Chapter Text
"This was a one-way ticket, and you knew that very well, Soap ."
He can almost hear the mockery dripping from the imaginary voice that belongs to his captain, a voice that's been keeping him company for quite some time now. Ever since he stepped out of the plane, it's been there to judge his actions and make him question himself every step of the way. The journey is long, perhaps one of the longest in his military career.
Soap won't forget about the strange turn of events that turned his life upside down.
Maybe none of this is his fault. Maybe it's the headquarters that fucked up, sending one man to do the work intended for dozens like himself.
His captain is hard to trust. A mysterious man who keeps him at arm's length, barking commands and expecting Soap to follow them mindlessly. But Soap is far from behaving like a perfect machine, despite being trained to kill and cause destruction, there's another side to him. A side so unlucky even the easiest tasks fill him with self-doubt. Maybe he needs someone to guide him after all.
It's hard to follow the instructions when not believing in the one that speaks them, though.
"Keep it low. You're not a sniper, MacTavish."
He learns to secretly despise the words that leave his superior's mouth. The captain says that Soap will never be a sniper, and then in his file, he is classified as a demolitions specialist and a sniper. He says he doesn't trust Soap's skills enough to let him work alone, then sends him on a solo mission. He says Soap will be back home in two weeks at most, and here he is - locked, in a place he isn't sure he can escape from. He won't leave, not alive, anyway.
Soap wants to shake his head in protest, respond with a snarky and notably eloquent "fuck you, cunt" but knows that such atrocities are not to escape his mouth, not towards his superior. If he only had the courage to say it out loud... But Soap is more respectful than that. And the whole conversation happens in his head, anyway.
He doesn't know how long he's been locked in this cell. It's surprising no one started searching for him yet. His team, still a bunch of strangers, won't be bothered to assign him as MIA, Soap knows he is probably reported as KIA, instead.
The room is wrapped in total darkness - one occasionally disrupted by the corridor's automatic lights that creep past the crack under the heavy cell door.
Soap hates the dark.
As he remains locked, he is slowly going mental. Forgetting about hunger is easier than keeping his mind in line. No one checks on him, and it's like he's left there to slowly die out of exhaustion, forgotten even by his captors. Soap tries to sleep a lot - he wouldn't call it being asleep, though. Unfortunately, it doesn't mean he's awake, either. Since he cannot tell if it's day or night, he's lost all sense of time and exists only within the conversations made up in his head.
The light bulb buzzes again, a humming noise resonates in his ears. The sound brings him back from the depths of his mind, it always does. Light abruptly reaches his cell. His relaxed silhouette once again casts a big, black outline on the wall behind him. Maybe in the darkness, he would be safer - invisible to the danger that happens to surround him from every direction. Maybe there's no need to be afraid. As he's being visited by his grim shadow, it's not the shadow he should be concerned about.
Soap opens his eyes, biting back a frustrated groan. He forces his body to stay still, and his skin hurts as his bones push into his flesh. He's been stuck in a sitting position for too long. His back pushes uncomfortably into the chair, and his whole body weight is put on his pelvis. The pain reminds him of his tragic situation, being held captive by God knows who and God knows why. With his wrists locked in harsh handcuffs and folded behind his back, he starts to overthink again. His breath picks up from the panic, but he tries to remember the last thing he saw before waking up there - thinking it would give him the slightest scrap of an answer, but there is nothing interesting that would help.
The corridor is louder than usual, and multiple heavy footsteps near his cell. Soap can't make anything out of the distant chatter, but besides that, it sounds like English. The discovery brings some peace to the man. Russians wouldn't let him live that long, nor would they make an effort to actually transport him anywhere without shooting him beforehand.
The door opens with a scratchy creak. He expects to be now thoroughly interrogated by his captors - possibly tortured until he's got no choice but to reveal all the sensitive information about himself and his team. If his SAS patch and dog tags don't reveal enough already, he is sure more questions will follow.
He raises his gaze. The blindfold that covers his eyes is so thin it allows him to easily scan the room - two men are standing by the door, and another one is guarding the cell from the outside. They're well-equipped and heavily armored, not at all resembling the Russians he's been fighting before getting knocked out in the middle of a battlefield. Soap can't tell who they are, but then one more person enters the room in a hurry. Him, he knows all too well.
