Disclaimer: Price, MacTavish, Yuri and Makarov belong to Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games.

Rated M – language and otherwise.

Rules were made to be broken. This is an experiment – a mixture of canon and AU from my other fic, Thanatos Denied.

Thanks for reading, and I really enjoy hearing from you.

Drip.

Dripdrip...drip.

Little red starbursts in splattered constellations.

Drop by drop, forming a puddle, erasing the floor beneath. Pooling around the shards of broken glass that formed a sparkling mosaic beneath him, oozing around the glittering fangs of it still embedded in his flesh. He could feel warm tendrils streaming down his skin. More drops for the red pool.

Like the one that had been on the table, beneath the body of MacTavish. His chest tightened, gripped by an invisible claw. Though time had passed, the grief ate at him with renewed ferocity. His mouth twisted involuntarily, and he pressed his lips together, regaining control.

Price took a pull on the cigar and let the smoke go, staring dully into the gray coils as if hypnotized. He took another. With a glowing crackle, a few sparks floated up before his eyes, appearing eager to receive the body dangling from the frame of the shattered skylight, symbolizing the final reward that he'd waited so long to deliver.

Drip...drip...

A garden of tiny red flowers, bursting into bloom.

So this was the way his world would end, though not quite as expected. When he'd looked past his own battered reflection in the skylight, he'd seen the truth of what it would take to finish this. As his gaze fell hundreds of stories to the atrium floor below, the gathering red droplets on the glass reminded him that his time was short. It had only taken a moment to decide.

It would be quick.

Crippled by his injuries, he'd summoned the last of his strength for this final act – he'd sent them both crashing through the fractured glass dome and into the waiting arms of gravity. But instead of plunging to his death, he'd been thrown to the hotel's top floor. Now he lay sprawled on the edge of the precipice, his life seeping into the carpet.

If his choices had been different, if he'd gone along with what his family - what his father - wanted, what would he be doing now? Flying a desk somewhere, getting ulcers over a bunch of numbers that really didn't matter in the end? Like his brother, shagging some empty-headed, silicone-injected trophy wife - his second one? He chuckled to himself, wincing at the pain it caused. Now there's some wishful thinking. He'd never had much luck in that department.

And what if he'd gone quietly into retirement, and never joined the 141? Where would he be now? Growing old and fat in front of the television, back in his dingy flat that even he barely recognized? Maybe even lulling his demons into alcoholic sleep? That death took years. This one wouldn't take so long.

At least he'd made his mark. His mouth twisted again, into a smirk. Better with a bang than a whimper.

The cable creaked with the weight, the body still swinging gently. Blood was beginning to pool there too, on the inside. Makarov's face and hands had turned a mottled purple. His tongue protruded slightly from his mouth, a dark stain between his legs. The unpleasant smell was all-too-familiar. The cunt deserved no less humiliation. For all his designer suits, designer whores, cocaine and Cristal, he'd gone out just like anyone else.

It had felt so good to let the animal out, to indulge its lust. In return, it had funneled all of his rage and sorrow into his fists. Makarov had disappointed him; he hadn't had much to say, though it might have had something to do with Price crushing his windpipe.

Now that Makarov was finally dead, Price felt nothing but emptiness. Soap was gone. Someday, should their sins be forgiven, there might be a white stone with a winged dagger for him. But it would stand over an empty vault. Soap's remains would never make the final journey to Hereford.

His eyelids fluttered, growing heavy. Sirens wailed downstairs. He no longer cared. His heart and body were broken. He couldn't run anymore, even if he wanted to.

Blinking back his weariness, he scanned the ruined skylight above him. It was becoming difficult to focus. Yuri was still up there somewhere. He took another puff of the cigar, let the smoke out slowly – until a hacking cough blasted it out of him. His face contorted in agony. The cigar slipped through his fingers and rolled across the floor, hissing from contact with the blood. His head spun, and he closed his eyes for a moment. It would be over soon.

He and Yuri come a long way for this, taking their time. The Russian had more than repaid what little trust he'd been given. Price wondered if he still yet lived. Yuri had been left for dead before, in the airport massacre. He tried to push himself up. Deep down, he knew that was a mistake, one he'd pay for. In a painful gasp, everything faded away.

He wasn't sure what woke him first, the noise or the pain that raged through him. Sounds of machinery. The static blare of radios, footsteps grinding through broken glass, and rapid-fire Arabic. Some of it was directed at him. Someone was shaking him, trying to get his attention. The man tried again, in English this time.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

An American voice. "What's the situation?"

A tug around his neck, a jingle. "John?"

Another Emirati voice. "One over there, and this one. We're taking him to Rashid hospital."

"That would be where you're wrong. He's ours now."

Another American. "Chopper's here."

"But his condition is -"

"Out of the way, let them through."

Something dropped to the ground next to him with a rustle – it sounded heavy.

More Yank voices. "Hey, wake up. Open your eyes," one commanded.

He tried, he really did. He got a fuzzy glimpse of figures hovering over him. So tired.

"Come on, wake up." A disgusted sigh.

Something squeezing his arm. Tingling in his fingertips. Crackling, tearing. Paper. Plastic.

Snip snip snip. Cutting. Pulling away.

"Ugh, what a mess. Get some pressure on that."

The pain blossomed into fire. Someone was moaning.

"Just relax."

"Resps 32, pulse 120, BP 94 over palp."

The voice got suddenly loud. "You got that line ready yet?"

"Right here."

Pressure, then cool wetness in the crook of his arm. A searing sting – flooding him with fear. Prague...a few years ago...they'd grabbed him, held him down, injected him with something. He'd awoken in an Ultranationalist torture chamber. He gasped and tried to sit up. He couldn't; something prevented him from lifting his head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa...easy, buddy. Get his arm." The voice turned away. A sound of something tearing. "What's the dog tag say?"

