New Surrender

Title: New Surrender

Summary: MacTavish and Price reflect on all that has been lost in the wake of a betrayal of fellow brother-in-arms. SPOILERS for COD: MW2.

Prompt: Drugs

Author: Sakura123 (weber_dubois22)

Rating: T

Characters: MacTavish; John Price; Nicolai; Roach; Shepherd; Ghost

Chapters: 1/1

Word Count: 4677

Written: 12/20/09

Completed: 12/24/04

Disclaimer: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 and all things related are property of Infantry Ward.

Authors Note: A little idea that was spinning about in my head right after completing "Hurricane Night of the Hunters". You don't need to read aforementioned tale to understand this one though. I'm not particularly sure what the Military does or doesn't know in concerns to the demise of the 141 taskforce members in Georgia, let alone the failed mission with Joseph Allen, at least in concerns to what Shepherd might've told them (assuming he was still in contact with the military after "Loose Ends"), so most of this stuff is made up based on information I read of the COD Wiki (which is debatable, as usual) and assumptions I made on my own. (I seriously doubt Shepherd got all the taskorce members, unless he was picking them off prior to his murdering Ghost, and Roach). Again, I apologize in advance for any technical/medical errors (especially in concerns with the Necular Missile/EMP thingy in "Contingency" and "Second Sun"). Obviously, some the finer details of MW2's storyline are off here, I've only just found a YouTube walkthrough with the Mission Summaries before the start of the actual levels, which clarified alot of things for me.

"My ass is freezing in this snow,"

"Quit your griping, Roach. I'm almost done," MacTavish tightened the gauze around the Sergeant's thigh one more time before it fell short to around his leg. Gary said nothing and continued to observe the snowy terrain, or what he could see of it through the trees.

Once he was confident the gauze was secure around Roach's thigh, MacTavish dragged his hand down to the brace. The boy had quite a number done to his left leg; after getting shot to the leg, he crashed his snowmobile and broke his leg. MacTavish was impressed he managed to stay conscious long enough for him to get them to safety. Roach passed out when MacTavish set his broken leg, however. He hardly made a peep until he started to patch up the bullet wound in his thigh. The FNG then spent the last half hour complaining about the numbness in his ass and the pain in his leg.

Sufficed to say, MacTavish was tempted to throw him out to the Russians, wondering if this was how Price felt whenever he was stuck with him as his back-up, not that MacTavish put any substantial energy into complaining about anything besides Rain and dogs. Pulling his collar higher around his neck, MacTavish proceeded to repack the med kit. Gary shifted uncomfortably on the snow, resting his head against the tree behind him.

"Hey, captain…"

"What is it, Roach?"

"You got a girlfriend?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"Wrong time, wrong place?" Gary ventured. "Or do you like guy--?"

MacTavish narrowed his gaze, effectively killing that line of thought.

"Okay, jeez! I was just covering my bases," Gary mumbled, raising a hand in mock surrender. MacTavish chose not to respond to that, he fastened the kit back inside the inner pocket of his jacket.

"No, I don't have a girlfriend. Never found the time to settle down with lass," MacTavish answered, picking his gun off the ground. "What about you? You got a sweetheart?"

"Sure do," Roach replied, perhaps a bit too proudly. "Her name's Milla."

"Is it, now?" MacTavish watched the young man roll his eyes before lowering his chin to his chest.

"Yep, I met her five years ago. She's a beauty," Gary mumbled, ready to doze off.

Falling asleep was probably the last thing MacTavish wanted Roach to do, he slapped Gary hard on the arm, jolting the man out of his momentary stupor. Gary looked as though he were ready to snap at him, but the involuntary movement of his left leg sent the sergeant falling sideways in pain.

MacTavish reached over and steadied his legs, effectively immobilizing them while the rest of Gary flailed about in the snow. He trusted the recent-SAS recruit to keep his mouth shut, so far, Gary biting his own hand seemed to be doing the trick. The Russians searching the area for their whereabouts were still oblivious to the fact that they were walking right past them.

