Author's note- This is my first posted story. :) It's mainly a Soap story, but I tried to do something kinda different from most other CoD stories (though they are all wonderful)…whether it flies or not is up to you guys though I suppose. So please read and tell me what you think. I warn that some of the major characters in this story are OCs, in case that bugs you. And I also apologize for the jumbled shittiness of this first chapter. I had a lot to cram in there, but I also just wanted to get on with the story. So anything that doesn't make sense now will later on! Please enjoy.

Chapter one: Raw

The polished wood handle of the pistol felt smooth and natural in Soap's shaking hand. Though it did not belong to him, he was well acquainted with the weapon he held indeed- he had used it to kill Imran Zakhaev that day on the bridge. With a single shot from this simple weapon he had cleaned up Price's dirty work from over 20 years ago, and from his actions the wrath of Makarov was born.

Makarov, the enemy whose defeat was unattainable. Shepherd, the enemy whose trust cost the 141 an arm and a leg. Enemies, enemies, enemies. You kill one, and another pops up out of nowhere. Humanity's war was doomed to last for eternity, it seemed.

…So what was the point? Soap turned the gun over in his hands, examining the gleam that shone from the shiny black trigger, longing so to be pulled…

Footsteps in the hallway behind him made him quickly set the gun in his lap and out of view from whoever was passing by; he didn't want to be caught looking at it. He shifted around in his wheelchair, and glanced over his shoulder at the door to make sure no one was watching him. The hall was empty. Assured, he turned back and stared out the window in front of him for a minute. It was a decent spring day, with the sun shining and crocuses beginning to sprout up around the yard beyond the glass. Everything was normal, familiar and even quaint. It was all surreal to him.

Where he was exactly was a story in itself. Thanks to Nikolai and his numerous contacts, Soap and Price had returned (or more literally, had been smuggled) to the UK for possibly the last time in their lives. Why? To attend a memorial for Ghost and Roach. Soap thought Price was daft when the old man suggested it. Why the hell would they take such a huge risk just to go to a memorial- fallen comrades or not? How could he ask Nikolai to put his life on the line by getting them there? Soap had argued, but what Price says pretty much always goes. So there they were, in some person's house, all getting ready to attend this damned memorial. Soap, of course, could not get himself to relax.

He was in a wheelchair, which he despised with a burning passion. According to the doctor, he wasn't strong enough to walk around yet. The wound was in his chest, not his legs for God's sake. As soon as he and Price had departed, he tried to ditch the chair, which flung Price into an irritating rant about how he needed to stop being so goddamn cocky and allow himself to heal properly. So here he was, in the chair, donning a pair of sweat pants in rebellion. He knew Ghost and Roach wouldn't have given a damn if he wasn't wearing trousers anyways.

On top of feeling like a helpless cripple, he also had barely slept in days due to sudden night terrors. Whenever he closed his eyes all he would see was the blinding lights of gunfire, bodies and blood scattered about his mind. The screams and machine guns rattled in his head endlessly. He would jerk awake at once, sweating and on the brink of crying out himself. He didn't understand why he was getting nightmares now and never before, but he did know that he wanted it to stop. All the bad memories, all the death that was just another part of his regular life, he needed it to go away, to cease. Which brought him back to the gun in his hand.

He could never be a free man again- too many people wanted him dead. He shouldn't even be alive; he and Price hadn't intended to come back from the revenge mission in Afghanistan. He had finished Shepherd, so what was his purpose now? Life was painful and he had no more drive left, like a car out of gasoline.

He tapped his fingernails against the wooden grip, then clicked the safety off. Price really shouldn't have left it in his coat pocket on the nearby table. Soap's mind was beginning to race, starting to contemplate so many things. The words 'why not?' popped into his head several times. Why not, why not, why not…

He toyed with the gun, brushed the trigger with his finger. Then he made a move to point it at himself directly, up at his neck. He chuckled, some sort of madness was taking him over. He felt like he was looking down into the ocean from the edge of a pier. The sun was hot on his back and the water below was surely cool and refreshing, but he couldn't quite get himself to jump.

"Soap?" came a voice from behind him, breaking him out of his obsessive notions. He jumped in sheer alarm and nearly set the gun off on accident.