Fucking Graves, he thinks as his teeth grind together in anger. His gaze sharpens to see him better through the cloth, eyes squinting to make out any of his facial features, to confirm that he's not mistaken. Betrayal runs deep in his mind, it courses through his veins - but did he trust him enough to call it betrayal in the first place? It's surprising to meet him again under these less favorable circumstances, with Soap as a prisoner.
The man was supposed to be one of his closest allies, but here he is - walking closer to Soap and gripping him by his short hair. What changed?
Soap lets out a surprised hiss, and the abrupt pull guides his head up, almost as if to make him meet the commander's amused gaze. He, of course, follows the silent direction, his mouth stays open wide - he already thinks of a way to curse him, yet words die on his tongue. Soap's throat feels too tight to speak after so much time spent in complete silence. He can only grunt in displeasure, already breathless, waiting for Graves to let go of his mohawk.
"Soap MacTavish..." Graves mulls over his name, a delighted chuckle following. The man pats his cheek lightly, fully bringing him back to consciousness. Soap tries to flinch away from the touch, but being tied up, he can only move back a little. Not enough to escape. "Looks like Christmas came early this year, am I right, boys?"
Shadows laugh at their boss' remark. For Soap, the comment is far from amusing. Instead, he tries to understand - why the hell are Shadows keeping him locked up here?
A cold hand grips his chin. In Graves' grasp, he feels like a rag doll. Soap knows him. The man isn't going to just play with him, no. He will rip his head off and drag his corpse around for everyone to see. They will bury him no matter what he says, so he waits for them to speak - somehow sensing exactly what they're going to ask him about. He will refuse, and they will kill him. Simple as that, a pathetic end for a promising soldier.
Isn't this what he signed up for, though? His death would be but a mere consequence of him joining the military. Soap knew what came with the job and he decided to go for it, anyway. No one is here to save him, not this time. He braces himself for the inevitable, a death slow and painful, a moment in which John Soap MacTavish will cease to exist.
"Why were you here?" comes the first question, and the answer is fairly simple. He was just following the orders, mindlessly slaughtering the targets his captain picked for him ever so carefully. Graves doesn't need to know the truth, and Soap doesn't have to answer. Maybe it's the stress that makes a complete fool out of him, because Soap's first reaction is to build up as much saliva in his dry mouth and spit directly in the man's face.
He is choosing the hard way. He feels somewhat proud of his insolent spirit.
"Fuck off," he rasps. The first words that leave his mouth are full of venom. "Seriously, man."
Soap isn't afraid of dying, and a small part of him understands that the mission is far more important than his own life. But who will be stupid enough to carry on when he's gone?
Graves snorts, wiping off his face with the back of his hand. The man doesn't seem too bothered by the action, but then, his eyes turn cold. In complete outrage, he is quick to press a knife to Soap's throat.
Soap's eyes widen in fear. He gulps and recognizes it as a mistake, because the edge further bites into his skin as the muscles of his larynx pull upward, throat expanding. A thin streak of blood is already escaping from underneath the blade.
"If I were you, I would choose my next words very carefully, Soap," the man warns him, but it doesn't sound like a real threat. Graves is trying to convince him to cooperate, too lazy to get his hands dirty from a gray man like Soap. He shakes his head, ready to die for the information stored in the back of his mind - locations, plans, names, everything he was trained to protect or destroy.
He wants to give him a mouthful once again. He doesn't, as it would only make his situation far worse than it is right now. The pressure on his throat doesn't disappear, and his mouth runs dry. As Soap's body shakes with a sudden wave of cough, the knife leaves an even deeper red stripe on his tanned neck.
"C'mon, give me something good..." Graves whispers, tugging the blindfold up. Their eyes meet, there's something desperately challenging in both of their blue gazes. At that moment, Soap isn't sure there is anything worth sharing, anything that would get the knife off his neck. "Do you know Price? I know you do. He's been hunting us, you know... Where is he going next? Tell me, and I'll let you walk out of it."
Not knowing the answer, Soap frowns. Price is the captain of the task force he's been wanting to join for some months, so determined to escape his own team. He has no idea what the world-renowned Task Force 141 has been up to. Their actions are too important and classified, kept away from a plain sergeant like him. He could lie, but he is not going to break so easily, not without a good beating, first.
A smirk crosses his face as he refuses to answer, shaking his head. It only enrages the commander more.