When Gary was through with his fit, he remained on his side, breathing heavily into his glove. "If you've any sense, you won't do that again," MacTavish chided. Roach said nothing, more comfortable with glaring at his captain, he really didn't trust his voice to stay below shouting level. MacTavish ignored him, holding his hand out, he waited for Gary to take it. Roach did so, albeit, reluctantly, wincing when his left leg was disturbed again. MacTavish set him upright with little trouble.

"Alright, stay here---"

"Like I can go anywhere, sir,"

"---I'll try and get us another snowmobile," MacTavish finished, ignoring the remark from his partner.

"What does it matter anyway? We're all dead men."

"What the hell does that mean?" The captain turned to face the sergeant. Roach's face, frosted with ice and snow, was a perfect picture of a content man.

"I mean all of this ---" Roach gestured to the environment around them with a dramatic sweep of his hand. "---none it, none of this ever happened. It's probably just the drugs talking."

Now MacTavish was beyond confused, what the hell was he goin' on about? "Roach---?"

"Soap, Roach is dead." Price's voice was coming out Roach's mouth. MacTavish took a step back, unconsciously he raised his rifle on the young man. Roach didn't seem to realize what he was doing, he continued to stare at MacTavish with eerie calm. "Price?"

Roach opened his mouth to speak, a shot rang out; MacTavish watched Gary's head bounce against the tree behind him. Roach fell over onto his side, bullet dodged in the center of his head. Soap was too stunned to move, he stared down at Roach's body, eyes slowly starting to follow the river of blood running out from his head. "He was a good soldier, they were all. He can take comfort in knowing that he died for a greater cause," Shepherd's voice echoed out behind him.

Dropping his UMP, Soap reached for his pistol and turned, Shepherd stood across from him, his combat knife nowhere to be found in or on his person. Soap trained his weapon directly on the general's head, Shepherd was unfazed by Soap's show of aggression, he stood ram-rod straight, the smoking gun in his hand. "It's a shame you and Price fail to realize this," He continued.

Soap scowled. "No soldier deserves to be killed like that, Shepherd," He hissed. "Especially by one of their own."

Shepherd shook his head disappointedly, he started to unload the bullets from his magnum in a slow and casual manner. "It was necessary sacrifice." Soap felt himself growing angrier, he watched Shepherd swing the barrel back into place and pull the hammer back, the taste of familiarity creeping into the back of his throat.

Soap failed to react to Shepherd aiming his gun on his chest, the older man narrowed his gaze and frowned. "History is written by the victors, soldier. You of all people should understand this."

Shepherd pulled the trigger, Soap felt a pop in his throat, a second later he was choking on his own blood. He fell to his knees, hands grabbing his neck in a attempt to stop the blood from escaping the wound.

MacTavish woke with a start, body thrashing wildly beneath the sheets that trapped him. A pair of hands grabbed his wrists and attempted to push him back down. Slowly, he became aware that he was no longer choking on blood. Opening his eyes, Soap was quick to disregard the haze of sleep and zeroed in on the face his opponent. The face was slow to come into focus, but if it had not been for the familiar outline of a Boone hat, Soap would've continued to attack the man without hesitation.

"Soap, calm down! It's me, Price!" The sound of his old friend's cultured and raspy voice brought MacTavish to a halt. Blinking once cleared most of the sleep away, Price came into view, a rare show of concern as his current expression. Slowly, the events of the past seven days hit MacTavish like a blast of cold water, killing the adrenaline pumping through his system.

A dull ache began to resonate in his chest, the memory of being stabbed by Shepherd made it's way to surface, it did nothing except make the pain from the wound that much more profound. With a moan, MacTavish lowered his arms from their defensive position and fell back onto the bed. Price released his grip on his friend's wrists, sinking back down into the chair at the foot the bed with a haggard sigh.

MacTavish writhed in pain, his fingers clutched the sheets for dear life as he fought back the urge to scream; If he was drugged prior to his awakening, he would love for them to be pumped back into his system. It hurt to breathe, the skin of his chest stretched everytime his lungs expanded and deflated, pressing his face into the pillow, MacTavish cursed quietly. "Just breathe through it, Soap. You've survived worse than this," Price attempt at bedside manner almost made MacTavish laugh, but the throb of his chest made him think twice. Christ, this is awful.

