LEGAL DISCLAIMER: MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games.

A/N: Though this is still a work in progress, much of this story was written early in 2010, until life intervened and brought it to a grinding halt. It then sat on the shelf for about six months. If it weren't for the assistance and encouragement of my wonderful beta, Sassy Satsuma, it might have stayed there forever. You have my utmost gratitude! Now, finally, maybe this will get finished! Any similarities to other fics posted since then are purely coincidental. Thanks for reading.

Work on this story began before Op Kingfish came out in September of that year. So it is not considered canon in this fic.

*Original post 1/21/11; revised 5/6/12, 2/16/13, 9/7/2013. Thanks again to Sassy for dialogue and other help.*

Thanatos \tha-nə-ˌtäs\

1. The Greek personification of death.

2. Sigmund Freud's "death drive" - the human pursuit of self-destruction

The winds of the sandstorm were dying down. Fine powdery dust spun and settled on everything: the rusty beams, pipes and decrepit tin buildings of the oil yard; the overturned zodiac at the riverbank, the smoldering wreckage of the helicopter, the abandoned pickup truck, and the bodies of several men.

Captain John Price's head spun when he attempted to open his eyes, so he immediately screwed them shut again. His next breath became a coughing fit until he retched, every spasm punishing him further with intense pain in his side. As if that weren't enough, various other injuries made themselves known to him, chiming into a chorus of misery.

Opening his eyes again, he saw that the weight pressing across his body like an iron bar was the dead man's leg, which he flung away in disgust. Bastard. Strange, he didn't remember killing General Shepherd ... he remembered being on the losing end of the fight, but nothing else.

With a groan, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. He rested his head on his folded arms, gingerly breathing through the pain, waiting for the spinning to stop. When he looked up, the distant form of Captain John "Soap" MacTavish came into focus.

Awareness returned in a cold rush of uncertainty. MacTavish lay on his back, unnaturally still, marking the end of a spattered red trail in the sand. Blood covered his face and soaked the front of his jacket.

"Soap?" Price rasped from a dry throat, extending a wavering hand. His pain forgotten, he staggered to his feet and rushed to MacTavish's side, reeling from a fresh wave of dizziness. "Soap!" he shouted, stumbling to his knees. Half-open eyes sluggishly followed the movement, then drifted shut. Price's own heart was pounding as he jabbed two fingers into MacTavish's neck, finding a rapid pulse.

Simply put, Soap was a mess. An angry-looking, lacerated knot was welling up over his eyebrow. One eye was red and swollen. Blood streamed from his nose, which appeared to be broken. Price knew he had yet to see the worst of it. He peeled aside the bloody layers of chest rig, jacket and shirt to reveal the oozing stab wound just below Soap's ribcage.

He rummaged through his waist bag. Fumbling in his haste, he tore open a packet of Combat Gauze. Packing it into the deep wound and applying pressure, he noticed that Soap's abdomen felt rigid to the touch.

Shit.

Seeing the bloodstains on Soap's gloves, he realized the origin of the knife currently sticking out of Shepherd's eye. The stubborn bugger! He huffed, flashing a brief grin and shaking his head at Soap's tenacity. He couldn't help himself.

It reminded him of the moment in the Credenhill Camp, over five years ago, when he'd first met the young Scot with the icy blue eyes and the dark mohawk. It had been MacTavish's first official day in the Regiment. After a quick sizing-up, Price had offered a scornful glare and a typical greeting: "What kind of a name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you pass Selection?"

A few days ago in Petropavlovsk, he couldn't have been happier to see anyone else.

With increasing alarm, he noted both the warm red stain spreading on the gauze and the coolness of the pale skin beneath his hands. Soap needed a drip in him, but with his minimal first aid kit, Price could do little for the blood loss. MacTavish's face tightened, clenched jaws stifling gasps of pain into muffled grunts. He began a semiconscious effort to fight Price, batting at him, trying to push away the hands that were hurting him.

