Disclaimer- I do not own the Call of Duty franchise (specifically Modern Warfare 2) or the Elder Scrolls franchise (specifically Skyrim). In fact, I don't think I own anything in this story... but this is why we have fanfiction in the first place, am I right?

Author's Notes- What can I say? I liked MW2, and I liked Skyrim, so one day I thought to myself, "Hurr durr what would happen if I made some kind of crossover story?"... So here we are. And I swear that I'm not going to post anymore stories (okay, maybe one more) until I finish at least one of my current projects.

Side note: I don't know how long each of these chapters will be, and I don't really care. Some might be short, some might be long; but in the end, I'm aiming for pure quality over quantity. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy.

[Day 6 - 15:58:44]

[Sgt. Gary "Roach" Sanderson]

[Task Force 141]

[Georgian-Russian Border]

"Roach, I'll cover you! Go!"

Sergeant Gary "Roach" Sanderson was sure living up to his callsign. In the past four days he had nearly plummeted off a frozen cliff to his death, jumped over a gaping chasm in a snowmobile, been attacked by dogs which were more than likely rabid, helped capture an extremely dangerous arms dealer who provided ammunition for an even more dangerous terrorist in his plan to slaughter an entire airport full of civilians and blame the U.S. afterward, sprinted through a Brazilian favela unarmed while militiamen shot at him, infiltrated an oil rig in the middle of nowhere, fought through a Russian gulag to capture a high-value prisoner who turned out to be his captain's old mentor, was nearly shot by said mentor, accompanied said mentor on what he initially thought was a mission to capture a Russian base, only to learn that their real objective was to launch a missile which would unleash an EMP burst over the eastern U.S. to help stave off an invading army; and now, he and three other surviving Task Force 141 members were sprinting along the Georgian-Russian border to reach an LZ and drop off valuable data containing information on the whereabouts of the terrorists' leader, Vladimir Makarov, while being shot at yet again by more Ultranationalist soldiers. All in all, he had survived a whole lot of crap so far.

Damn Russia for having such a huge population.

When he finally reached a clearing in the forest where the LZ was located, Roach couldn't help but notice that the only other person to exit the woods with him was his mission partner and unofficial best friend, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley. Out of all the people Roach had worked with, Ghost had left one of the best impressions on him, having fought at Roach's side for the majority of his most recent missions. The man was a godsend.

Scarecrow and Ozone didn't emerge into the clearing. Roach felt an unwanted yet all-too-familiar sensation of fear and regret brewing in his gut, mixed with the slightest hope that perhaps his two other comrades had merely gotten separated from them and had fled deeper into the forest to seek cover from the Ultranationalist assault. He didn't have much time to dwell on that thought, however, as he spotted a Little Bird and a Pave Low helicopter flying over the clearing ahead of him.

That's when the mortar hit.

When his vision returned and the horrible ringing in his ears had died down somewhat, Roach slowly came to realize that he was practically being dragged along by someone else toward the LZ. He was by no means a genius, but Roach knew that he had been shell-shocked- almost getting blown to pieces by a mortar round tends to do that to people. The fact that everything he saw was shifting in and out of focus, accompanied by the still-present ringing sound, only proved to confirm what he already knew.

"I've got you, Roach, hang on!" Ghost's voice called to him. "Thunder Two-One, I've popped red smoke in the treeline! Standby to engage on my mark!"

"Roger that. I have a visual on the red smoke. Standing by." the Little Bird pilot responded.

"Thunder Two-One, cleared hot! Roach, take this and help provide covering fire!"

"Roger that, cleared hot."

Ghost shoved something into Roach's hands; upon closer inspection it turned out to be an AK-47 Grenadier assault rifle. Where he had gotten it from, Roach didn't know, and he certainly wasn't in any condition to ask or complain about it. The Task Force 141 operative fired the weapon on full auto to repel the advancing Russians while Thunder Two-One unleashed hell on any hostiles in its sightline.

