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Profanity level: Scotsman
Since we picked him up in Petropavlovsk, he hasn't been the same. In fairness, he wasn't the same after Zakhaev.
We'd been calling him the Old Man for a while, now he was starting to look the part. When we found him, he looked exhausted. Thin, too. He'd taken quite a beating, but he wouldn't let the medics check him out. Everyone was concerned, but at the same time, how could we deprive him of a chance to get back in the fight? Maybe we were wrong, we were too happy to have him back, too full of our own success with the mission. We'd pulled that one off by the skin of our teeth. Maybe we – I – was too willing to look the other way. Shepherd didn't seem to give a toss.
True to form, Simon dared to say what the rest of us wouldn't, and he paid for it. Price lashed out at him, the rest of the lads backed down, end of. A pint or two later, it would all have blown over. No chance of that now. It's selfish of me, but I'm glad that wasn't how I'd left things with Simon. Almost - we'd had our differences of late.
Price is in a right state, his face all purple and swollen and cut up, one eye shut. His walk is slow and hunched over, and when he sits down in the chair, even he can't hide that he's in a fair bit of pain. He all but admits that he needs to be tucked up in bed himself - not for lack of trying on Misha's part, from what I hear. No one can tell Price anything, of course. Situation normal there.
It's good to see him, for your humble narrator is a miserable bag-o-shite. My gut feels like I'm being stabbed all over again. On top of it, I have the chills and I'm feeling a little out of breath. Misha told me I'm running a fever. Fuck knows what was in that river water, which I'd inhaled plenty of. So what did he do next? He and a couple of other medics got me out of bed and made me take a few steps, the bastards. They sat me back down just in time - I nearly blacked out, my legs felt like noodles. And the whole deep breathing thing – fuck me.
At least they've pulled most of the wires and tubes and god-knows-what. They've moved me to another room; looks like I've just been kicked out of what passes for an ICU. Now I only have one IV left taped to me, to pull out my remaining arm hair, one at a time. Cheers.
I figure he's come by for some low-key, buck-up-and-feel-better-soldier chitchat. It's expected of any good OC; I've done it myself. But I'm not ready for what he says next. Price, poster boy for the stiff upper lip, almost topped himself in prison. I'm speechless.
Then I'm angry, so angry that I forget how I'm feeling. Shepherd's betrayal had run much deeper than we'd thought. He'd sold Price out long before the Boneyard. The op in Prague hadn't just been an op gone bad, it had been a setup. The thought had entered some of our minds. Things had gone so wrong so quickly; it was almost convenient. But by our own CO? We never saw that one coming. Suddenly, this latest brush with death feels worth it. When we kill, it's not an emotional thing, just business. I'd been too busy bleeding out to react to Shepherd's death, but now I'm glad, so deeply satisfied that I finished that cunt. My only regret was that I'd done it too quickly.
Before his rescue, the sound of the scuffle over the radio when they took him had become my nightly companion. I'd played the scenario over and over in my head, wondering what I could have done differently. It had been one thing after another, and I'd been ready to call the whole thing off when Price picked their trail back up. He'd had them bang to rights. Come to think of it…the lorry that had almost run down Scarecrow and Ozone? Price had probably been laid out in the fucking back of it.
When he tells me what they did to him, I immediately stop feeling sorry for myself, ashamed.
What do you say to a man when he describes his torture to you? Especially when that man is your leader, friend and father figure? They nearly killed him with their bungling. Then along came Grach, handpicked by Makarov to nurse Price back to health so when the time came, they could take things nice and slow. The cunt even used his medical training to join in. One thing about growing up Catholic, you believe there's a Hell. Knowing that Grach wasn't – and isn't - the only one of his kind, it's almost a comfort. Turns out MacMillian's killers weren't IRA; Price never believed that anyway. It was Makarov's boys. After taking their time with Price, they had, and still have, similar plans for me. Join the club, you wankers – they have t-shirts.
Despite all the time that had passed, all the bullshit and dead ends, I never gave up on finding him, even though he'd given up on being found. I soon understand how he'd gotten to that point. My upbringing aside, I'd have probably reached the same conclusion. To think if we'd been a day later, maybe less, the mission would have been to recover his body instead. I'd have never forgiven myself.
A couple of hours fly by, and the pain creeps up. After Misha gives me the shot, I have to fight to stay awake for the best part: Price bashing Grach's head in. Put a fucking smile back on my face, let me tell you. The bastard had made some crack to Price about irony. Then he was more or less done in by his own gun, and not with the business end. How's that for ironic, you cunt?
I nod off, can't fight it anymore. I hope that telling me all this has helped him somehow. There's a certain…hollow look to him. The damage has been done. It's clear now why he chased the 141's medics away. Simon had been right on the money. He'd been through some brutal shit himself, he knew what he was looking at. And there's something else, simmering just below the surface. I wonder what he isn't telling me. On second thought, maybe I don't want to know.
If Price hadn't been through all that, would his actions at the sub been different? I tell myself no, that his difficult choice was the right choice. I keep telling myself that. I have to.
He can't be fucking serious. Is this what he was keeping - didn't want to upset the guy in the hospital bed? No. It can't be all of it. He and Nikolai helpfully point out that I'd been too drugged up to hear it. All right…it's true, I was off my tits. If the story had come from anyone else, I wouldn't have believed it. We'd gone to ground only to run smack into the CI-sodding A. It just gets worse from there.
We all knew it was only a matter of time before the Yanks would be looking for us. After all, killing a US general does tend to attract unwanted attention. Now once again, I'm the one slowing us down, and trouble's about to come find us. Fuck this, we're out of here. I stand up.
Next thing I know, they're picking me up off the floor. Should have known better - story of my life, really.
I can't let this happen. I can't let Price get captured because of me. He's already paid dearly for what I've done. I have to push that out of my mind, thinking about it is too hard to take. Not that the next thought is any easier – the two of us in full-length orange, cuffed, shackled and hooded - we've both been labeled 'terrorists', right? He needs to just get the hell out of here. Any road, he won't hear of it. I knew he wouldn't.
Misha slips me the morphine while I'm not looking. I'd been putting it off, trying to clear the cotton wool from my brain. While I'm pissed off at him for being sneaky, the pain was getting to be too much. I'm thankful, though I'm too proud to admit it. Have to slow down and rest if I want to hurry up and heal. The medics shoo Price and Nikolai out of the room while they assess the damage. I'm all right as far as that goes, but by the time they're done, I'm out for the count.
