A new story I am starting, due to inspiration striking. Terrible writers block on To Pride the Humble, I'm sorry. But here is a story I hope you'll like- as for the summary, you'll have to read to find that one out :) Enjoy!

The last thing Soap remembered before the immense pain and the plummeting down to earth was a sound. An explosion. Large, white, yellow and orange flashes, ripping through the canvas of the earth, shredding sound and brick like paper. The smell of gunpowder and blood burned at the inside of Soap's nose, making his eyes water as it stung, despite the fact it was something he was accustomed to. The disappointment that Makarov had been in his sights. But then the explosion, the falling had come. Slow for a split second, and then there was life sped up, fast forward. He hit the ground like a ragdoll, sharp shards of woodwork impaling him, sinking into his flesh through the thick clothes he donned.

The pain flared up like a strike of lightning throughout his entire abdomen within mere seconds, making him want to throw back his head and scream, but his muscles were locked. Paralyzed from the pain, the sweat making streaks of white, cutting through the grime that blanketed his face. Of course, to add more color to the scene was the bright crimson flowing from his stomach, where most of the pain was centered.

Gritting his teeth together, Soap watched with blurry vision as Price ran up to him, the world shaking as hands shook him as well. No sound came through to Soap's ears except a damaged, screeching ring of gunfire. Nothing made sense, everything confused him, but the pain was clear as day. That was all that consumed him. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself to his feet, vision clearing, and blood spilling beneath him. A pool of red, a puddle of death and tainted copper.

Groans ripped through the air as Soap grunted from the pain, the sudden burden everything on him weighed. His gun, suddenly a hundred pounds. His clothing, leaden restraints. But somehow his feet moved, his seizing muscles loose enough for him to be dragged along, most of his mass on Price's shoulder. He grunted, moaned, and tried to focus on all but the ringing and pain. It was one of the most difficult things he had ever tried.

The toil of his task increased by each footstep, his body slowly seeming to melt as the blood, the essence of life, poured out of him like sand. Soap pulled along, trying to recall memories of the family he used to have, whatever was left in his weak memory. The lives of old friends, a life he could have chosen had not he chosen a lifestyle of war. A family, warmth in his heart, the smell of warm food in the oven. But instead, he was here, blood seeping from his body, gunpowder stuffed in his senses, the ice in his heart colder than the Antarctic. But on these moments of contemplation, Soap knew this was happening because the life drained from his body.

War was about to take him, just as it had taken many men under him before. Roach, Ghost, Royce, Meat, maybe Archer and Toad. Now it was his turn to be added to the list of casualties, a letter of condolences sent to whoever might remember him, or care. But Soap knew that he had to let this mission live out to its end, even if he might not himself.

The blood trailed behind him, he could see that as he was dragged along, his feet having given out, all of his hope and life resting on Price. The few things he remembered from the past few minutes rose to his mind. Makarov knew Yuri. How? What was happening? Kamarov, the explosion, Makarov's voice over the radio. With the pain brainwashing him, Soap couldn't make two ends meet. His vision was cleared, but his hearing wasn't worth shit anymore.

Price dropped him down on the pavement, and judging by the moistness of his uniform, and the odd, floating sensation drifting sensation fogging his brain, Soap knew the blood loss was getting to him. The end was near. Yet he grabbed his pistol in shaking hands, loaded it, and looked around, waiting for the enemy. If these bastards are gonna kill me, I won't go down without a fight. But there was no fight left for him. Yuri and Price took care of the last enemies while Soap laid back, two of the people around him picking him up into their arms. Things were a cloud now, yelling, gunfire, screaming, his body being tossed and turned, the blood spilling in buckets over every surface he passed. Eventually his body was slammed down on a table.

Hands pushed down on his abdomen, Price shook him, the face of the man he cared for so much drifting in and out of his muddled vision. Soap was fighting with his last bit of strength, his final inner strength, just to stay awake. He had to get a few more words out as blood seeped from his body, sapping his strength. The ticking of his heart surely not to last much longer.

There was desperation in Price's voice, begging Soap to stay awake. The words weren't all clear, but Soap knew the meaning. It meant Price, the steady man, the rock of all, was begging, pleading, just for Soap to cling with them. That he would get them out. This time, Soap knew it was a lie. He had been injured before. But this was different. His strength was going, dying along with him. His breaths came shorter, and Soap just wanted to close his eyes and forget it all. The war, the pain that flared in him, all of just to go away. Unfortunately there was more to it. There was so much to be said; so much Soap thought that he was going to be able to get out into the open before he bit the dust. But now, sorrow and regret that he didn't get to say all that he wanted swirled in his stomach.

Clinging to a last bit of hope, Soap remembered his promise to himself minutes before. The war was still most important, the fate of the earth. They couldn't have men on the inside fouling with plans, threatening to destroy just what might save the earth. So, with what felt like his final breaths, Soap grunted out the final words that he would speak to Price. His chest heaved with the effort, pain almost taking him for good as he spoke in labored breaths.

"Makarov… Knows… Yuri." And with that, Soap laid back his head, and closed his eyes. Everything around him turned to black, and the last of regret slipped away. Price snarled and screamed, but then calmed himself with a breath. A pistol lay on Soap's chest as Price and Yuri walked away, Price dealing with Yuri the way that anything needed to be done.

If Soap had known the outcome, he might not have wasted his last words on that. But he hadn't known. He was only serving his world as best as he knew how.

Meanwhile, only a few miles away, an Army Platoon was being separated by enemy fire.