"Roach, hang in there!"

The Pave Low smoothly and efficiently descended to the ground while Roach continued to shoot. Hauling his wounded friend upright, Ghost trudged towards the helicopter while its boarding ramp began to lower. General Shepherd, American war hero and one of the founders of Task Force 141, stepped out to observe the situation in front of him, casually smoking a cigar as if what he was seeing was all perfectly normal. In his line of work, it probably was.

"Come on, get up! Get up! Get up! We're almost there!" Ghost insisted urgently.

Roach acknowledged his fellow soldier with a small grunt of pain. All around the two, radio chatter from Shadow Company, Shepherd's personal black ops squad, could be heard over the constant gunfire.

"Gold Eagle's on the ground. Watch for snipers on thermal, over."

"Roger that. All targets destroyed."

"Move! Move! Spread out!"

"Go go go!"

I wonder if Archer and Toad made it out alright, Roach pondered to himself, thinking of the two snipers who had provided invaluable fire support during and after the trek to Makarov's safe house.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, the duo finally reached Shepherd's Pave Low. The General approached them with a stern face that clearly meant business.

"Do you have the DSM?" he asked bluntly.

"We got it, sir!" Ghost responded triumphantly as Roach weakly tossed the data drive over. Shepherd caught it in one hand, examining it for a moment, before returning his attention to the two Brits standing in front of him.

"Good. That's one less loose end."

Pocketing the DSM, Shepherd unholstered his signature .44 magnum and pointed it directly at Roach.

What is he-?

BANG!

"NO!"

BANG!

Never in his entire twenty-six years of existence had Roach felt this kind of pain before. The bullet easily tore through his bodysuit, puncturing the delicate flesh underneath before proceeding to rip apart any bones and internal organs caught in its deadly path. He didn't feel it exit out his back, but that was beside the point. So great was the sheer force of the impact that Roach was knocked off his feet and thrown backwards onto the hard ground under him.

Ghost had fared far worse. In the second it took for his comrade to fall, the lieutenant raised his ACR with the full intention to end the life of the man who had so easily snuffed out his closest friend's vitality, only to take a second bullet straight to his chest. Ghost collapsed in a broken heap.

The disembodied voices of Shadow Company continued to echo over the radio channel as several soldiers picked up the still forms and carried them over to a small ditch.

"Area sanitized. All targets destroyed."

"Solid copy. No movement detected. 2-6 going into holding pattern."

The nameless troops unceremoniously dumped the two bodies in the ditch, further aggravating the already unbearable pain coursing through Roach's abdomen. From where he landed, the sergeant saw Ghost's limp form thrown in next to his.

Captain Price's voice suddenly emerged over the comms, heavy with both static and desperation.

"Ghost! Ghost, come in, this is Price! We're under attack by Shepherd's men at the boneyard! Soap, hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!-"

The tranmission ended abruptly. Roach could only pray silently that his superiors would make it out alive, even as another Shadow Company goon began dousing his and Ghost's bodies with a thick, foul-smelling liquid. Gasoline.

The sound of footsteps crunching on dry grass could be heard approaching. Weakly, the operative lifted his head to witness the traitorous General he had trusted up until now standing over him, a tiny smirk creasing his aged face- a face Roach so furiously wanted to fill with bullets or buckshot, yet was powerless to do so.

"Shame that it has to end this way," Shepherd sighed, his smirk disappearing. "You and Riley... you were both good men. But you were getting too close to the end; to finishing this war early. Let me tell you something: World War III isn't going to be won by Task Force 141. It isn't going to be won by England, or Germany, or even Russia, or any other military on this planet except one: America's. Mine. When this is all over, and Makarov is nothing more than dust beneath my boot, the entire world will know that the United States is once more a superpower. Invincible, just as we were before."

Shepherd pulled out his cigar and blew a steady breath of smoke. With one final glance at his two former henchmen, he flicked the lit cigar into the pit. The gasoline ignited instantly, bathing Simon Riley and Gary Sanderson in all-consuming flames.

