The first thing Soap saw when he opened his eyes was bright sunlight streaming down from an azure sky, momentarily blinding him as he came to.

Reflexively, Soap squeezed his eyes shut again, a groan passing through his lips as he slowly lifted his hands and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. His entire body hurt, from his head down to the tips of his toes. A steady, aching pulse passed through his body from his ribs and his skull pounded mercilessly as if someone had just taken a hammer to the back of his head. Slowly he rolled over onto his side, curling into a fetal position and staying that way for what felt like ages.

Soap's mind was a haze of confusion and dull, pulsing pain, each thought struggling to make itself known. Yet they came, one by one, slipping into the front of his mind as he slowly came to full consciousness. Soap turned and pressed his head against the ground, feeling the rough, cold stone against his forehead. He coughed, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through his chest.

Everything was silent, save for the occasional cry of some creature Soap didn't care to recognize. The sunlight beating down on him was bright but not warm, the air carrying the crispness of late autumn on the brink of winter. A breeze swept across Soap's body, chilling him through his torn clothes and smelling of salt water—

Salt water.

Slowly, Soap lifted his head, peeking one eye open and lifting a hand to shield himself from the sunlight. He wasn't in the safehouse anymore. The first thing he saw when he looked up was a stone wall barely a meter away, moisture clinging to the wall and gathering in a puddle on the cobblestone below. A large rat was sniffing the ground, searching for traces of something edible; it fled as soon as it saw Soap move, its oily hide and beady black eyes gleaming in the sunlight as it scurried off. The breeze was stronger, now, more like a wind, and carried in the smell of river brine. The animal cries Soap had heard before were now identifiable as gulls. Other than the gulls, everything was completely silent, without a single trace of life to be seen or heard.

Where.

Soap coughed again, then spat a mixture of saliva and mucus and old blood onto the cobblestone. His throat felt like sandpaper. He rolled onto his back and slowly pulled himself upright, steadying himself with his hands on the ground and his legs stretched out in front of him. Reaching up to rub his bleary eyes with one hand, Soap rotated his head back and forth, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

There was another wall on his other flank, this one also less than a meter away; he was in an alley, the stone walls of the buildings beside him and the cobblestone beneath him damp and starting to sport fungus. Soap was facing the opening of the alleyway, the street visible from where he was sitting; he could see some buildings from this point, and from what he could make out, most of them were abandoned, their windows and doors boarded up and marked with red paint. One visible building was locked down with metal paneling. There wasn't a single living soul in sight, the street eerily quiet.

Soap coughed, then looked down at himself. His jacket was bloody and torn, the entire front of it stained deep red. It could keep him warm for now, but this jacket's days were over. Beneath his jacket and his Kevlar, the rest of his clothes stuck to his torso, the blood dried to his skin and clinging to his body. He looked at his hands; whatever his gloves didn't cover were scabbed over and covered with dried blood. Soap assumed that his face looked the same way. Soap, trembling ever so slightly, reached up with one hand and touched his face, rubbing at it. It felt grimy, like he hadn't bathed in weeks. His entire body cried out for rest, every part of him aching down to the bone.

In a vain attempt to feel clean, Soap wiped at his cheeks with the backs of his hands and grunted when the grimy, unwashed feeling only got worse. Instead of trying to clean himself, he decided to just check over his belongings, making sure that everything was in order.

His rifle was missing, lost immediately after his fall from the church tower. No one had bothered to retrieve it in the chaos—which, Soap decided, was a damn shame, because that shite was expensive. His pistol was in his holster—no, not his pistol. Soap's USP .45 was missing, instead replaced with an M1911—

Soap paused for a moment, pulling the pistol out of the holster and holding it up. It wasn't just any M1911; it was the M1911. The gun that Price had given him five years ago. The gun that Price had trusted Soap to kill Zakhaev with, given to him in a moment of desperation. The gun that Soap had welcomed Price back to the 141 with after months of rotting in a gulag when Price had been presumed dead after a failed mission to kill or capture Makarov—

Soap scoffed. All these missions to snag that bastard seem to fail, don't they?

Soap ejected the pistol's magazine and checked its ammo. Five bullets. Normally, Price kept it fully loaded, never using it unless his other pistol had run out of ammo or failed. This had been used.

Soap reloaded the 1911 and placed it back in the holster, then checked the rest of his gear. His combat knife was still there, and in decent shape. He drew it and ran its blade lightly across his finger, feeling the cold metal bite into his skin. Satisfied, Soap replaced it in its sheath.

