Disclaimer- I don't own Call of Duty or any of its characters, except some in Team Ice, who you'll meet later. This story is still finding its way, so let me know if you have any tips or advice! Thanks! (Also, notify me if you feel the rating should be adjusted). This is my first fanfic, so constructive criticism is welcomed!
Prologue
Team Ice, "Guardian Angels"
Siberia, Russia
Ssgt. Derek "Frost" Westbrook
November 16th, 2016
10:06
Frost let out a wheezing cough as a shudder ran down his spine. A scarlet red stain swelled out into the snow around him, glowing in the dim moonlight. Pain soared through his chest and back, though his stomach wound had reduced to a throbbing ache. The agony quickly increased, almost becoming unbearable. He felt tears stream down his face, letting out a shaky breath. He felt his senses dull and willed himself to slip in unconsciousness, but for some reason he fought off the dizziness, his head spinning.
His mind was sluggish and it was a while before he could put two-plus-two together and realize what had happened to him. Gasping as he rolled onto his back, he knew he'd have to face the cold hard truth… He'd have to face death. His heart shattered at the thought of his teammates leaving him, but he quickly reminded himself that he'd told them to and that was what he wanted. "I'm hit, sh*t. Sh*t, SH*T!" His voice was trembling and weak, but it was filled with rage and fear. They were so close! Why did everything have to go to hell now? Groaning, he lifted his head from the snow to see a Russian advancing towards him, gun aimed at his head. Hopelessness flooding through him, he dropped his head into the snow once again.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths and he could taste the metallic blood trickling from his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and his face twisted up in agony. Dear God, help me! Please! If not me, just get them out! Get my team to safety! He stiffened as something cold was pressed against his forehead, but didn't make any movement to get away from the man holding him at point-blank, he didn't even look at him.
The man gazed down at the dying soldier sadly, he did not want to kill the man. He was obviously a brave and noble man, he'd seen it. But it wasn't just because he admired his bravery, it was also because he himself had never taken a man's life and didn't see why this man in particular deserved to die. "Я просто хочу, чтобы забрать ваши страдания, поставить свои страдания к концу ..." He whispered softly, his finger inching towards the trigger. Then, the man's eyes fluttered open.
The Russian gasped as he peered into the man's shocking blue eyes. Within them, he saw pain and hatred, but he also saw grief, hope, and determination. It was then that he realized the soldier did not want to die, he was not ready. Blinking, he quickly holstered his weapon and stepped back. "Good luck, American." His thick accent almost made his words unrecognizable, but Frost nodded slightly as the man turned and dashed back up the slope, leaving Frost alone, bleeding out into the snow.
Frost could hear Gator screaming through his ear piece, he wanted to respond, but a wave of fatigue washed over him and his throat formed no sound. Please, God! Please, just these words! "I'm hit, man. I'm a dead man… Sh*t… I-I trust you, Gator. Get. Them. Out. Don't… Come back for me…"
That was the last thing he said before the pain took over his mind, the red splotches took away his vision, and he descended into blackness.