Shepherd turned around to leave for the Pave Low, but not before adding the last touch of insult to injury.

"By the way, I'm only telling you this because you're going to be dead in a matter of minutes, maybe less. Say hello to the big man upstairs for me."

That insult, that mockery, that single last jab at his pride and soul was what did it for Roach. Even as Shepherd's Pave Low took off in the direction of Afghanistan, the sergeant mustered all of his willpower to summon the strength necessary to slowly and agonizingly pull himself out of the fire. He first flipped onto his stomach, ignoring the screams of protest from his shredded insides and blistered hands, before crawling to the edge of the pit inch by inch. To the wounded soldier, it was taking forever, and every second he spent engulfed in the fire only worsened the pure torture he was already enduring.

At long last, he felt cold dirt under his touch instead of burning soil, indicating that he had reached the edge of the hellish ditch.

I... will not... die... today!

Screaming in pain, Roach gave one final heave and lurched forward out of the pit. After taking a moment to breath in the clean, crisp Russian air instead of the toxic gasoline fumes, he fumbled with his belt and clumsily unclipped a smoke grenade. With what little knowledge of chemistry he remembered, the baking soda contained in the grenade would initially disperse across a given radius, before coalescing into a thick white smoke cloud. In addition to marking targets for air support and blinding enemies in its vicinity, the smoke cloud could theoretically extinguish even the most stubborn blazes. Roach tossed the grenade in the pit where his friend was burning alive and hoped for a miracle.

Much to his pleasant surprise, it seemed that the universe was done being malevolent for at least a little while. The grenade exploded harmlessly, and just as he had predicted, the resulting smoke cloud effortlessly extinguished the horrible fire. Still in pain but determined to ignore it, Roach slowly crawled back into the pit to check up on Ghost's wounds. The man was dead in all likelihood, but Roach refused to give up just yet; they had gotten out of stickier situations before and lived to tell about it. As the sergeant crawled closer, his nose picked up the disgusting scent of gasoline mixed with what he could only assume was burnt flesh. The smell nearly made him throw up under his balaclava.

Taking a moment to toss the still-smoking grenade away with one hand, Roach at last reached Ghost's unmoving body and began to apply standard medical training. First and foremost, check for breathing and a heartbeat. Roach discarded his helmet and pressed his ear against Ghost's chest, while at the same time grabbing the lieutenant's wrist to check his pulse.

Ghost wasn't breathing. Despite his mounting horror, the younger soldier detected a faint pulse- it was barely noticeable, but it was there. His friend could still be saved.

Roach placed both hands over Ghost's chest, ignoring the blood seeping in between his fingers from the bullet wound, and began to perform CPR. He pushed hard against his chest five times in quick succession, then removed Ghost's skull-patterned balaclava and breathed two deep lungfuls of air into him. By itself, CPR was unlikely to actually revive Ghost, but what other choices did he have?

Roach repeated this procedure again, then three times, then four. The fifth time around and Roach was dreading that his friend was going to live up to his own callsign. Those feelings soon vanished on his sixth attempt.

Ghost suddenly gasped for breath and lunged forward so quickly that Roach was thrown off-balance. The lieutenant collapsed back onto the grass, wheezing pitifully and grabbing his shattered collarbone in immense pain. Roach breathed an audible sigh of relief, feeling his own pain returning now that the adrenaline coursing through his veins was beginning to wear off.

"Ugh... Roach... what the bloody hell just happened?" Ghost coughed, still laying on the ground and facing the clear sky above.

"Shepherd went rogue, that's what happened." Roach stated bluntly.

He thought he saw Ghost's eyes widen under those dark red sunglasses he loved so much. "That sorry son of a bitch... Wait till I get my hands on him!..."

He attempted to sit upright, but a sudden coughing fit forced him back down.

"You're in no condition to walk," Roach said tiredly.