Most of Soap's gear was gone; his radio was all that remained, and when he tested it, he found that it didn't pick up any channels. It didn't even pick up static. It probably broke when he fell from the church tower. Surprisingly enough, his cigarettes were still in his pocket; the carton was a little crushed, but what was left of the cigarettes inside were still good. His lighter was okay, too. He didn't bother checking for his journal; he knew that it was safe in his coat pocket, and judging by the other things it had survived, it would've survived his fall and mad dash through Prague. He also knew that it would be bloodstained, and he didn't exactly feel like checking which of his drawings were completely ruined this time.

With shaking fingers, Soap unzipped his jacket, checking his Kevlar. It was in relatively good shape; it probably wouldn't do as good a job protecting him, but wearing it made Soap feel safer, more secure. And yet…

Kevlar isn't going to save you if someone rounds this corner and shoots you in the head.

Soap scowled, zipping his jacket back up and laying back down on the ground, his back flush against the cobblestone. He raised one hand to protect his eyes from the sunlight, his lips pulling back in a grimace as he thought, squinting at the sky through his fingers.

This place was quiet. Too quiet. Had Russian forces swept through this area? If they had, there would still be patrols, still be people. Soap would hear something other than the eerie silence that permeated this place. And the smell of river brine…there was a river that ran through Prague, but it was freshwater, not salt.

This place was not Prague.

With a grunt, Soap hauled himself upright again, drawing as deep a breath as his aching ribs would allow before slowly tucking his legs beneath himself, kneeling on the cobblestone. From there, Soap rose to his feet, stumbling over to the nearest wall and pressing his hand against it for support. His legs felt weak, like they might give out on him at any moment—thankfully, they didn't, and Soap was able to hold himself upright, albeit with some struggle. His chest heaved as his breathing became labored; the simple act of standing up drained him.

I shouldn't be standing here.

The thought echoed in Soap's mind, his blood chilling at the realization. He leaned against the closest stone wall, struggling against the urge to slide back down to the ground and lie there for another hour. The fact that Soap was even breathing, that he was conscious, that he was alive, should've been impossible. He knew he'd been dying during that mad dash through Prague. He had to be dragged halfway across the city; he couldn't even stand on his own. He lost a frightening amount of blood—the men at the safehouse, Price, Yuri…they couldn't stop the bleeding. My ribs were broken. They had to have ruptured something, there was no medic, I couldn't have survived, I should be dead—

And yet, here he was, hurting but alive and breathing and able to stand—somewhat—on his own.

"This is fucked," Soap mumbled to himself, the words coming out as a rasp. His throat was dry; he needed water.

He also needed to find some other form of life.

Soap took a few moments to gather his strength before he pushed himself off the wall, slowly staggering to the end of the alleyway and out into the street. Immediately he noticed that almost every building in sight, not just the ones visible from the alley, were closed, barricaded with wood and metal and all bearing similar red painted markings. The stone and brick buildings and the cobblestone underfoot were glistening with moisture, as if it had rained recently. When Soap looked up, he saw that the sun hung high in the sky; it was around noon, he decided. And yet, not a single trace of life was visible for as far as the eye could see.

How Soap could've even gotten here in the first place was lost on him, and he paused to take another good look around. The architecture of the buildings around him was vaguely European, maybe English, and yet…the buildings looked off, different in a way that Soap couldn't place. The buildings looked as if they had been abandoned recently—maybe a few months before Soap came here at most. This place couldn't be Europe to begin with; almost the entire continent was a damn war zone, and if troops had passed through this place, Soap would've been hit in the face with telltale signs of battle. And yet, there were none, the abandoned buildings deathly quiet and free of signs of conflict.

The Russians couldn't have come through here. If this place had been abandoned because of the war, Soap would still see bodies, lost and useless weapons, bullet holes in wood, broken glass…this place would look like a war zone. But it didn't. It looked more like…

This place is under quarantine.

War didn't sweep through and drive out whoever lived here. Something else did. Something which the thought of chilled Soap's blood.

How the hell did I get into a quarantine zone in the first place?

Did the Russian loyalists abandon him? Did Price abandon him? Soap found himself staggering for the nearest building again, leaning against its wall and sliding down to sit on the ground. No, Price couldn't have abandoned him—Soap was alive, alive and breathing, and Price would never abandon him if he were alive. They were too close. They needed each other. If Price knew that Soap was alive, he'd never just leave him to die.

