Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or Call of Duty. If I did, I would rule the world!
United Kingdom
Credinhill, SAS Base of Operations
2011, October, Day 1
"Good news first. The world's in great shape. We've got a civil war in Russia, Government Loyalists against Ultranationalist Rebels, and 15,000 nukes at stake."
"Just another day at the office."
"Khaled Al Asad. Currently the most powerful man in the Middle East. Now word on the street is he's got the minerals to be top dog down there, intel's keeping an eye on him.
"And the bad news?"
"We've got a new guy joining us today, fresh out of selection. His name's Soap."
Two men sat in a small office, looking over pictures of several men and locations. They wore obvious military uniforms, their respective ranks stitched onto their sleeves. One of them was John Price, a Captain, and the other was Gaz, a Lieutenant. Captain Price wore a combat outfit, black and sleek, night vision headgear resting on his slightly balding head. He sported a large, well combed moustache, that covered the width of his face. He spoke in a deep, gruff British accent. Gaz had given him the status report on the current war.
Gaz, on the other hand, was young, around twenty five, and wore a camoflauge outfit, with many equipment pockets. He wore a baseball cap on his head, a small United Kingdom flag stitched into it. His face was cleanly shaven, and his accent was younger, and more carefree sounding. Still, he was dedicated to his work.
A picture of a tanned, Middle Eastern man lay in front of Captain Price. His headwear
was red, and he wore sunglasses. It was labeled 'Khaled Al Asad.' A second picture showed a military man, his head shaved into a neat mohawk. His eyes looked proud and determined, and Captain Price nearly laughed at the callsign he had been given. How any man could have been called 'Soap' was beyond him. The picture was labeled "Sergeant Jonathan 'Soap' Mactavish."
Still, if this man was to join the 22nd SAS Regiment at Credinhill, he would need to prove himself, not only in the firing range, but on the cargoship mockup in one of the hangers. The civil war in Russia was escalating, and it was affecting the Middle East as well. Ultranationalist forces had occupied much of Saudi Arabia as it was, and Al Asad was growing into an increasing threat to the safety of citizens.
It was mid afternoon when Soap Mactavish entered the armory, greeted by an uplifting, familiar soldier.
"Good to see you mate, grab one of the rifles from the table, and head to station one." Gaz greeted Soap kindly, patting his shoulder and pointing at the armory.
"Yes sir," Soap said briskly, hurrying to the table.
"Now go to station one, and aim your rifle down range," Gaz said, taking up a position in a viewing stand behind the firing range.
Soap did so, following Gaz's clear instructions as the targets popped up. He took them down quickly, with a surprising skill, considering his 'FNG' status. It seemed Gaz was the only man who complemented him around here, or did anything other than constant teasing and mild torture, to put it lightly. Soap was a bold man, dedicated to his cause. The SAS was the perfect escape for him, though not without some pain. He hadn't been to happy about his transfer to Credinhill, though it was necessary. The 22nd Regiment was the best the SAS had to offer, and Soap was astounded that they had selected him. The increasing threat in Russia and the Middle East was rapidly spiraling out of control, and needed the best men to fix it.
When he was done with his quick inspection, wiping watermelon juice from his face after he had torn his blade through one, Gaz spoke.
"Nice, your fruit killing skills are remarkable. Captain Price wants to see you."
Soap exited, thanking Gaz for the complements, and thought about his current situation. He was new here, and it was hard being new. So far, the others had created a hell for him, and he was repressing his feelings the best he could. All in all, he was very nervous about meeting his new Captain, the intimidating Captain Price. Soap felt very out of place amongst the other British men. He was Scottish, born and raised. He knew other Scotsmen served in the SAS, but at Credinhill, it seemed as if everyone was British. His thick accent only separated him from the others even more, and it truly made him feel lonely.
He found the warehouse quickly, and the door opened slowly at his approach. He was greeted with four men, three wearing face masks, surrounding a lone man with a large moustache. Captain Price. One of the men leaned in and spoke in an uptight voice, his teasing obvious.
"It's the FNG sir."
Another spoke up, "Go easy on him sir, it's his first day in the Regiment."
Price just smirked, staring Soap down.
"Right, what the hell kind of a name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you pass selection?"
Soap felt his face burning in humiliation, his eyes darting away. His Captain was tough, downgrading him in front of his squadron. Price quickly got down to business, nodding at the large wooden obstacle course behind him.
"Soap, it's your turn for the CQB test. Everyone else head to observation. For this test, you'll have to run the cargoship solo in less than sixty seconds. Gaz holds the current squadron record at nineteen seconds. Good luck. Climb the ladder over there," Price said, jabbing a thumb towards a ladder in the corner, before walking over to a row of screens with the other men.
Soap swallowed and grasped the cold ladder, climbing it swiftly. He glanced around at the top. A secure rope leading down into the course was to his right, and a gun and several canisters lay on a crate straight in front of him. Suddenly, he heard Price's voice calling to him.
"Pick up that MP5 and four flashbangs. On my go, I want you to rope down to the deck and rush to position one. Then head down the stairs to position two, then hit positions three and four, following my precise instructions at each position. Grab the rope when you're ready."
Soap was nervous, no, terrified. He grabbed the gun and flashbangs, then clambered over
to the rope. He took a breath, then slid down the rope.
"Go go go!"