"John Price."

"Take it easy, John. It's just an IV, okay? We need to start another one...all right...just relax, John. Here we go...big pinch."

"Sat's 96."

"Morphine's on board."

A rush of cool air. A plastic smell. Something pressing down on his face – the gulag...the room...the cloth pulled down against his face...pouring water – smothering him! He panicked.

"Ow, fuck!"

"Jesus – help me get his legs already. He's kicking the shit out of me!"

Weight pressed down, trapping him. A warm pile of heaving bodies. Just like Prague. He struggled, felt a growl rising in his throat.

"Whoa – hey! Stop! I got him. Shit, he's bleeding everywhere. Let's give him half an amp of Valium. I guess he's a bit livelier than he looks right now."

"I'm on it. There we go," the voice purred. He was too exhausted to keep fighting. The weight on him slowly began to ease. "Relax, John. That's it."

"Who was that they just cut down from there?"

"Get me another dressing." More ripping, tearing sounds.

"None other than Vladimir Makarov. Now one less thorn in the ass of the World."

"No shit. One that should have been mown down a long time ago."

The first American voice was back. "Politics, gentlemen. Couldn't be helped. But good things come to those who wait, and we got ourselves a consolation prize." The voice got closer. "Hello, John." A chuckle. "Gave our boy quite the send-off, then had yourself a smoke afterwards? I gotta hand it to you, old man – you've got style." A pause. "Villa Clara? Heh, you've got taste, too."

The mask was strapped to his face, the plastic edge biting into his skin, and he was rapidly losing the will to reach up and rip it off. He could hear his own ragged breaths, loud within the plastic shell.

"It's good to finally meet you. There's quite a long list of people that want to meet you, actually – one that's growing by the minute." A sigh. "You do know how to make an entrance...looks like you almost made your exit too." The voice softened, drawing closer. "But it's not going to be that easy, John. You still have way too much to answer for."

"Ready? One, two, three." Up, and down again.

He hadn't realized that he was cold until they started wrapping the blankets around him. A tightening. Click. Now he couldn't move his arms at all. Something heavy was between his legs – he couldn't move those either. A sudden jerk upward, jarring his wounds. He moaned beneath the mask. No one acknowledged it. He felt rattling beneath him; he was moving.

Thumping. Louder and louder. A helicopter.

With great difficulty, he forced his eyes open. Painfully bright lights stabbed at him from the helipad. Blurry faces floated around him, shrouded in shadow: helmets, headsets...dark green berets emblazoned with a golden sailboat...except one. The One leaned into his ear, shouting over all the noise.

"It's over, Price. When you're ready, we'll talk."

A headset was placed over his ears. While it muffled the roar outside, it amplified his heart's rapid struggle to compensate for all he'd left behind. His blood spattered the broken skylight and smeared the shattered glass flung across the hotel corridor. It soaked the carpet, and stained the shredded clothing and the boonie hat that lay abandoned there.

They were lifting him into the chopper. A curved white ceiling. Dark figures – helmets, flightsuits, blue gloves. Reaching over him, hooking up equipment, hanging bags of fluid. The door slammed shut. The engines whined, preparing for liftoff.

...cheated death...

Every man must someday face the inevitable. For some, the prospect of closure – an ending to all things, is not unwelcome. Both he and Yuri were such men. They had seen too much death and loss over the years. So, as with Soap at Site Hotel Bravo, they had come to this place bound by a silent pact, not expecting to return. Each man, to the best of his ability, had made peace with himself and his deeds. Now that Price was ready to cross the final threshold, he found himself facing a different inevitability than the one he'd prepared himself for.

...now being...cheated...of it...

He couldn't hear, couldn't move, couldn't stop his eyes from closing again. He had no energy left to speak. But as consciousness slipped away, his mind's roar of protest was like the silent scream of a drowning man sinking beneath the waves.

Afterward

I confess that after finishing the campaign, I was feeling rather morose, and overlooked some details initially – such as TF 141 regaining recognition (leading one to presume that Price is no longer a fugitive), and MacTavish's name inscribed onto the Hereford clock tower. So more AU was born. However, I'm not sure how lawful Price and Yuri's status would be anyway, after what amounts to an act of terrorism in a luxury hotel. Come to think of it, that's probably why the game's creators didn't want to mention exactly where they're supposed to be in 'The Arabian Peninsula.' Especially after angering the Russian Federation with MW2. I guess it was important enough to them to ensure that the location's coordinates on Price's post-it note are nowhere near the Middle East. But I digress. ;-)

There is a detail that I think many miss on the first go-around, and that I tried to explore here: what Price sees when he looks in the glass. I think the game fails to render it effectively, so it's a bit difficult to tell what he's looking at when he sees past his own bloody reflection.

I like the idea of Makarov falling into excess. When onscreen with Vorshevsky in "Stronghold", he's looking rather dapper, like he just came from the opera house. What might yesterday's revolutionary be doing in Dubai? That question alone has potential for fanfic. Ahem...Verity? :-)

Thanks to Sassy Satsuma for help with Price's thoughts concerning his love life (an idea of Stoneface's which I loved and ran with) and to my friend NrsDesl for paramedic info.

Updated 10-21-12: Clarified the line about the um, shagging. Price isn't a misogynist; he just can't stand his sister-in-law. ;-) Been meaning to get around to that for ages.

Updated 10-6-16: the line 'Someday, should their sins be forgiven, there might be a white stone with a winged dagger for him in St. Martin's cemetery' was changed, since the SAS no longer bury their dead there.