Or maybe Price didn't know that Soap was alive to begin with.

Maybe Soap slipped into a coma in that safehouse. Maybe Price decided it was useless, maybe Price abandoned him, left him for dead, because what else could he do? They had no emergency transport, no doctor better than a battlefield medic with minimal first aid. But then why did he wake up here and not in the safehouse? Did Price dump him here? Did the resistance dump him here? Soap didn't want to think of what would've happened had the Russian army found his body—no, he wouldn't even be in one piece. But if they dumped him instead of just abandoning him where he'd lost consciousness, why here? Why this unfamiliar place that was clearly not Prague? Why go through all the trouble of going to a completely different city just to dump his body? No, someone else must've brought him here.

But who?

Soap's memory was hazy, dominated by blood and pain and ending on that table in the safehouse in Prague. He didn't know who brought him to this place or why, but it wasn't the loyalists. It wasn't Price. That meant...

They left me for dead. They left me for dead. Soap swallowed, trying to push down the bile that rose in his sore, scratchy throat. Nausea swept over him and he put his head in his hands, gritting his teeth and fighting back against the illness that suddenly sprang up from his stomach. The logical part of his mind didn't blame the loyalists for leaving him, didn't blame Price for leaving him; if Soap slipped into a coma, there would've been nothing that they could've done. Soap would've been as good as dead. And he did ask to be left, after all.

But I thought I was dying then. I'm still alive.

Soap lowered his shaking hands and stared down at them, trying his best to hold back vomit. This was the shittiest situation he had ever been in, and considering his military career, that was saying something. And that was including all the times Soap had been on the brink of death; at least there had always been someone there to help him. If something happened to Soap now, if he finally succumbed to his wounds here, nobody would be able to help him. Nobody even knew he was here except for whoever—or whatever—brought him here.

Pull yourself together. Soap ground his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't sit here and let panic overtake him. He had to find someplace to hole up. Someplace where he could look after himself and figure out what to do. Preferably, some place with people.

But where the hell was he supposed to find people in a quarantine zone?

Worry about people later. Look after yourself first.

Waiting a few moments, Soap gathered his strength, then hauled himself upright, staggering to his feet. He wavered where he stood for a heartbeat, his knees threatening to give way, before his legs finally cooperated and he found the strength to move. Carefully, slowly, Soap began walking forward, looking for any place where he could retreat and rest and get a better look at himself. As he advanced, he took a mental note of what he needed.

He needed water. Soap was parched, his throat as dry as cotton, and he needed to wash off all this blood and dirt so that he could get a good look at his wounds. He needed basic first aid, at least. Open wounds needed to be treated and bandaged. He needed food. If Soap really was stuck here, he wouldn't survive long without some form of sustenance. He needed shelter. If he got rained on, in this late autumn chill, his weakened body wouldn't survive the night. He needed rest. Every muscle cried out for rest, every bone ached, every joint felt stiff and sore. Soap couldn't afford to push his body farther than it could go.

Soap hadn't the slightest idea where he could find these things. Every building he passed was either boarded up or barricaded with metal paneling, and he didn't have the tools or the strength to tear anything down right now. All he could do was wander and pray that, eventually, he'd stumble across something useful.

The streets were narrow, and every building seemed to repeat itself, the same structures of brick and stone and wood over and over and over again, with the same wooden boards or metal panels covering every possible opening. Occasionally, Soap would stop and find some alley to rest in, sinking to the ground so that he could catch his breath. Breaks were never long enough; every time he sat down, he just wanted to lie there until the pain went away. But that wouldn't do any good. Sitting where he was, just waiting to get better, wouldn't help him. Eventually, he would haul himself back up to his feet and continue his journey, staggering down the empty streets of this alien city.


Hours passed, the sun began to set, and Soap's legs couldn't carry him any further. He stumbled into an alley and collapsed to his knees with a grunt, wincing as a jab of pain shot up his legs and through his chest. He was in worse shape than before; no open buildings meant he couldn't find food, or water, or shelter, or even a rag to wipe his face with. Soap scooted further into the alley, nestling himself in the shadows where he struggled to catch his breath.

The suspicion that Soap was in a quarantine zone was confirmed; he'd been walking for hours down these abandoned streets lined with boarded up buildings, lacking any sign of life. Only the gulls, flying over some body of water Soap couldn't see from this point, produced any noise in this desolate place.