"No shit, Captain Obvious... Hey, I just realized something. Since when did you find your tongue?" Ghost asked.

He had a point; throughout his military career Roach had never said much to anyone, preferring to write down his thoughts in a journal he always kept in his back pocket. By some miracle the journal hadn't been burned to ash in the fire, something that Roach was very thankful for. He'd had it since he was a kid growing up in Nottingham.

Roach shrugged. "You know me by now; actions over words. Speaking of discoveries, I think this is the first time I've seen your actual face under the mask."

Ghost laughed, and Roach was alarmed when he saw flecks of blood splatter over his uniform. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking, I really need to shave..."

"Enough joking, we need to get out of here." Roach declared, shakily standing up before helping Ghost to his feet. He slung the wounded man's arm around his shoulder, and couldn't help but feel a sense of irony at their situation: Ghost had supported him while walking into the clearing, and now he was helping Ghost to get out of said clearing. However, the moment he was upright, Ghost broke out into another severe coughing fit and clutched his bleeding chest in a tender hold.

"God dammit..."

"Stay still, let me see that," Roach said worriedly, examining the injury. The bullet from Shepherd's revolver had missed his heart by centimeters, but the bloody tunnel it left behind probably ended in someplace else that was important. It was most likely a lung, but there was no way for him to know for sure.

Ghost coughed again, unintentionally spitting more blood onto Roach's clothes. The latter operative quickly bent down to pick up his friend's signature balaclava, handing it back to its owner.

"Here, cough into this... shit, man, we need to get you to a hospital ASAP!"

If that bullet had lodged itself where he thought it did...

"There isn't a hospital around for miles," Ghost wheezed into the facemask. "And I don't mean to be a downer, but things are looking pretty grim... I mean, we're in the middle of nowhere, with no working radio... I honestly can't figure out how we're going to get out of this one alive."

Roach looked at his comrade carefully, then down at his own burned and bloodstained clothes. "Well I don't know about you, but I think we've at least earned the right to try."

"You really are one stubborn little cockroach, you know that?" Ghost teased.

"Euro for every time I've heard that joke," Roach muttered under his breath. "Listen to me, chances are that the captains are in real danger out there in Afghanistan. If Shepherd kills them, he'll spin a web of lies about purging any traitors in the 141 and how America is once again the greatest thing in the world since sliced bread, or whatever kind of bullshit he comes up with. We need to stop that from happening. I don't know how we'll do it, or even if we can get some medical help beforehand, but I know for certain that we shouldn't just stay here doing nothing while so many madmen are on the loose."

Ghost looked his best friend right in the eye. "Then lead on."

"Okay, why the hell are we back at Makarov's safehouse?" Ghost questioned, sitting at a small table in the cabin's kitchen. Meanwhile Roach was scurrying around the place, stockpiling weapons in the living room, checking maps, and searching for a first aid station.

"This is probably the only building around for miles in any direction. If we want to get you to a hospital, we need to get ourselves stabilized first before we drive there. Also, I found a truck out front that still has gas in the tank; we can use that to escape when we're ready." Roach explained as he entered the room. He tossed a bottle of pills over. "Here. I found these painkillers in the upstairs bathroom. You need them more than I do."

"Never thought I'd turn to drugs to solve my problems," Ghost muttered half-jokingly, thinking back to the time he had returned home from the military only to find his family in tatters. His brother Tommy, in particular, had developed a strong addiction to painkillers and other medications.

Roach sat down in an adjacent chair and sighed heavily. "Yeah. I'll give Shadow Company credit; they weren't kidding when they said they'd neutralized all hostiles. Things could've gotten ugly real fast if we found any surviving Russians on the way back here."

"Mhm." Ghost unscrewed the cap and popped a couple of the chewable pills in his mouth, then slid the bottle across the table to Roach. He lightly kicked a corpse laying nearby. "They did a shitty job at cleaning up afterwards, though."

"Are you always such a comedian when you aren't getting shot at?" Roach asked sarcastically.