Price sat quietly in his chair, watching as his friend worked through the pain. There was no point in waking Nikolai from his sleep, the doctor had left three hours ago to restock on supplies. It would be a while before could return to the house anyhow. With military on the hunt for them, Dr. Stanislav suspected he would be drawing too much attention to himself, grabbing supplies from the hospital and then speeding back up to his apartment. Price thanked him for going out his way to help Soap.

After hauling MacTavish friend off the ground, Price spent much of the trip on the little bird watching his friend loose blood, either through his chest mouth, looking terribly apologetic as he drifted in and out of consciousness. By the time they reached the cabin, Price was afraid Soap would succumb to his injury before help could arrive. Almost fifteen minutes later, Nicolai returned with Dr. Stanislav and put him to work on patching up Soap.

That was almost a week ago; Soap had been dead to the world for so long that Price feared he'd fallen into a coma. The knot on his forehead strongly indicated that Shepherd had done more than just stabbed him. Bloody wanker, Price thought. To think that they'd all entrusted their lives to this man, that moppets like Joseph Allen and Gary Sanderson admired him, only to discover he was the reason behind their country's entire predicament. And all in the name of a morale and recruit boost.

There was a quiet sigh of frustration from Soap, Price pinched the bridge of his nose in mild relief. "You alright, mate?"

"How long have I been out?" MacTavish said, avoiding the question.

"Soap---"

"Price."

"Almost a week now," Price answered, stretching in the chair. MacTavish groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd lost an entire week of his life to nothingness, his body felt like it weighed a tone, he wasn't sure how he managed to move so much earlier. "Where's Nikolai?"

"In the other room sleeping, hopefully," Price relayed. "You gave him quite a scare, Soap." I'm sure I did, MacTavish thought warily, unclenching his hands from the sheets.

"Has there been any news?"

"Nothing new," Price remarked. "The Intel obtained from Makarov's computer is proving to be useful to the army; They say they've got him on the run. The 141 members that seized the safe house in Georgia were said to have gone rogue, taking the side of the ultranationalists and eliminated by force led by Shepherd. Nikolai tells me that the army suspects Shepherd was killed by us for the information he had on Makarov, to cover the fact that we, and not him, sold Joseph Allen out to the Russians. We're officially wanted men, you and me."

"Well, that's just perfect," MacTavish muttered. Price said nothing, he continued to pace back and forth in the room, casting the occasional glance toward the shaded window. MacTavish watched his friend through half-lidded eyes. Even after all this time, Soap felt like he was talking to a ghost, one that would eventually uproot itself and vanish just like he did five years ago. Soap remembered being driven mad by the idea of not knowing whether or not Price was dead or alive.

Watching Griggs and Gaz being gunned down by the ultranationalists and Imran Zakhaev himself, would haunt him for the rest of his life, but the idea having no solid status on his then-captain, seemed worse than watching his squad die. He lived with not knowing for five years. While some part of him held on to hope, half of MacTavish seemed ready to stop hoping for Price's return, ready to bury him with the past and used what he'd learned from the man to the fullest extent.

And it was working; Price's words repeated themselves in his head, he repeated them to Roach, who listened dutifully, when he wasn't distracted by constant change of environments or running his mouth. He got the sense that Price would be proud of how he was handling Roach, the young man hung off of every word his elder teammates said, him and Ghost especially. MacTavish was at the half-way point of acceptance when they attacked the gulag, not particularly sure why Prisoner 627 was important to Shepherd, but he was a POW and no one was to be left in enemy hands.

Through the bullet-riddled journey deeper into the gulag, MacTavish felt the past falling faster and faster behind him, becoming a memory he'd rather not look upon. The rope would've fallen completely away from his hands, had it not been Roach's unfortunate run-in with Prisoner 627's fist.

Never in a million years would have believed that he'd be reunited with Price, let alone threaten him with his own gun, in a Russian concentration camp. And just like that, Soap grabbed hold Price and walked his friend out of hell (so to speak). They were equals now, at least in ranking and Price respected his command, even if he was uncertain about the men (sans Ghost, who he took a real shine to) he was leading. Shepherd debriefed them on Price's situation and where they stood with the Russians and Makarov. They were loosing, the ultranationalists were gaining more and more ground in the United States, Makarov remained elusive as ever.