A breeze swept through the alley and, shuddering, Soap wrapped his arms around himself, swearing under his breath. His bloodstained, torn clothes stuck to him uncomfortably, and while they did protect him from some of the cold, in this state it wasn't enough. He needed shelter.

Unfortunately, this alley was the only shelter Soap had available.

Soap rubbed his arms for a few moments, and then reached into one of his jacket pockets, fishing around for his cigarettes. He found the slightly crushed pack of cigarettes and pulled one out, placing it between his lips with one hand while he searched for his lighter with the other. Finding it, he pulled out the lighter and shakily held it up to the end of his cigarette, fumbling a bit before finally lighting it. Sucking on it as if it were a pacifier, Soap inhaled the sour smoke, coughed, and then inhaled some more, intent on getting in a good dose of nicotine. Cigarettes were probably the last thing his body needed, but damn it, Soap wanted a smoke—no, needed a smoke. Needed something to calm his frayed nerves, to relax his aching body and help him clear his head.

While he smoked, Soap took the opportunity to look around some more. From where he sat in the alley, Soap eyed a few more buildings across the street, the structures standing starkly against the pink and orange sky, the sun setting behind them.

One building caught Soap's attention; he was surprised that he hadn't noticed it earlier. It was a pub, the windows on the ground floor stained in dull shades of brown and red and yellow. Save for the bricked-up windows on the third floor, most of this pub's windows weren't shuttered or boarded up; in fact, a few of them were open, although Soap couldn't see any light or movement. An old wooden table and a couple of chairs were sitting on the walkway that ran along the perimeter of the pub; Soap couldn't tell if they were simply discarded, or left out there for some other purpose. Either way, judging by the state of the pieces of furniture, they had been sitting there for some time. On the building itself, a brise-soleil wrapped around what was visible of the brick building between the first and second floors. There was a name stamped along the side of the brise-soleil in bold white lettering, worn from weather and time—

Hound Pits Pub? That was English—maybe Soap wound up somewhere in the British Isles? Now that Soap really thought about it, something about the buildings around him felt distinctly English, but somehow still different. For there to be no sign of the war, he'd have to be very far north indeed.

Soap stared at the pub building, absently taking a drag from his cigarette. From where he sat, he could see a door facing the street, and it wasn't boarded up or otherwise sealed off. There was a possibility—or, at least, Soap hoped that there was a possibility—that the door wasn't locked, either.

The first thing that came to mind was shelter. The second thing was people. There wasn't any visible light, nor did Soap see any activity through the murky windows, but there was still a chance that people were holed up in there. They could feed him. They could shelter him, at least for the night. Maybe even tend to his wounds.

They could tell him what the hell was going on.

Soap took one last, deep drag from his cigarette before hauling himself to his feet. He dropped the cigarette and crushed the smoldering remains under his heel, then walked forward, taking his time to not strain his already exhausted body. The prospect of food and shelter and another human's presence gave him the bit of strength he needed to stagger across the street, praying that his legs wouldn't suddenly give out under him. Thankfully, they didn't, and he made it across the street and stumbled up to the nearest door, slamming the palms of his hands on the glass and leaning on the door to steady himself. Soap fumbled for the door handle, found it, and then turned it, pushing the door and relishing how it swung freely, the hinges creaking in protest.

The room Soap stumbled inside was dimly lit, and it took a few seconds for Soap's eyes to adjust to the low lighting before he registered that he had entered a taproom; it was largely empty, with chairs stacked on the booth tables that lined the outer walls and a few glasses scattered on the bar that wrapped around the inner wall. Large lighting fixtures were built into the ceiling above the bar, providing the dim yellow light that permeated the room.

Two men were standing at the bar, and they turned to face the door as Soap entered the room. They were standing close together, as though they had been conversing, and when they saw Soap enter, their expressions went from drawn and tired, to surprised, to alarmed, all in a matter of moments.

Soap felt relief wash over him, his eyes burning with the threat of tears. Christ Almighty. People.

The first man was tall, around Soap's height, and looked to be around Price's age if not older. He had craggy, scared features and short grey hair that was neatly combed and parted to one side, and he donned a uniform that vaguely resembled old Royal Navy blues. He had no name tags or badges visible, at least not that Soap could see from halfway across the room, but he did have a something strapped across his chest—a pistol. It looked like a flintlock pistol, but different in a way Soap couldn't describe. Soap fixated on him immediately, ignoring the other man that stood beside him; this person, the way he held himself and the way he was dressed, screamed military. Authority.

