Prague was a blur of explosions and gunfire, the sounds of fighting and screaming coming from all sides as Soap felt himself being dragged along the narrow streets of the city, Yuri barely able to keep him upright as he struggled forward. Searing agony burned through Soap's chest, his back raw and burning white-hot. Yuri was yelling encouragement into his ear, demanding that he keep his eyes open, that he run just a little farther, then he could rest. Soap barely registered any of it. A spasm ripped through his body and he coughed violently, choking on blood and smoke. Distantly, he heard Price yelling.

The mission to assassinate Vladimir Makarov had failed. The remnants of the disavowed Task Force 141, led by Captain Price and Captain John "Soap" MacTavish, thought they'd gotten the Ultranationalist leader cornered in the city of Prague, where he was to have a meeting in the middle of a warzone—a foolish, bold move on Makarov's part, one that Soap and Price should've seen right through. Soap was meant to provide sniper support with Yuri, a newcomer to the 141, from a church just across the street from Makarov's meeting place as Price infiltrated the building, hopefully putting Makarov down and ending the war that ravaged Europe once and for all.

Only Makarov had known they were coming, killing their informant and blowing his supposed meeting place—and the church tower where Soap and Yuri were hiding—sky high. How Soap and Yuri missed the bombs during their sweep, Soap would never know. How he and Price didn't realize that this would be a trap, Soap would never know, either.

Soap and Yuri were lucky; they weren't killed immediately upon landing on the cobblestone streets after they jumped from the church tower seconds before the explosion, their fall broken by the scaffolding that stood along the side of the church. Yuri was luckier; he was limping and obviously injured, covered in cuts and quickly-forming bruises and blood, but was able to keep himself upright, able to hold a gun. Soap, on the other hand, was engulfed in a world of pain, and in the chaos that followed the explosion his entire world was turned upside-down.

In the confusion, one sentence rang clear through Soap's mind, one phrase that made Soap's blood run cold when he first heard it. Before the explosion, before everything went to total shit, Makarov had come in over the radio, his snake-like voice still echoing in Soap's ears:

"Yuri, my friend. You never should have come here."

Through the agony that ripped through Soap's entire body, the white-hot pain of shattered ribs and ruptured organs and torn, burned, bleeding skin, Soap was able to register one emotion; anger. Pure anger that would've blinded him if his vision wasn't already swimming. Makarov knew Yuri, knew the man that Soap and Price had been working with for weeks to track down that son of a bitch.

He'd been a rat this whole time, hadn't he? He was the one who set this all up, wasn't he?

It was becoming harder to move his feet. Soap stumbled more and more, tripping and falling on cobblestone, bringing Yuri down with him. Price was the one who hauled Soap upright again, the faint smell of cigars and the stronger stench of blood and gunpowder and sweat washing over Soap as Price held him upright, yelling at him to stay up, that he could keep going, that he had to keep going. There was desperation in Price's voice. Fear. Something that Soap had been hearing far too often these days.

"Just leave me, Price," Soap heard a voice cry out, broken and hoarse and barely understandable. Soap could hardly register the words as his own. Through vision that swam in and out of focus, Soap saw Price's face contort into an unrecognizable expression through the grime and soot that coated his features, his lips pulling back in a grimace.

"No! I'm getting you out of here!" Price snapped, and Soap felt the grip on his shoulders tighten, as if Price were afraid of what would happen if he were to let go.

Soap wasn't an idiot; he knew what was happening to him. His ribs were broken, the familiar deep ache that made it almost impossible to breathe welling in his chest. He could taste blood, his body wracked with violent coughing that only brought up more blood as more time passed. Ruptured organs, internal bleeding. When he looked down, he could see his jacket had a dark stain that was spreading across his chest and stomach, blood seeping through the thick fabric. He could feel it trailing down his legs, into his boots, see it dripping on the ground with each step he took. The wound from his fight with Shepherd had reopened. He was losing a lot of blood. He didn't have a lot of time.

I don't have time.

Through this realization and the agony that ripped through him, coupled by the gradual dulling of his senses, Soap found that he was unusually calm. Accepting. He knew what was coming and it was hopeless to try to fight it.

Soon, Soap couldn't even move his legs. He was set down behind a statue, a gun that he'd never even lift pressed into his hands. It wasn't long before he was lifted once more by two men, carried into a safehouse with the sound of gunfire and screaming behind him. It was getting harder to see, getting harder to breathe, Soap's arms and legs growing colder with each passing moment.

"Clear the table!" Price's command was immediately followed by the sound of shattering glass and the fluttering of pushed and falling papers, and Soap felt himself laid down on a hard surface moments later. Each breath took every ounce of his strength, his vision swimming in and out of focus as people began to swarm around him, hands all over him, trying to find and stop the bleeding, trying to help, trying to postpone the inevitable—

I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm going to die.

It was then that panic grabbed hold of Soap, spasms tearing through his body as he drew rapid, shallow breaths, something white-hot burning in his eyes. No. No, he couldn't die. He and Price had to kill Makarov. Makarov was still out there, the war was still raging, Soap couldn't die now, not before this was all over, not now.

Please, God, I can't die now—

"What the hell kind of a name is "Soap," eh? How'd a muppet like you pass selection?" Soap heard Price's voice uttering those words as clearly as he did five years before, the memory of their first meeting the first thing becoming clear in Soap's mind. He had to see Price's face, he had to see him—

Soap's gaze slowly traveled up, and through his unfocused vision he found Price directly above him, his face twisted in a rictus of terror. Price's hands were pressed unbearably hard against the point of Soap's bleeding, trying to stop it, trying to do whatever he could to save his closest companion. Price locked eyes with Soap, his lips moving as he said something, something that sounded like—

"Stay with me."

"Price," Soap heard himself groan, another cough ripping itself from him. All he could taste was blood. Price frantically shook his head.

"Not now, Soap, stay with me, son!" Price twisted around, screaming over his shoulder, "GET A MEDIC!"

Soap coughed again, groaning out Price's name once more. Slowly, shakily, he lifted his hand, searching for the front of Price's vest. Finding it, Soap gripped it as firmly as he could, Price turning and looking back down at him in response. A hand left Soap's stomach and instead went to cover Soap's hand. Price's glove was soaked with blood, the exposed parts of his grime-covered fingers stained crimson. His grip was like a vice. Soap could feel himself getting weaker, his senses fading, his body feeling colder and colder—

There was no time. No time to apologize, no time to say goodbye. No time to say anything. Except one thing. One last thing, one last way to uphold his duty to the world and to Price, one last way to help.

Makarov has to die. He knows Yuri. Yuri is a liar. Yuri is a traitor. Yuri—

"Makarov…" Soap took a rasping breath, gathering the last of his strength to speak. "Makarov…knows…Yuri…"

Soap had heard somewhere that when a person dies, the last sense they lose is the ability to hear. As Soap slumped back against the table, his vision plunging into darkness, he found that to be true as Price's desperate screams rang in his ears, feeling someone shake him almost violently before he could feel nothing else. As Soap felt his consciousness slip away, the last thing he heard was Price's whisper, low and shaking:

"I'm sorry."