In the awake the nuclear missile launch which left some the united states in darkness (leveling the playing field for the army defending the country against the invading Russians), things started to unravel for them; Shepherd had the taskforce split up all over Russia to search for Makarov via his safe houses, Price and himself were sent to Afghanistan to look in on arm's deal, knowing they could pump someone for information on Makarov's whereabouts.

Neither he or Price were expecting to be ambushed by friendlies the second the opportunity to grab the dealer presented itself. Price tried to warn their friends of Shepherd's treachery, but there was no response, not even after they escaped the bone yard. They were all dead, killed by Shepherd and his Shadow Company. For the second time in five years, with the exception of Price, Soap lost everyone he considered a friend to another power-hungry bastard.

"Soap, do you need anything?"

"Drugs, lots of them," MacTavish answered honestly.

"The best I can give you is Tylenol," Price said, walking over to the dresser at the end of the room. "The doc won't be back until tomorrow with morphine." There was disgruntled groan from MacTavish, Price sympathized with his friend's frustration and returned to his chair with a glass of water and two pills. Sitting them on the bedside table, Price moved to assist Soap in sitting up.

MacTavish relented at first, determined to help himself into a upright position, but the tiniest application of pressure on his left arm sent a spike of pain through his chest, he bit the inside of his mouth to hold back a scream. Reluctantly, he motioned Price to come closer, Price did as he was asked.

Throwing one arm around his shoulder, Price pulled Soap into an upright position, resting him against headboard. The younger man nodded appreciatively, taking the water and pills when they were given to him. The rim of the cup was poised on MacTavish's lips when he asked, "Where are we?"

"Still in Afghanistan."

"And the house?"

"An apartment, belongs to a friend of Nikolai. A doctor Emil Stanislav, a Russian loyalist who decided it worth his while to help us," Price explained.

"He wasn't before?" MacTavish inquired.

"It was nothing a little convincing couldn't fix."

MacTavish had to laugh at that. "I'll bet."

"That's quite the shiner, Roach," MacTavish commented, tossing him an ice pack. Gary snatched the bag of ice out of the air and pressed it to his right eye, purple and swollen.

"Oh, this?" Roach smiled bitterly. "You can thank Captain Price for this."

"I'm aware," Was all MacTavish said.

"I did try to warn you," Ghost sighed.

"Well, you know, if the bastard had let us know, ahead of time, what the hell he was doing, I wouldn't have attacked him!" Gary snapped. He paused to shoot Riley a simmering glare with his good eye. "And like you knew what was going on, Ghost."

Ghost shrugged. "I didn't, I was just as scared as you were, mate. Doesn't mean you had any business attacking Price."

Gary started to roll his eyes and immediately regretted it, he winced, pressing the ice pack against his throbbing eye. MacTavish shook his head in exasperation as he rubbed his hands together, hoping to generate some heat to chase the chill off them. He could sympathize with Gary's reaction to Price's seemingly rogue actions, letting the missile launch as opposed to sabotaging it, none of them had expected that.

But instead of keeping his emotions in check, Gary stalked up to the captain and knocked the man down with a solid punch to the face. The only thing Gary was missing was salvia dripping from his mouth, the boy was absolutely livid. Price was quick to rebound, however, and in the middle of his rant, knocked the wind out of Gary with a punch to the gut combined swift punch to the eye.

MacTavish and the others moved in to keep the two men apart, but from the dazed expression Roach's face, MacTavish knew he wasn't getting up anytime soon without an assist. Price was quick explain what he'd done inside the submarine; he changed the trajectory of the missile, so instead of landing directly in Washington, it would detonate in the upper atmosphere, resulting in EMP that would wipe out the power to half the southern part united states. While their army would be without their mechanized weaponry, so would the Russians. Despite initial shock, everyone, sans Roach, understood why he did what he did.

"Roach, where exactly is your family?" MacTavish asked.