Soap barely had time to open his mouth to utter a greeting before the pistol, once strapped across the man's chest, was pointed directly at him.

Relief quickly gave way to terror and Soap's hands flew up in a gesture of surrender as he stared at the gun and the man holding it. The pistol in his hand was horribly dated compared to the gear that Soap still had on his person; yet. something told Soap that, no matter how old this gun may look, even if his Kevlar could withstand a bullet—or a lead ball—his own body couldn't.

"How did you find this place?" the man in Navy blues demanded, his voice rough and bellowing, a deep scowl settled in his aged face. He studied Soap with a hard, critical gaze, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger at any moment. Fuck. Fuck this is the wrong fucking place to be—

"Oi," Soap began, struggling to string a sentence together as he cautiously eyed the pistol pointed at his chest. "I-I don't want any trouble, I just—"

"You've found 'trouble'," the man hissed. Soap's heart jumped in his throat as he cocked the pistol, panic seeping into him as he desperately scrambled for ideas. Soap was wounded and weak, barely able to stay upright, with a pistol pointed directly at him. If he attempted to run, he would die. If he attempted to fight, he would die. If he said the wrong thing, he would die.

You've fucked yourself over big time, haven't you, MacTavish?

"Admiral, wait," a deep voice interjected, a hand shooting out and grasping the military man's forearm. Both the apparent Admiral and Soap turned their attention to the one who spoke; it was the other man, this one taller and younger, possibly around Soap's age, with thick brown hair that hung just past his jaw in waves and deep reddish-brown skin. He was dressed like a shadow, wearing navy-blue vest, dark brown shirtsleeves, and black trousers tucked into tall brown boots, and for one so tall—he looked a good few centimeters taller than Soap—he was good at looking inconspicuous. A strange object hung from his belt; it looked almost like the hilt of a sword that was missing its blade. His voice was accented, though Soap couldn't really place the accent—maybe it was Spanish?

The Admiral looked up at the other individual, a confused and frustrated look crossing his features. "Wait?" he growled. He started to protest, but was quickly cut off.

"Look at him!" the taller man snapped. "He's no danger to us!"

Soap grit his teeth as he stared at the two men standing at the bar, fighting the urge to turn and flee. His legs were starting to sway beneath him, however, and his arms threatened to fall to his side once more. He couldn't stand in place like this much longer.

"No danger? He could run to the City Watch—"

"He won't be running anywhere anytime soon, Admiral. Look at him, he's injured—"

"And that's our problem?"

The situation was clear. So, the first people I find are running some sort of illegal operation. Soap swallowed thickly. Rather than kicking himself over his own naivete, Soap concentrated on thinking through his options. The taller man was in the process of saving his skin, but Soap wasn't sure if he would wind up being successful or if the Admiral was just going to shoot him and be done with it. Soap needed to say something, anything—it was now or never.

Soap took a deep, shaky breath, gathering the courage to speak. "Listen," he started, the two men turning to face him as the first syllable left his mouth. He swallowed, then continued, "I won't tell anyone about what I found here. I just need shelter. I can find that somewhere else, if you could just let me go—"

"It's rather late to let you just go," the taller man stated, his voice flat with a chilling matter-of-factness. He then turned to the Admiral once more, his grip around the older man's arm only tightening as he pressed, "Lower your weapon. He's no threat to us."

The Admiral glared at the taller man, his lips pressed into a thin line. After a few moments' hesitation, he finally, reluctantly, holstered his pistol, Soap breathing a sigh of relief. Satisfied, the taller man released his hold on the Admiral's arm and turned his gaze on Soap, striding up to him without wasting another moment.

It was then that Soap's legs finally gave way, and he gave a low cry as his knees buckled beneath him. The taller man crossed the room quickly enough to stop Soap from hitting the ground, catching him under his arms and supporting him as he helped Soap stand upright again. With a jerk of his head, the man gestured towards one of the nearest booths and guided Soap there. Soap struggled to stay upright long enough to stumble forward; his body was wracked with pain, brought on by exhaustion and stress, and his legs simply couldn't carry him more than a few steps further.

