for Ghost’s lack of response, and soon enough that earns him a sharp slap to the face. Still, the man says nothing, head rolling lazily back to meet Makarov’s eyes.
“Well, it got me thinking, what is there to do with a dead man? So many options, really. But I remembered something, or rather, someone. A scientist and psychologist, who proudly backs me and my desire to free Russia and build it anew. Well, a few years ago, he approached me with a concept.” Makarov puts a hand on the top of Simon’s head, gripping into the short blonde spikes, wet from sweat and fever. This action earns the man Ghost’s first reaction of the day, that being an annoyed snarl, though even that lacks enthusiasm. Makarov seems to enjoy it, though, as he smiles and holds a little tighter. “His name is Misha. You will like him, I think. You two will be getting acquainted, soon enough.”
At that, Ghost’s train of thought comes to a halt, his hazy mind sharpening just a bit. A scientist and psychologist? Why?
“He had an idea, one he called ‘profitable’ and ‘worth my time’. I’m inclined to agree with the man. But, as you know, I was sent away for a while, halting most of my plans. All the research he had done went unfunded, and he had to shut the project down before our first product could be made. Alas, here I am, returned. With a dead man as a perfect subject.”
Finally, Makarov releases Ghost’s hair and steps back, but an uneasy feeling begins to wash through the lieutenant.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to project Chistyy Kholst, Simon. I think you will take to it quite nicely, being the 141’s attack dog all these years sure has made you a loyal soldier.”
Ghost feels unsteady, as the man speaks, even though he's currently sat down. Something here isn’t right, something is about to go wrong, in his life. More so than usual. Ghost can feel it in his gut, in the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight, he sees it in Makarov's grin. But no matter how hard he tries to just focus, goddamnit, the world continues to spin away.
“And after all that, you know what I intend to do Simon? I am going to sit back and watch as you hunt down the 141 for me, one by one. You will be the only one left standing, covered in their blood, Simon.”