Soap saw the targets pop as he landed, sending rounds into them quickly. Never before had he moved his feet so fast, while firing a live weapon. He threw the flashbangs around the corners, sending three round bursts into the inanimate targets. He raced through the course, nearly slipping at the last corner, grabbing the wall and sprinting to the red circle at the end, before stopping and breathing hard. He checked the time on his wristwatch. 17 seconds. 17 SECONDS! He had beaten Gaz, the best in the squadron, at his own game! He glanced over at Captain Price, who looked astounded, before wiping away his expression.
"That was good. Not great, but good," was all he said.
Bullshit, was Soap's only thought. He knew that Price was at a loss for words at the
stunning performance, and it felt amazing. He shakily walked up to his Captain.
"Gentlemen, the cargoship mission is a go. Get yourselves sorted out, wheels up at 0200. Dismissed."
Soap grinned, thinking of how he would break the news of his triumph to Gaz. This could be the beginning of a great time.
London, England
Unknown Conference Hall
2011, October Day 1
Men and women of all ethnicities scrambled around the loud, busy conference room. The personification of nearly every country in the world was there, representing their respective lands. These people were countries, a long, complicated explanation of science and maybe magic, though it was rarely believed. They were great nations, invulnerable, unkillable, nations, born as their countries were born, dead as their countries were wiped from existence. Though they could be hurt, gravely. There were many causes of their pain. Suffering economy was one. War was another. Usually, they would fall ill when their economy suffered. War however, had a different effect, usually in the form of horrid physical trauma. That was why they had gathered for the world meeting.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you plan A!"
A young man in a brown bomber jacket stood at the head of the huge table, pointing at a picture of the world map. This was Alfred F. Jones, America. A bright smile was plastered on his face, and he pushed up his glasses, glancing around the room.
"This war in Russia is getting pretty bad, but we still have a chance to stop it before it turns into a nuclear disaster. We rid Russia of every last nuke, and we are ALL safe!" America yelled proudly, pointing at a large, silver haired man.
Russia stood, violet eyes twinkling, a smile played across his lips.
"That hardly seems fair America. If I recall, you still have secret stashes of nuclear weapons all over your country. Besides, you nearly murdered Japan in the forties," Russia said in a lighthearted tone, smiling in satisfaction.
America looked horrified, then angry, his face turning an embarrassed shade of red.
"Look, he attacked me first, and were over it, so shut up you damned commie!"
"Check your notes America, I'm not communist. Though if you wish, I will resort to that if I must," Russia said, a purple haze filling the room.
"NO!" The whole room yelled, and Russia just smiled and sat down, the haze dissappating.
Arthur Kirkland, England, stood. He was blonde with bright green eyes, and rather skinny.
"Look America, everyone is entitled to their weapons. It's a matter of keeping control over them. If we want to end the war, we have to go for the leaders, not the countries. We've learned that, havn't we?" England looked around, happy with the nods of agreement.
America looked a bit downtrodden.
"Alright fine. This Al Asad guy is a huge problem, and Saudi Arabia is suffering because of him. The U.S. Marines can take care of him easily," America said, looking proud at the mention of his marines.
"Okay, if that's what it takes. I'm sure Saudi Arabia will be pleased. How is this war effecting you Russia?" England asked, turning to the large nation.
"Oh, I can handle it. Just a little under the weather is all, a few scratches on my hand. There hasn't been to much destruction, though it seems the government has been shifting. It is a bit uncomfortable," Russia explained, holding up his hand to show the red lines of war.
"America, I've been meaning to ask you something," England said, after nodding to Russia.
"What's that dude?" America said, unwrapping a hamburger and taking a bit.
England rolled his eyes.
"Everyone else has agreed to stay neutral, but I want the SAS to back you up. I've already cleared it with my boss, he says we can send them to inspect an Ultranationalist cargoship tonight. It may have a nuke on board, and it's in the Bering Straight. Is that alright?"
America grinned happily.
"So, thought you'd back up the hero huh? Alright super sidekick, let's save the world!" America shouted, pumping his fist into the air.
England sighed, and Russia laughed happily. France smirked and leaned back, and Germany pinched the bridge of his nose. Everyone else looked a bit annoyed, yet relieved at the same time. It was about time they did something about this mess, now that they were all in danger of being dragged into a war. If Russia's government was shifting, who knew what could happen. Countries followed their leaders, and if this Al Asad became the leader... They were doomed.
"Plan A will go into action tomorrow. My marines will take out Al Asad and end this little war, no big deal," America said, very enthusiastic.
"That could endanger your men you know. These Ultranationalists are very skilled at what they do," Russia said, smiling at America.
America simply scowled.
"My marines are the heroes. Were saving your sorry butt, remember?"
"All due respect, but your plans never work."
"Shut up commie!"
"BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP!" Germany roared, "Everyone who is for America's plan, say 'I.' All those who are neutral, say 'neutral' and everyone else, keep quiet!"
"I," England said, exasperated.
"Neutral," echoed around the room.
"Good. England, America, good luck in solving the conflict. Meeting dismissed," Germany said, nodding at the two nations.
"Dude, we totally have this! I'll save the world with Iggy at my side! How glorious," America chanted.
England groaned.
"Don't call me that. At least the SAS can back you up, and we can end this Ultranationalist dispute. Those humans are violent, and I would hate to see how Russia would act if they controlled him."
Just then, England's cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out and looked, relief on his face.
"My boss has just cleared the cargoship operation. We'll solve the dispute in no time," England said.
"That's good, but we know I'm the hero! Tomorrow morning, we win!"
"Sure thing America...
This is the start of a long crossover! I plan to cover all three Modern Warfare games. Enjoy! Review and I will give you bacon! :)