"Soap, what are you doing?" it was Price, his voice low and cautious. Soap could see his scowling face in the reflection of the window.

"I'm just thinking" he replied. Price scoffed.

"Well put my handgun down, Socrates, and maybe try some hemlock juice? No need for you to go and soil the nice rug with your brains."

Soap frowned. Price never was good with gentle words of comfort. He nonetheless clicked the gun's safety back on and handed it over to its rightful owner, who quickly stuck it in his belt.

"Good. Now are you ready?" Price was wearing a nice shirt and pants and had even combed his graying hair (and moustache) into a slick, orderly manner. Only the cast on his leg and the cane he was leaning on was any reminder of the real man under the tidy facade. Soap could barely recognize him.

"I suppose. Though I still don't see why it's so vital that we go." He said. Price shrugged him off and turned to leave, motioning at someone in the hall. Chemo, one of the few other 141 members to accompany them then entered and started wheeling Soap out the door, much to his embarrassment. If he could make it through this hellish day, then he might just reward himself with some of that hemlock juice Price had mentioned- or something more accessible, of course. And then he could just sleep.

. . .

The little stone church was nestled in the shadow of a grassy hill, white flowers dotting all the green. It was so peaceful, so alien to Soap as Chemo pushed him down the cobblestone path to the entrance, Price following behind and sucking in the last few drags he had on his cigarette.

Anxiety was building up more and more in the younger captain's gut. He would have to meet his late comrades' families, have to finally face the guilt he had from trusting Shepherd. As overly-macho as it sounded, emotion was something he had learned to push aside. It got in the way of decision-making. But lately he had been having trouble keeping anything within his mentality in check. This memorial was certainly not going to help.

As the heavy wooden doors were pushed open, Soap could see literally every person within the church turn to look at him. There weren't many mourners, but it may as well have been an entire crowd. He lowered his eyes, unable to return a single gaze. Here we go. There were a few awkward moments of whispering, until finally someone approached the newcomers, stopping right in front of Soap's wheelchair. They were two women, probably in their late forties, both wearing simple black dresses.

"Thank you all so much for coming" said the taller of the two, glancing around at the different faces of the group. She had short, brownish-tan hair that struck Soap with familiarity.

"We're glad we could make it, Mrs. Sanderson." Price said to her, "Aren't we, Soap?"

"Yes," Soap agreed as sincerely as possible, as paralyzed with fear as he was. "Very much so." He quickly glanced away as her eyes met his.

"And how are you holding up, Mrs. Riley?" Price asked the other woman, using the name Soap had been dreading to hear the most. Ghost's mother was shorter, thinner and had her dark-brown hair pinned back to reveal her pale, sallow face and dark eyes. She did not seem to be doing as well as Roach's mother. Soap thought, ironically, that she looked something like a ghost.

"Better, thank you captain." She replied quietly, her cockney accent adding a slight kick to the polite words. They exchanged a long smile before she turned to Soap.

"I don't believe I've actually made your acquaintance yet, captain MacTavish, though I'd heard much about you from S-Simon."

Soap was caught off guard by this for some reason. He had never thought of Ghost outside of work, and never imagined that he'd talk to his mother about him. But then again, Soap never talked to his own mother and didn't exactly know what were normal topics to discuss and what weren't.

He suddenly realized that everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to respond to what Mrs. Riley had just said.

"He was a great man and friend, and an exceptional soldier." He stated, taking the words off the top of his head. Friend. Ghost was his friend. Was that why Price found it so important that they were here?

"They both were" Soap added, nodding at Mrs. Sanderson. Both women beamed, and for now their eyes were full of pride instead of tears.

Once he had taken his seat, Soap took a better look around the church. It was only big enough to hold about five cramped rows of pews. Through the short, narrow aisle a worn red carpet ran up to the altar. There, where there would usually be a casket, stood a large table. On it was a lacy cloth and a jumble of garlands and bouquets that nearly engulfed the two framed photographs of Gary Sanderson and Simon Riley that sat amongst the flowery mess. In both pictures the two men looked a lot younger and carefree. To Soap, the smiling, mask-free face of the man he knew as Ghost was extremely off-putting. He suddenly seemed more human.

And more dead.

