Modern Warfare….
Iran
1996
Captain Price, AKA Prisoner 627
Status: MIA
Time and Date, Unknown.
Captain Price groaned, his eyes fluttering open. *Those bastards hit me with a f****** crowbar.* He thought angrily, moving his hands. The tight ropes dug into his skin, his ragged cuffs of his uniform not helping much. He jerked his head up as the metal door slid open, and a young, but power-full looking soldier stepped in. "Босс хочет тебя видеть." Price simply stared at him, unmoving as the soldier waited expectantly. When he didn't comply, the soldier hit him with the butt of his AK47. "Я сказал, прямо сейчас!" Price struggled to sit up straight again. "I don't know what the bloody hell you're saying!" He shouted, his head turned to lessen another blow if needed.
"Отбой, солдат, oтбой, солдат." A new voice sounded from the doorway. The young soldier stepped aside, quickly at attention. "Excuse young Kavala here, he does not speak English, and I presume you don't speak Russian?" the new man asked, lighting a cigar, and stepped into the light. "No need to worry, Captain Price, or shall I call you by your new name? Prisoner 627." He sneered. "I shall be your interpreter from this point on, 627. We shall get to know each other very well." He laughed softly, his high-pitched voice sounding like a stuck pig. Kavala hauled Price to his feet at the mere flick of the man's finger. "I am Alek. And Makarov wants to see you." He grinned evilly. Price struggled, his anger flaring. "Bloody right he wants to see me, you bastard! He jerked away from Kavala, who simply hit him again with his gun, knocking him to the ground. Price was too dazed to move as he fought to keep consciousness. He blacked out every few seconds, only able to see the floor, more jail cells, dungeons, and then a big, bright light. He black out again. When he came to, he was being dragged down a clean, white hall. Some Russian music was playing, and everything was clean and well organized. Women in scrubs were walking up and down, along with what looked to be doctors. They all glared at him, as a blood trail was left behind him from his bullet wounds. Price flinched as he heard screaming coming from one of the offices. And then it was cut short. He blacked out again.
Iran
1996
Captain Price, AKA Prisoner 627
Status: MIA
Time and Date, Unknown.
Price awoke with a groan, his head pounding. He flinched, as the light was too bright. He turned his face away, but rough hand grabbed under his chin, making him look straight at the light. He choked, his spit and blood gurgling in his mouth as the hand choked him in the process. When he was sure he was going to black out again, the hand let go. "What the Bloody Bla-" his gasped-out words were cut short as a fist connected with his jaw, and he heard a snap. He closed his eyes against the pain, spitting out blood, but even that hurt. "Maybe now you will shut up and listen." A nasally voice sounded. "You know, Price, I was very touched on how you sacrificed yourself to save your men. Too bad you couldn't save them from the real enemy at the moment." He sneered, adding "But you probably already know that, right?" Price said nothing, his head hurt so bad, he wished his head would explode, but he knew that couldn't happen. "So what do you want, Makarov? To kill me?" He spat. Makarov laughed. "No, my dear captain Price. No. I like to have insurance, and I will enjoy watching you squirm." He grinned, flicking his hand to Kavala, who picked him up. "by the way, think of Kavala as your own private guard." He smirked, and out Price was again.
Iran
1996
Captain Price, AKA Prisoner 627
Status: MIA
Time and Date, Unknown.
Price ate the food slowly, wishing it would last. His shoulder ached terribly, but he could do nothing. It had been what seemed like a week, but he had nothing to prove it with. His hands trembled, unable to be still after last night. Last night had been the worst. They wanted him to break, they were trying their hardest. He sighed, grunting with pain as someone kneed him in the ribs. "Get up, Price! No sleeping!" A new guard, Rocho, spoke angrily. Price's eyes flickered open, realizing that food had been a dream. The pain hit him again, in waves, and he almost screamed, breathing heavily as The guard pulled him from his cot, onto the floor, and began to hit him with a baton. "Stand up when I'm talking to you, dog!" The man screamed, enraged. "Ты, ублюдок! Думаю, что вы лучше, чем я?" The guard screamed in Russian. Suddenly, two other guards came in quickly, pulling Rocho off Price quickly. The guard continued to scream, until the other guar slapped him, speaking rapidly to him in Russian. Price's head swarmed, and blood pooled around his now ripped open wounds. Blood trickled out of his mouth, and he coughed, panic setting in. He was gonna die, here, in a cell, choking on his own blood like an insane person. He struggled to breathe, his breathing ragged, raspy, and choked. Alek stepped in, speaking rapidly to the guards, who carried Price, one holding his shoulders, the other his legs. The pain grew near unbearable, but Price was unable to make a sound, lest he lose the precious oxygen he was struggling to get. His eyes grew heavy, and his chest breathed like fire. "We are loosing him!" A woman's voice sounded, a younger voice. Cool hands touched his brow, gentle and firm. An English voice? Price shook his head, fearing he had gone mad. "Set him down there, you bastards, and let me work in piece." That pretty, English voice said. He barely felt the poke of a needle, and then faded to painless darkness….