Ghost shrugged. "You have your ways of coping with reality, I have mine. Let's leave it at that."

"Right..."

Roach didn't sound satisfied with his answer, but thankfully didn't press the matter any further. Truth was, Ghost had never told his friend about his abysmal childhood and the years he spent in the military before joining Task Force 141. It wasn't a happy story, and Ghost secretly feared that if Roach ever found out, he would shun him as a psychopath.

On the other hand, he knew next to nothing about Roach's past, either. Their friendship was more like a mutual camaraderie, forged on the battlefield as they fought side by side.

His thoughts were interrupted as Roach got up from his chair, grunting and clutching his abdomen in pain as he disappeared back into the living room. Seems those painkillers needed a few extra minutes to work their magic.

"Hey, where do you think you're going?" Ghost called.

"Shut up and rest!"

"I think I liked you better when you didn't talk," the lieutenant muttered.

Roach returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying a large gun bag over his shoulder along with several miscellaneous household items in his belt. He noisily dropped the bag on the floor before collapsing back into his seat. The soldier fished a small plastic tube out of his belt and tossed it to Ghost; upon closer inspection, it turned out to be skin ointment specifically designed to treat burns.

"Try not to use all of that at once until we get to a hospital," Roach advised, unclipping a second tube of lotion for himself.

Ghost didn't respond at first, instead rolling up his sleeves and slathering his burnt and peeling skin in the cool, soothing ointment. "Ahh... I needed that. Please don't do anything else nice for me, Roach- I don't like owing people favors."

The two shared a laugh, until Ghost erupted into yet another bloody coughing fit.

Roach was at his side in an instant. "Fuck, those painkillers aren't gonna last," he said urgently, slinging the gun bag back over one arm and helping support Ghost's weight with the other. "Come on, up we go... I think it's about time we should leave..."

"I'm thankful for the pills and the ointment, but yeah, getting that bullet outta me should take priority..." Ghost moaned.

Roach was mentally kicking himself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid... I thought the painkillers would help more, that maybe they'd stabilize you or something..."

"Roach?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm no medic either, and I don't blame you for trying to help. Now shut up and drive us the hell outta here."

The wounded duo exited out into the front driveway and hobbled over to the truck Roach had found earlier.

"Gladly, bud."

They made it to within feet of the truck, when suddenly...

"Krilot Hun Lein! Keizaal Qostiid Heyv! Akatosh Kogaan Grah-Zeymahzin!"

Roach and Ghost both fell to the ground screaming and cradling their heads in their hands when the voice spoke to them. Whatever it was, it was powerful- very powerful. The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, and as it continued to speak, the pressure in their skulls increased until both soldiers felt their heads would split wide open. Whoever was speaking obviously wasn't a normal human being. Actually, it sounded like something... bigger. Something...

Divine.

Godly.

The two Task Force 141 members struggled and thrashed against nothing, still screaming at the tops of their lungs as though they had just seen into the deepest layers of Hell itself. After what felt like hours, but in reality was only a few seconds, their violent spasms ceased.

The sun peeked through the clouds over the Georgian-Russian border, shining brilliant sunlight down on the truly empty safe house.

(Several hours later)

Sergeant Gary Sanderson was awoken by the sunlight tickling his nose. Groaning, he sat up and rubbed his throbbing head, wondering if those painkillers had some kind of ludicrously dangerous side effects he hadn't bothered to read on the label. Considering the kind of crap he saw on television these days, that possibility didn't seem too far-fetched. Ghost was sprawled out on the grass nearby, groaning, and the gun bag laid undisturbed next to him.

Wait a minute. Grass? Hadn't they had their drug-induced seizure on a dirt driveway?

Indeed, their surroundings had changed significantly. Instead of an estate built by a lake, they were now surrounded by tall trees in the middle of a thick forest.