"Stop it, Soap! I have to do this, I'm sorry. Stop!" Price grappled with MacTavish's flailing hands while trying to keep one of his own firmly on the gauze. "Soap, you're bleeding – I have to keep the pressure on. I know it hurts." A guttural cry tore into the empty surroundings. "I know." The moments that passed, while Soap moaned and writhed in response to his ministrations, felt like an eternity. Long enough to make Price wonder why he was even putting him through this. All he was doing was delaying the inevitable. They were stuck in the middle of a desolate sandy nowhere, with no help in sight, the only remaining members of their team. Without an immediate casevac, Price would soon be the last, and probably not for long.

He fished out the autoinjector that he was carrying, glancing at the orange label. In Soap's current condition, it wasn't the best idea – if there were hope of rescue.

Now it would at least ease his passing.

Soap pulled on Price's wrist, trying to pry his hand away. For the moment, Price had to allow it. "Just hold on, I'm going to give you some morphine." He popped off the red safety cap.

His heart sank even further when he heard the beat of helicopter rotors in the distance. More Shadow Company boys coming to finish the job, no doubt. Like Price's own Taskforce 141, they'd been handpicked by Shepherd himself. Price didn't want to guess what they'd done to Roach and Ghost. All he knew was that the two surviving Taskforce members in the Caucasus were dead now because his warning had come too late.

So this was it, then. They'd shared such a moment before, thinking it was all over. Close, but it hadn't been their time yet. Now after Zakhaev, Makarov and everything else, this would be their end. At least Price had the cold satisfaction that they'd brought Shepherd to his.

He sucked in a sharp breath, ignoring the white-hot dagger of pain. The regret hurt far more. He clapped a hand on MacTavish's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. Saying goodbye.

The thumping grew louder. He lowered his head for a moment, closing his eyes. Another painful breath, a glance at the sky, then he pressed the purple end of the tube to Soap's thigh and thumbed the button. He kept it there for a few seconds, allowing the injector to empty itself into the muscle, then tossed it aside.

Soap's grip on him gradually loosened, the fingers of one hand still curled around Price's offending wrist, the other dropping back down onto the sand. Price hoped it meant the morphine was starting to take effect, though MacTavish's brow was still furrowed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, too fast for a man at rest. The continuous trickle of blood from his nose and forehead painted deep red streaks against pallid flesh. It was pooling around his right eye, and Price reached down to carefully wipe it away.

The noise was deafening now, thrumming in his chest. They were here. Price remained motionless, kneeling before his friend as if in prayer, one hand still resting on the bloody gauze, staring into space.

Forgive me.

Their rifles and sidearms were long gone, lost in the river's swift current. Even if any bullets remained in Shepherd's revolver, it would be a symbolic gesture at best.

The hell with 'em. Price dug back into his pouch for more supplies, covering the sodden gauze with a fresh dressing. Just make it quick, you bastards. Having ceased his struggling, MacTavish stirred, roused by the thunderous vibration. Opening dull and unfocused eyes, he muttered something inaudible. Price taped down the dressing as tightly as he could, frowning at the result.

The shadow of the landing chopper floated into Price's peripheral vision. Flying grit blasted him. Shielding his eyes, he looked up and couldn't believe it – no dangling legs, no guns pointed at him - Nikolai? The skids hit the sand and the Russian pilot hopped from the cockpit, crouching beneath the still-whirling blades, his face dark with concern.

Price draped Soap's arm over his shoulder. "It'll hold for now, come on, get up."

He could feel Soap trembling as he hauled him up from the ground. Price was thankful that Nikolai hadn't listened when he'd said there would be no need for exfil. In his own style, he told him as much: "I thought I told you this was a one-way trip."

"Looks like it still is. They'll be looking for us, you know."

The pull on Price's shoulder increased with each unsteady step until Soap crumpled beneath him. Nikolai rushed forward, catching MacTavish just in time. Together, Price and Nikolai half-dragged him to the chopper.

"Nikolai – we've got to get Soap out of here."

"Da. I know a place."

They laid Soap out in the cramped back of the MH-6 Little Bird. He moaned at the manipulation, despite their efforts to be gentle. "Easy!" snapped Price. With a distressed look, Nikolai bit back his reply and pulled a dull green, silver-sided casualty blanket from the chopper's emergency kit. As they tucked it around Soap, Price exchanged concerned glances with Nikolai, who wasted no time in strapping himself in and spinning up the rotors.