Soap collapsed in one of the booths with a sigh, relieved that he finally had a chance to rest. His body still ached down to his very bones, but it readily welcomed this opportunity, his body slumping back against the booth. The man who had aided him turned over his shoulder, looking elsewhere in the room.

"Cecelia," he spoke out—when Soap peered around the man, he noticed a young woman at the far end of the taproom, standing as rigidly as a statue with a broom gripped in her pale hands. She gaped at Soap, eyes stretched wide as saucers, even as she was addressed. "Cecelia, please fetch Piero. Tell him to bring medical supplies. And some water."

The young woman hesitated, only springing into action when the Admiral gruffly repeated the taller man's order. She dropped the broom, letting it clatter to the floor as she turned and fled, pulling open a door at the far end of the room and disappearing into the early evening outside. Soap turned his gaze on the table before him once she was gone, suddenly feeling two pairs of eyes boring into him.

"How did you find us?" the taller man asked, his voice firm, yet betraying no emotion. Soap closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to gather his thoughts.

"This was the first building for blocks that wasn't completely shut down," Soap answered after a moment, tilting his head to the side and peering up at the man who addressed him. Beside him loomed the Admiral, arms crossed as he glowered down at Soap. "I didn't know who I'd find when I came in here, or if I'd find anybody at all."

"How did you even get into this district?" the Admiral demanded, the crease between his brows becoming more pronounced. "This district was evacuated and placed under quarantine months ago."

"I don't know," Soap grumbled. There was a twitch of the Admiral's brow at that response. "I just woke up in an alley and wandered around until I found you. I don't remember how I even got into this city."

"Where were you before?" the man beside the Admiral asked, resting one hand on the booth behind Soap's head. "Prague," Soap answered simply, seeing no point in hiding the truth. These men obviously had no idea who Soap was; they probably thought him a refugee or a deserter.

"Prague?" The Admiral pressed his lips together, averting his gaze as he thought to himself. Soap watched as he then turned to the man beside him, his stern expression giving way to one of confusion. "Is that in Morley?"

"I haven't heard of any 'Prague,'" the taller man answered. "Perhaps it's a smaller village? One that we haven't heard of."

"You've got to be taking the piss. You've never heard of Prague?" Soap cut in, his bafflement only increasing as the two men before him gave him blank looks. "The capital city of the Czech Republic? In the middle of a God damn warzone?"

The Admiral's scowl returned. "No such place exists anywhere in the Empire," he stated. "Nor is there any overt war."

Before Soap could formulate any sort of response beyond "what the fuck," he heard a loud creak as a door swung open and the two men standing before him turned and faced the source of the sound. Soap peered through the space between them, his gaze falling upon a figure that entered the taproom—another man, dressed in loose, grimy clothing. He had a hunched over posture that made him seem smaller than he actually was, and perched on his nose was a pair of large round spectacles that reflected the dim light of the taproom. Behind him was Cecelia, the young woman peering from behind the man's hunched shoulders. When she saw Soap, she quickly averted her gaze, gluing her eyes to the floor.

"My apologies for the wait," the man in spectacles said, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He had a slow, stilted way of speaking, as if he carefully pondered each word that left his mouth. "I had trouble finding my supplies." The man strode up to the booth where Soap sat, the Admiral stepping to the side to give him space. Cecelia followed closely behind the man in glasses, intent on staring at the floor and not at Soap. Soap wondered why she didn't just leave, until he noticed the small box that she clutched in her trembling hands. Atop the box sat a little bowl—filled with water, Soap assumed. Cecelia's knuckles were snow white as she gripped the box, her fingers pressed tightly against the wood.

"Took you long enough," the Admiral muttered, clearly unimpressed, as the bespectacled man—the one called Piero, Soap assumed—turned and gently retrieved the box and the bowl from Cecelia's hands. As soon as she was empty-handed, Cecelia turned and fled, running for some other room. She entered a separate room and disappeared, her departure immediately followed by running footsteps on stairs.

"Now, let's see," Piero mumbled, setting the box and the bowl down on the table. "Sir, can you please remove your jacket, and"—he looked up, frowning at the vest that Soap wore over his jacket—"… that."

With a grunt and a low, "aye," Soap went to work at undoing the buckles of his vest, sliding it off his shoulders and dropping it on the table when he was done, careful not to knock over Piero's supplies. The Admiral reached for the vest, digging through its pockets and pouches, pulling out everything he found—which proved to only be the broken radio. The Admiral scowled at the radio, fiddling with the dials and turning it over in his large hands.