"As of now, I have no idea. Milla saw me off in Washington, but she might've gone back to Pennsylvania, that's where she and I live. My parents, they live in Washington," Roach explained hastily, lowering the pack from his eye. "I tried calling them---"

"You what?" Ghost interjected.

"I tried to called them. Before I left for Kazakhstan with the captain, before the Russian's invaded America, I called, they didn't answer. I left them a message telling I was fine and that missed them," Roach ran his hand through his hair.

MacTavish watched the boy's expression change from angry to grief-stricken. "Look, I know what I did was wrong, but when I saw the fucking missile launch, I snapped, okay? I thought Price had betrayed us, I thought you---" He pointed to MacTavish, "---betrayed us, I thought my family was gonna get a front seat to Hiroshima: the sequel. I just reacted and didn't think. I mean, what did you expect me to do? Take it like a man?"

"Yes," MacTavish deadpanned. "The rest of us did."

"I didn't. He's a FNG, Soap," Ghost said. MacTavish shot the lieutenant a look of death, Riley did nothing except shrug, sunglasses hiding the amused gleam in his eyes.

"My point is, Roach," MacTavish resumed, "Is that your not the only person with a family. Everyone's family was at risk, not just yours, yet they kept their heads. You didn't."

Gary bit his bleeding lip and put the ice pack back on his eye. "I'm sorry."

"Just be sure it doesn't happen again," MacTavish stood from his leaning position against the wall and proceeded out of the room.

"Yes, sir, it won't."

"MacTavish, what are you doing up?"

MacTavish opened his eyes in response, turning his head he spotted Nikolai as he stepped into the living room, cigarette clamped between his teeth. MacTavish's nose itched at the smell of it, glaring at the smoke that seemed to swirl around the loyalist like a cloud. He swallowed against the nausea in his stomach as he readjusted himself on the couch.

"Captain Price will not be pleased to see you out of bed," Nikolai gave the captain an admonishing look, one that MacTavish pretended to ignore. After taking his pills, MacTavish dozed off and woke up to an empty bedroom, he took this a sign to get out of bed.

However, a week of immobility proved to cause more of a problem than he originally thought. Combined with the pain in his chest, the tiniest bit of pressure on his arms caused them to buckle under his weight, Soap hit the mattress more times trying to sit up than he cared to remember. The most he managed to do was use the bedpost to pull himself into an upright position, he tossed the sheets aside and placed his feet on the ground.

He took twenty minutes to catch his breath and flex his limbs, hoping the repetitive action would help him in standing. Afterward, Soap tried to stand and fell promptly to the ground on his knees. It took ten minutes to stand and another to steady himself as he stumbled out of the bedroom, he used the hallway walls to maintain balance until he reached the living room. What strength he had left in his legs, MacTavish used to reach the couch. Winded, MacTavish made himself comfortable on the couch and prayed he wasn't comprising their location by being out in the open.

"I needed a change of scenery, Nikolai," MacTavish sighed. "How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question, friend?" Nikolai gestured the blood staining the top his shirt. MacTavish looked down to regard his chest, he could only see the edge of the blood that managed to seep through his bandage onto his undershirt. "Shite," He muttered. When was the last time he had his bandages changed?

"Not to worry, I will get some fresh bandages for you," Nikolai offered. MacTavish raised an arm to stop him, but Nikolai was already out of the room and heading wherever the bathroom was located. Sitting back in the chair, MacTavish waited for the return of Nikolai, counting the cracks in the wall across from him. A few minutes later, Nikolai returned with gauze and a med kit. "You are very fortunate, my friend, that Shepherd cannot aim," He joked.

MacTavish rolled his eyes at his comment, Shepherd had hit close enough to his heart to take him out of commission, that was aim enough for the Scotsman. Nikolai sat the medical kit on the coffee table in front of the couch and made himself comfortable beside Soap. MacTavish pulled the undershirt over his head, Nikolai grimaced at the sight of the blood-soaked bandage. "This will definitely needed to be changed, MacTavish," Nikolai remarked.