Above the table hung a dusty chandelier and an ornate cross suspended on a chain from the ceiling. In the background a small organ sat and on the back wall the words "Peace on Earth" were painted in gold letters with a picture of a dove carrying an olive branch underneath. Soap snorted. Like that was ever going to happen.

"When is this thing going to start?" he mumbled to Price, who was sitting on his right. The older captain was looking over at the far side of the room, where a cluster of people stood.

"Who are you staring at?" Soap asked.

Price didn't answer and got to his feet, hobbling on his cane towards the group that had intrigued his interest. Soap watched his every move, growing more wary and suspicious every moment. Had an unsavory character snuck in? A spy? Another of their numerous enemies? He felt around his pockets for some sort of weapon, preparing for the ambush. But Price simply tapped on the shoulder of a young woman, who turned around and hugged him! Soap's eyes narrowed at once. Who was this woman and how did she know Price? What kind of madness could have possibly driven her to want to hug him?

They talked for a minute, then Price gestured in Soap's direction. The woman looked over right at him, then smiled and waved. He was dumbstruck, but managed to lift his hand and wave back awkwardly. Did he know her?

He was about to find out, because they were walking back towards where he was sitting. Price was smiling grimly as he approached, a hint of anticipation sparkling in his eyes.

"John MacTavish," he began, almost carefully, "I have someone very important for you to-"

"I'm Alyssa" the woman interjected, extending her hand. Her face was glowing like she meeting Jesus himself instead of the poor, battered soul hunched in the wheelchair before her.

"I'm a friend of Simon's." she said. Her hand still hung in midair. Soap took it hesitantly, and she gave it a rather enthusiastic shake. The first note he took of her was the sheer strength he felt through that hand of hers; like she could rip his arm off in a millisecond if it struck her fancy. Her wavy black hair hung near his face as she bent to greet him.

"Why don't you have a seat?" Price suggested, and she happily plopped down next to Soap. Price went to take his own seat, but Soap grabbed his arm.

"I think we need to have a talk."

. . .

"Who is she, Price? Who the hell is she and why is she the reason we're here?" Soap demanded. They were behind a tall bush near the church's back door. Price's lips curled in a frown under the mustache, his arms crossed awkwardly with his cast.

"Ghost asked me to watch over her if anything should happen to him…which it did, obviously."

Soap could not believe his ears.

"What? We're hardly in a bloody position to be doing that. She's in more danger than not every minute she's near us!" he exclaimed. Price continued to frown at him.

"We've got to do it" he said.

"HOW?"

"Quiet down for cripes sake!"

Soap huffed and pushed his wheels back and forth in frustration. This day could not get any more irritating.

"We can't stay here for some girl." He said. Price shrugged.

"Who says we're staying here? We'll take her with us. She's willing to go."

"That's mad- she's going to get killed" Soap argued.

"You don't even know where we're going"

"Yeah, well where?"

Before Price could answer, the organ playing inside the church signaled the beginning of the service and before he knew it, Soap was being whisked back through the door by the older captain and to his spot near the front pew. He would have to wait and find out, like usual.

"Oh, the flower arrangements are wonderful! Simon would have loved all the chrysanthemums." Alyssa crooned as they returned. What the hell were chrysanthemums? This was getting way too weird.

"I never took Ghost to be a… florist" Soap commented. Alyssa turned and stared at him for a moment- though 'staring' felt as far away as possible from what she was actually doing. Her eyes were enormous and grey and impossibly piercing, making Soap's heart nearly skip a beat in alarm. He felt like she could see his mind, his secrets. Under the gaze of those magnificent eyes he was just a wide-open book, which she could flip through and read so easily. And then they flitted away.

He knew then that there was something about this woman; something…unusual.

"Oh yes, that's what you called him." She said quietly, "And he wore that mask. One time he climbed through my window wearing it, and I screamed so loud that I woke up the entire floor of my apartment building."

Price snorted and broke into a chuckle. Alyssa started giggling. Then laughing. Then full-on cracking up with an alarming gusto.

Soap glanced nervously over at Price, who sighed.

"She's stricken with grief" he explained quietly.

And then the hearty laughter next to him melted into heaving sobs, and memorial had officially begun.