Next, Soap took off his jacket, unzipping it and placing it on the table next to his vest. With his jacket gone, Soap now sat in his sweater and scarf. He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and was relieved to see that save for a few flecks of blood and some dirt, it was largely intact; a good wash was all it really needed. The same, however, could not be said for his sweater; looking down, Soap saw that the entire front was stained dark brown with dried blood, the thick material sticking to the Kevlar underneath.

I shouldn't have lived. The thought crept in from the back of his mind once more. His memories of Prague were hazy and chaotic, but Soap could still remember the amount of blood that seeped through his clothes, leaving a trail wherever Price and Yuri dragged him. I shouldn't have lived.

Piero looked up from the box he was now digging through and grimaced at the sight of Soap's sweater. "I…um..." He cleared his throat and fiddled with his glasses, his grimace turning into a frown. The Admiral looked up from the radio in his hands and his expression, too, contorted into one of shock.

"I'm assuming you'll want this off, too," Soap said, surprising himself with how matter-of-fact he sounded. Piero simply nodded, looking back down at his box.

"What happened to you?" the Admiral asked, watching as Soap carefully peeled the sweater off his Kevlar. Soap kept his eyes down as he pulled his sweater over his head, hissing through his teeth at a sudden jolt of pain that shot through his shoulder. Now only his Kevlar and his undershirt remained.

"It's a long story," Soap grumbled. He moved to drop his sweater somewhere—anywhere—but a hand shot out to take it from him instead; the taller man, who had remained silent for so long that Soap had almost forgotten him, pulled the ruined sweater from his hands. Unsure of what the man wanted with the sweater and of what to say, Soap simply went to work at removing his Kevlar, undoing the straps as quickly as his shaking fingers would allow.

"What is this vest you're wearing?" the taller man asked, gesturing towards the Kevlar that Soap was now sliding off his body. Huffing, Soap held it out towards him, and the taller man draped the sweater over the back of the booth and reached for the Kevlar instead.

"You've never seen Kevlar before?"

The taller man ran a hand over the surface of the Kevlar, frowning—whether he was frowning at the Kevlar itself or the dried blood caked on it was lost on Soap. "No, I have not," he responded, not looking up from where his fingers toyed with the straps of the vest. "Nor," he continued, "have I heard of such a thing. Kevlar…"

"You've never heard of—"

"Sir, I will have to remove that shirt," Piero interjected, his slow voice catching Soap's attention. He looked up and blinked at the pair of clothing shears that were now in the man's hand, glinting in the low light of the pub. "I must—"

Soap shook his head, scooting forward in the seat with a low grunt so that Piero wouldn't have to lean as far to cut his shirt. "I know, get on with it," he responded gruffly, and without further ado, Piero went to work at cutting off Soap's dark grey undershirt, the shears cold where they brushed against his skin. Soap kept his eyes averted, choosing to focus on how the taller man seemed to be baffled by the Kevlar in his hands.

"This is your blood?" The Admiral huffed when Soap nodded. "I've never seen a man who has lost so much blood able to sit upright like you are." The Admiral stepped around Piero and came to stand beside the taller man once more, crossing his arms; the radio he had taken from Soap's vest was missing. "I have a feeling we haven't seen the most of it."

"You haven't."

"Then what happened?"

"I told you, it's—"

"A long story, yes. Well, we have time." The Admiral paused for a moment, and then asked, "Who even are you?"

Soap pursed his lips, not looking up from the Kevlar and the man holding it. "John MacTavish," he answered after a moment's hesitation, weighing the situation in his mind and ultimately deciding that telling them his name would cause no harm. He peered at the Admiral, who simply watched him back, his face betraying no emotion or reaction. "I am—I was a member of the SAS." He paused, gauging the blank look on the Admiral's face, and elaborated, "The Special Air Service."

"Special Air Service?" the Admiral echoed, his brows turning upward. Piero paused a moment to push up his glasses, then continued to cut away at Soap's shirt until he was able to peel it completely off. He pulled off the remains of the garment and set them on the table, setting the shears aside and turning again to dig through his box.

"You don't—" For a man in uniform, this "Admiral" seemed appallingly ignorant of the British military, although given his reactions to other tidbits of information, Soap felt that he shouldn't really be surprised. "It's…It's a special forces unit in the British Army."

The Admiral shot a glance in the direction of the taller man, his deep scowl returning, before looking back down at Soap. "The…British Army? Such a thing doesn't exist."