Graves' fist flies through the dim darkness, but for him, it's only a flash before it comes in contact with his cheekbone. His eyes squeeze shut, the pain explodes in his cheek, and his skin turns red. The man continues to punch his face mercilessly, not aiming anywhere specific - at some point something in his jaw cracks. Soap realizes it's only his tooth, and his swollen face starts to feel numb. Maybe it's more painful for Graves than it is for Soap.
He runs his tongue over the fractured cusp, and it doesn't seem as bad as it could. Nothing a visit to the dentist won't fix.
Unexpectedly, a heavy kick throws him from the chair, he lies there - groaning on the cold floor as Graves steps aside and nods to one of his Shadows. A masked soldier takes the commander's place and continues to boot him, until all Soap can do is moan from the pain, so excessive it burns his entire body. He can't even cover his face with his hands, leaving it vulnerable and easy to target.
His knees draw up to his torso in the last attempt to save his ribs from getting broken. It's all in vain though, as the other Shadow joins his teammate, kicking his back.
"Not only do we have Russians on our backs, but now SAS, too..." Graves growls in frustration, stepping on Soap's hand. The new fracture causes him to wail in pain, and he is really about to start begging for his life. "Maybe if we send them your head, they will rethink their choices. It's nothing personal, Soap, that's just how the world works..."
Blood rushes down his face when his nose gets broken. Soap moans, the pain continues - the adrenaline is not helping him, not in the slightest. Maybe the situation he's in hasn't fully kicked in yet, maybe a part of him thinks he deserves to feel such a way for failing his mission. Nevertheless, it all suddenly stops, replaced by a different type of distress.
The room shakes, and everyone looks around. For a moment, his torture is cut short before it can fully begin. Soap can't even take a full breath of relief, because then the wall behind him explodes.
Broken bricks fly everywhere, and Shadows get knocked to the ground by the violent impact. Groans fill the room as the dust hangs in the air, and Soap can see its particles in between the nervous flickering of the corridor's light.
Soap glances toward the open door, toward the swinging lamp. The second thing he notices are deep cracks splitting the ceiling, reaching his cell. It's going to fall down, he realizes. He somehow manages to shove his head under the metal chair, and seconds later, everything turns black.
***
He regains his consciousness slowly, almost an hour later. The world around him continues to spin, and his vision is obstructed by black spots flying right in front of his eyes. He cannot stop the high pitch from ringing in his ears, too tired to move and cover them. It all mixes together - distant shouts and engines of various vehicles, a series of gunshots, and a plane flying by.
The dust settles down still, coating his clothes in a thick, white layer of powder. Most of it gets inside his nose and lips, and his initial reaction is to cough it all out. It causes him more pain, ribs broken, legs partially crushed by the debris but it’s seemingly light since his legs don’t feel too bad.
Soap needs to sit up and assess the situation, get his ass out of the building before it crumbles or a bomb falls down on his head. So far, he can only move his neck, wiggling out of the safety of a bent chair to look around the room. Graves is nowhere to be seen, but his two Shadows remain there - buried underneath the rubble. He sees the bits of their unmoving limbs sticking out from under the bricks and wood.
One of their rifles accidentally landed right by his thigh. Soap raises a brow, not quite believing his incredible luck - his arms reach to dig himself out. Any sort of movement is painful, but he cannot stay here forever. He doesn't know what caused the explosion, or if anyone will come looking for him. In the corner, he notices his backpack. Picking up the rifle and throwing it over his shoulder, he crawls there and snatches it quickly.
The backpack isn't as heavy as he remembers it being, but he has got no time to check its contents. He picks it up, dragging himself to the nearest broken wall. The moon shines bright above his head, almost outshined by the fire that spreads through the temporary base of Shadow's Company. The last time he was outside, it was early morning. The knowledge doesn't help him at all, as he doesn't know how much time actually passed.
He slouches towards the forest, legs nearly failing him as he is in a pain too great to think, let alone move. A forest, he wants to cry - he is much further up North than he assumed. He reaches the treeline lit by the fire, and his hand reaches to support himself using a nearby tree. His breath is shaky, blood dries on his face - he is determined to walk deeper into the ancient woods, seeking cover. He has no idea where he is, nor recognizes the direction he goes. It's too dark to look around, he just walks as fast as he can, given his injuries, coughing out some more dust as he goes.