Soap nodded and finished removing the undershirt from his body, Nikolai was quick to cut away the bandage, removing it from his chest. MacTavish winced as the tape pulled the hairs from his chest, wishing he'd gotten waxed before this. Nikolai tossed the ruined bandage into the trash can next to the coffee table, Soap glanced down at his chest. The reopened wound was deep, about the length a pencil nearly worn down to it's end.

Shepherd brandishing his combat knife and driving into his chest, flashed in MacTavish's head again, unconsciously he made a move to touch the wound, Nikolai pushed his hand away. "We'll have to restitch this," Nikolai muttered. MacTavish remained silent as Nikolai went to work on his chest, cleaning it of the dried blood with disinfectant, the first signs of drowsiness started to rear its head again as Nikolai finished stitching the wound closed. Making sure he stayed upright and away from the back of the couch, MacTavish steadied himself with his left arm on the arm of the couch, watching Nikolai reapply a fresh bandage.

"Must've reopened when I got up," MacTavish muttered, by way of explanation.

"All the more reason you should've stayed in bed, cowboy," Nikolai chuckled.

"You think so?"

"Da, comrade. Your are no good to us like this."

MacTavish said nothing and continued to stare at the wall; The living room was slightly illuminated by the evening sun, the curtains of the window were closed, letting in minimal light. MacTavish felt Nikolai fasten the bandage on his chest, he looked down and appraised his handiwork. The bandage was tight, but loose enough to allow his skin a little breathing room.

"Not bad, Nikolai," He commented, grinning.

Nikolai started to respond to MacTavish's compliment when the front door opened, both them turned their attention to the doorway, Nikolai's hand was already on his pistol. Price stepped inside, the man wore clothing very unlike him, and if it weren't for his obvious nationality, he could've easily passed as one of the locals. A moment of confusion seemed to cross Price's face before being replaced by concern. "Soap, what are you doin' out of bed?" Price inquired.

"Restless, I suppose," MacTavish replied, reaching for his undershirt. Price regarded the captain, Nikolai, then shifted his gaze over to the coffee table.

"Hmm… tore your stitches did you?"

"Somethin' like that," MacTavish pulled the t-shirt over his head, wincing. Nikolai rose from the couch and proceeded to pack up the med-kit, Price watched the pilot make a hasty retreat from the living room, muttering something about getting another cigarette. Was he expecting them to get into a fight? Price wondered, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Did you find out what happened to the other taskforce members?"

Price made a face. "The survivors are helping the military hunt us down, of course."

Of course, MacTavish thought warily, straightening his shirt out. "We can't stay here much longer, Price," He said.

"I know, we'll leave tomorrow," Price pulled the robe from his shoulders and tossed it to the side. The two regarded each other in silence, MacTavish sat on the edge of the couch, flexing his bare feet on the dusty floor, a obvious sign of nervousness. Price watched him, the concern had yet to leave his face, his friend had changed greatly in the last years; While, Soap wasn't a particularly boisterous young man, Price noticed a definite shift in demeanor.

He was serious-minded man now, certainly more disciplined, though he lost none of his sense of humor, Price mused. In his absence, Soap had earned himself scars around his right eye and forehead, his eyes carried a haunted look about them, a look many in their profession shared. It only seemed more profound because of their predicament.

To ask him what was bothering him seemed like the thing to do, but Price knew amount of talking was change what Soap had decided to blame himself for, sure the man blamed himself for what happened all those years ago with Zakhaev. At least in concerns to his comrades. Soap was mourning, Price thought it best to let him do just that until it became a problem.

"Do you think they know?" MacTavish asked.

"Who, Soap?" Price said, though he had feeling he knew the 'who' Soap was referring to.

"Sanderson's family. Do you think they know what happened to him?"

"Assuming they're even alive? I doubt it. Immolation by friendlies isn't something they're inclined to report on the six o'clock news," Price huffed, venturing over to the kitchen on the right. "Perhaps it's better that way, mate, not knowing. You hungry?"

"Starving."

Price made a noncommittal grunt by way of response and proceeded to rummage through the fridge for something to eat, MacTavish proceeded to stare up at the ceiling in resignation. It was a new week, which meant they had a another chance at fixing things for good.

[END]