Soap's weary eyes roamed the cabin ceiling until they found Price. He was trying to say something, mouthing Price's name, but the increasing whine of the engines drowned out any hope of conversation. Price leaned down to shout in his ear. "We're going to get you some help, you're going to be all right." Soap was slowly blinking, drifting away again. Price grabbed MacTavish's shoulder, regaining his attention with a sharp order. "Hey – stay with me!"

The sound grew to a roar. Nikolai pulled up on the chopper's collective and they lifted off. Through the doorway just beyond Soap's head, Price watched the oil yard shrink below them, until it rotated and drifted out of sight. The chopper picked up speed, the ground beneath them streaking past in a brown blur.

MacTavish's eyes were rolling back, blue fading into a bloody mask. Price jostled him. "Soap!" The commanding shout was lost in the wall of noise. Price shook him again, harder this time, Soap's head rocking with the motion as his eyes fluttered closed. Price's shoulders slumped, and he noticed the dark red stains on his own jacket. He looked down at his red sticky hands.

Wherever it is, this place had better be close.

They flew low, following the contour of the terrain as it rose into jagged mountains. The land was a sparsely vegetated, rocky moonscape. They passed over a few small villages that looked positively ancient. Price noticed the air growing cooler as they gained altitude, and he was becoming chilled in his wet clothing.

His chest felt tight. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it felt like he had to work a little harder to breathe. He silently willed the chopper to fly faster, though he knew that Nikolai was already going as fast as he dared. Soap was deathly pale, and he hadn't stirred since takeoff. Price reached out to him. A weak pulse still fluttered beneath clammy skin.

At long last, Nikolai spoke some Russian into his headset. The Little Bird swooped between the mountains and settled down into the base of a deep bowl between the crags. Rock had been hewn from the base of the mountainside in order to create space enough for a helicopter to land.

Russian voices shouted over the thumping whine of the slowing rotors, as figures in long, baggy Afghan clothing surrounded the chopper. Shemaghs covered their faces to keep out the swirling dust. Price caught glimpses of white skin and pale eyes beneath the black-and-white checkered fabric – definitely not locals. They hustled him aside. Though Price was relieved to see him open his eyes, MacTavish's face twisted in agony as they lifted him onto a stretcher. They rushed him away, and one of the masked men tugged at Price's sleeve, urging him to follow – not that he needed any encouragement. He spotted heavy machine gun positions on the surrounding hillsides. He followed the small crowd past a group of sentries and through a pair of blast doors, into a bunker set deep in the heart of the mountain.

Armed men, dressed like the stretcher-bearers, parted to make way for them as they hurried down a corridor. It was dry, well lit and finished in smooth, painted gray concrete. Pipes and conduits ran along the walls, along with the occasional warning sign ("ВНИМАНИЕ!"). Whoever had been there before had planned on digging in for a long time. Nikolai appeared at Price's side. "Is this place what I think it is?" asked Price, his eyes trained on the stretcher party ahead of him.

"An old Soviet base, from when we were here the first time," said Nikolai.

The current occupants were well equipped, judging both by their weapons and by the infirmary that they walked into. Price saw modern medical equipment sitting in corners and a row of neat cots in a nearby room. Curtained exam areas had fully stocked shelves and cabinets lining the walls. Nikolai was certainly a man with connections, though it was unclear with whom. Price had a feeling he'd soon find out.

ВНИМАНИЕ: (vneeMAHnyeh) ATTENTION.

Casevac: AKA CASEVAC, abbreviation of casualty evacuation; emergency transport of wounded from a combat zone.

Collective: Lever that resembles a parking brake. Located alongside the pilot's leg, it's used to control a helicopter's lift and speed; a twist throttle is located at the tip of it. The joystick-looking thing is the cyclic, which controls direction.

Combat Gauze: A brand name; gauze impregnated with kaolin to stop moderate to severe bleeding.

Shemagh: A kaffiyeh; woven scarf of checkered cotton, usually black and white. Commonly worn in the Middle East and Southern Asia.