Soap needs to put more distance between himself and the Shadows, and the only thought that motivates him is that the fucker Graves is probably still alive. He doesn't want to fall into his grasp once again, and the chaos is the perfect opportunity to flee. At some point, when the post-explosion panic settles down, they will come looking for him. Soap walks until he is sick of moving until he doesn't feel much pain anymore, only exhaustion. After a while, the darkness is all that surrounds him. He doesn't see the base when he turns back and acknowledges his efforts to be a success.
The moon is high in the sky now, and he wanders for a few more minutes before stopping. Soap sits down on one of the bigger mossy rocks, ignoring its dampness. He finally can breathe, trying to soothe his shaken nerves. It seems like no one's been following him, so he can now try and call for help.
Opening his backpack, he realizes that his radio is gone - the only thing that could grant him the hope of ever being rescued. Not only are the radio and his cell phone gone, but so is the rest of his equipment. Ammo, knife, maps, compass, even his damn sketchbook - all missing. He fights the urge to swear, feeling utterly fucked and miserable.
"Damn Shadows," he scoffs, reaching for his flask and drinking as much water as he can, chapped lips finally getting the pleasure of getting hydrated. Then he decides to save the rest of it for later, at least until he can figure out his next steps.
How is he supposed to get through the wilderness, now that he's deprived of the basic tools he needs to survive?
For the first time today, tears streak down his face. He walks deeper into the forest and follows one of the mountain trails, because it has to lead somewhere.
There is something in the distance, an outline of a cabin surrounded by woods.
The house is old, and the wood looks completely rotten. The whole place is empty, and the windows are broken. Nature slowly swallows the place - weeds and dead leaves cover the dark floors, and the roof is leaky. He wouldn't trust the building not to fall at any given moment, as he'd gotten his fair share of collapsing ceilings earlier today. Yet, it's his only option for a relatively safe shelter tonight, one that won't catch anyone's attention if he decides to stay.
Before settling for the night and taking care of his wounds, he uses his last remaining bits of energy to circle around the house, making sure no one is there. His recon doubles for a time to pick some dry wood. Soap turns the opposite way, walks through a small forest, and soon stumbles across a field, all covered in flowers.
He doesn't want to stay too long out in the open, but he sees something in the distance - a white object visibly standing out from the greenery around. Driven by pure curiosity, he approaches it, flinching at the realization that the object is, in fact, a human skull.
A part of the skull that makes him wonder what happened to the rest of the skeleton. Was it scavenged by wild animals? He picks it up and inspects it in his hands, only to find out it's not made out of bone but a thick plastic, a faceplate resembling a mask.
"What a fucking joke..." He throws it away, deciding it's time to head back to the house. Soap takes a step in the direction in which he came from, but his boot steps on something hard, buried underground.
Please, don't let it be a landmine, he pleads in his mind. He doesn't take off the pressure, and dread makes his head spin, his knees feeling watery. His foot starts to tremble, and he hears a small crack. Soap crouches, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. He tries to feel with his hand if the object he stood on is really a landmine, if this is the end.
His fingers swipe across something rough, a ragged material of some sort.
Reluctantly, he steps away. Nothing happens, he's still alive.
Soap picks up the dirty pouch with something solid inside and takes it out.
A radio. A fucking radio.
What a fucking relief. It nearly made him scream with joy, another set of tears escapes his eyelids and melts the blood away.
Excited, he runs back to the house. Or, rather limps.
It's covered in a dry layer of mud, so he thinks of how to clean it. Spilling water on it doesn't seem like the best idea, so he tries scratching the dirt with his nails, instead. Every crease is full of sand and dirt, and it all falls straight on his dusted trousers.
He makes a tired noise when he clicks one of the buttons, but it won't push all the way in. Before blowing some air onto it, he checks if there are any batteries lying around. Luckily enough, one battery is still in the pouch.
"This is Bravo 7-1 in the blind, does anyone copy?" he rasps, squeezing the plastic so hard he hears the sides creaking. Soap finishes speaking and leans his head against the decaying brick wall.
The radio looks like it comes from the previous decade, resembling a standard MBITR. For him, the device belongs in the museum, not the field. It's surprising that it works in the first place, yet he doubts that the batteries will hold long enough for him to get actual help. Soap doesn't expect anyone to answer and he knows it's probably pointless. Who knows how long it's been here?
He closes his eyes, too tired from the pain. His grip partially loosens as Soap drifts away to sleep. But then the device lets out a humming noise. A voice follows.
"Bravo 7-1, this is Ghost, how copy?"
Hope.