Roach began to panic. How did they get there? Had they been kidnapped? If so, why hadn't the Russians taken their sack of guns? Even more puzzling, why were they in a small forest clearing, and not a POW camp? And where were their captors, anyway?

The operative sprang to his feet, drawing his knife and taking on a combat-ready stance in preparation for an ambush. Nothing happened. And that's when he noticed the second major oddity: He was feeling fine.

Just a few hours ago, Roach had been shot point-blank in the stomach, got set on fire, and was left to die in a ditch by a traitorous madman. He remembered the nearly overwhelming pain he had been in between that moment and the driveway incident. But as he examined his person, he didn't see the bullet wound or any burn marks on his skin. His woodland camo outfit was in pristine condition, too- rugged yet clean, as if it had just came off the assembly line.

Something definitely wasn't right here. Keeping his senses on full alert, Roach approached the still sleeping Ghost and gently shook his arm. "Ghost, wake up... Ghost. Come on, something's wrong, wake up!"

Ghost jerked awake without warning and his eyes snapped open under his sunglasses. Slowly getting to his feet, the lieutenant searched through the pockets of his pants for his skull mask, soon finding it and pulling it over his face where it belonged.

"Welcome back, baby... Oh, hey Roach." he greeted sleepily.

Roach stayed silent, fixing his gaze on the other man's balaclava. He knew for a fact that it was covered in blood before, but now it was clean.

"Yeah... hi. How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I just spent the night at some teenage kid's house party, and..." Ghost trailed off as his mind made the same connection Roach's did. "And... I feel good. Great, actually."

Ghost patted his hands around his chest, then checked his collarbone for a bullet hole. Nothing. Like Roach, Ghost too had been miraculously healed of any and all injuries. The two TF 141 soldiers stared at each other, trying and failing to come up with a logical explanation for what had happened.

"... Roach?"

"Yeah?"

"Am I the only one who's more than a little spooked right now?"

Roach shook his head. "I don't like this any more than you do. In all honesty, I'm scared shitless... Let's take the guns and get moving. The sooner we find out where we are, the better."

Ghost nodded in agreement, then unzipped the bag containing their only weapons and began to sort through it. Ten minutes later the duo were armed to the teeth; Roach carried an M240 light machine gun with an ACOG scope optical attachment, a Barrett .50cal sniper rifle slung over his back, and a silenced USP .45 handgun in his holster. Ghost was sporting his much beloved ACR assault rifle with an underbarrel grenade launcher, an M1014 tactical shotgun, and dual G18 machine pistols. All that was left in the bag was a heartbeat sensor and a red dot sight, which the two pocketed in case they might be needed later.

"So, which way should we go?" Roach asked when they were fully geared up.

"Assuming we're still by the border in Russia, I say we head north. It's pretty likely we'll find a road or highway that could lead us to civilization." Ghost answered. "Too bad my radio melted in the fire... Huh. That's odd; my GPS is down."

"Mine too," Roach added, checking the digital device. "Good thing I learned how to read a compass. Come on, north is... this way!"

As the two began their trek, Ghost couldn't help but mutter to himself, "A compass? Seriously, who uses those things anymore...?"

The wilderness was eerily quiet as the two soldiers marched through it, but that was about to change

"Ghost, we've been walking through these woods for almost half an hour now," Roach stated. "Do you want to stop and maybe look for- OOF!"

Something- or rather, someone- fell out of a tree above Roach and effortlessly pinned him to the ground. Before Ghost could react, a second unknown hostile snagged him in a similar entrapment.

The strangers quickly and efficiently bound Roach and Ghosts' hands behind their backs, before roughly hauling them to their feet. When he saw their attackers, Roach almost did a double take.

They were tan-skinned humans, one male and one female, with visible muscles and permanent scowls on their faces. But what really set them apart was their armor: They both wore red and brown tunics, brown leather boots, studded leather gauntlets, and hide cowls, like something you would see in the Middle Ages. Holstered on their waists were razor-sharp iron longswords.

"Speak, men of strange garb; where do you hail from?" the man barked as his female companion began to strip Roach and Ghost of their weapons.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF MAKAROV'S BLOODY PISSHOLE IS GOING ON?!" Ghost screamed, vainly struggling to break free of his leather bonds.

"Silence!" the apparently short-tempered man thundered.

"Smooth," Roach murmured calmly, though internally his heart was racing in pure fear.

The woman approached her accomplice from behind, her arms impressively carrying all of the heavy and strange weaponry she had gathered from their thoroughly confused captives.

"Murlson, these people were carrying some very odd items... I don't know if they're clubs or staves, or even weapons at all, but they're clearly very technologically advanced. Dwemer, maybe?"

"We'll figure that out later, Hilda." the man, Murlson, grunted. "Now speak, woodsmen! What do you think you're doing, crossing the border from Cyrodiil into Skyrim? You don't look like Nords... in fact, you don't look like Imperials, either. I ask again; where do you hail from?!"

Ghost answered as Hilda helped him and Roach get up off the ground. "The name's Simon Riley, Task Force 141, British SAS, 22nd Regiment. But you can call me Ghost. Now can I have my gun back?"

Murlson snickered. He suddenly lunged forward and connected a powerful punch to Ghost's jaw, knocking him unconscious instantly. Roach felt like vomiting.

"He isn't much of a ghost if he's not ethereal," Murlson growled. "And what is this blasphemy he was spewing forth? 'Task Force 141'? 'British SAS'? He must be from a different continent entirely."

He turned to face Roach. "You there! Perhaps you can explain why you and your friend were attempting to illegally cross the border between provinces?"

"Listen buddy, I don't know what kind of drugs you're on, or what medication you're not on, but what I do know is that I have absolutely no fucking idea what's going on here!" Roach shouted desperately, unaware that he had this kind of bite in him. "You and your fuck buddy just ambush us out of nowhere when we're lost and confused, tie our hands, steal our guns, and then you have the nerve to fucking sucker punch my best friend when he did nothing to provoke you?! God damn you! Just drop your stupid medieval act, point us in the direction of Afghanistan, and leave us the hell alone!"

When he was finished with his outburst, Roach stopped to take a few deep breaths, feeling oddly pleased with himself. Murlson and Hilda just stood in place, thunderstruck. Murlson was the first to recover, and he looked pissed.

"Wrong answer."

He reached his captive in two quick strides and, before Roach could turn and run, floored him with another punch.

"Do you really have to knock someone out every time you go out in public?" Hilda scowled as she put each of the strange weapons in a large burlap sack.

"Yes, but as long as I continue to capture criminals like these two, the Emperor will let it slide." Murlson grunted, hoisting up Roach and Ghosts' limp bodies in his muscular arms. "Now come on. We should go catch up with the caravan and tell them we have some more prisoners in tow. I'm sure General Tullius will be most pleased with out efforts when we arrive at Helgen."

"Kissass," Hilda muttered.

With that, the two Imperial scouts began their journey back to the caravan, unaware that that the two strange individuals they had picked up weren't from this world at all... and how they would soon become its only hope for survival.

And there we have it; the first chapter of Call of Skyrim. I chose to do a CoD/The Elder Scrolls crossover because the whole concept is so implausible, so crazy, so downright stupid that I feel it simply has to work. Next chapter, the events of Helgen Keep will play out, primarily from Ghost's point of view.

If you wanted to know what Akatosh (the dragon god of time) said, it was something along the lines of, "Hero duty Skyrim blah blah blah" or something similar.

One more thing; I did some research on the Internet, and apparently smoke grenades CAN put out fires in real life. I know some of you will disagree, but I think I created a very plausible theory as to how Roach and Ghost could've survived the events of Modern Warfare 2's most infamous level. If I were Roach, I'd fight to the bloody end to make it out of that pit alive.

Well, goodbye for now. I'm sorry if it wasn't great, but this is my first attempt at writing an action story, so bear with me.