Soap gritted his teeth, turning his gaze on the floor. They haven't heard of Prague. The Czech Republic. The British Army or the SAS. The war. Where the fuck did I wind up?

"Tell us the truth," the Admiral said, regaining Soap's attention, although he refused to look up from where he glared at the floorboards. "Who are you, and where did you come from."

"I told you where I came from—"

"And nothing you've told me makes sense!" The Admiral snapped, Soap jumping but not looking up at his harsh tone. "Prague? The Czech Republic? The Army of— none of these things exist."

"Admiral…"

"You have one chance to tell us the truth," the Admiral hissed, ignoring the taller man's interruption. Soap dared a glance up, then shrunk back once he met the Admiral's glare, his pale eyes as hard as ice. Piero stopped what he was doing, standing still as he watched the Admiral from the corner of his eye; however, the taller man on the Admiral's other side kept his eyes on Soap, his cool gaze unwavering. "Who. Are. You. Who brought you here?"

"I told you who I am," Soap muttered, "And I told you that I don't remember how I got here—"

Piero drew in a sharp breath as the Admiral shoved him aside with one hand, his other hand reaching for Soap—to grab his shoulder, his neck, whatever, Soap couldn't tell. There was a flash of movement, and the Admiral's wrist was caught by the taller man's hand once more, his hard gaze now turned on the Admiral, who in turn glared back at him.

"Stay your hand!" the taller man hissed, his grip on the Admiral's wrist tightening when he tried to pull free. "No man would go through the trouble of dreaming up nonsense if he wanted to do us harm."

"Do you hear him?!" the Admiral snapped back, yanking free from the taller man's grasp. "He's lost his mind!"

"And throttling him won't bring it back!"

Soap cast a wary glance toward Piero, who was now staring at the Admiral's back, his shoulders hunched tightly as he flinched at the Admiral's raised voice. He took a moment to tear his eyes from the Admiral and look at Soap instead, peering at him through his round glasses as though he were trying to see into his skull. His lips moved as he mumbled something, too low for Soap to hear.

The Admiral whipped around, facing Piero with a hard stare. "What did you say?"

Piero sniffed, pushing up his glasses with an ever-so-slightly shaking finger. "I said," he repeated, a bit louder this time, "That this man is wounded, not ill. And he is alert, and doesn't seem to show any other signs of suffering from delusions—other than the obvious of course, but I believe there may be more to it." He gave the Admiral a sideways glance. "Admiral, I believe that Corvo is right."

The Admiral looked back at the taller man—Corvo—who in turn tilted his head with an expectant raise of his brow. The Admiral's jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together. Then, he looked back at Soap, his glare still cold and hard.

"What are you implying, Piero?"

"What I'm saying is that it's possible that…he may be speaking the truth, sir."

The Admiral narrowed his eyes as he addressed Soap. "How is it possible that you speak the truth about places and things that don't exist?"

"What is the last thing that you remember, Mr. MacTavish?" Piero asked, returning to the box and bowl that sat on the table. He produced a cloth and started dipping it in the water in the bowl, looking away from Soap momentarily to concentrate on what he was doing.

"The last thing I remember was passing out on a table in Prague." You know, the city that apparently doesn't exist.

"What happened to you in Prague?" Piero pulled the cloth from the bowl and wrung out excess water, then turned to Soap again. He stepped past the Admiral, who stood as still as stone, and went to work at cleaning Soap's chest of blood, trying to find its source. "I see some bruising…no cuts…"

"I…fell," Soap answered. "From a tower. It was rigged with bombs and I had nowhere else to go. An old wound reopened and I'm pretty sure I broke my ribs—"

"That explains the blood," Piero mumbled. "But…" He paused a moment to press his fingers along Soap's ribs, earning a hiss as a jolt of pain shot through his chest. "It's tender and bruised, but there's nothing that suggests that there is a break. You said that there is a wound that reopened?"

"Yes, right there," Soap said as Piero's washcloth brushed over where his old stab wound was, some of the dried blood mixing with the water and smearing across his skin. "But I swear something was broken—I've had broken ribs before, I know what they feel like—"

"—And so do I, but I don't see evidence of broken ribs. Now." Piero turned and rinsed off the washcloth the best he could, and then went back to work at cleaning blood off Soap's chest and abdomen, taking care around the spot where he said the wound was located.

"This is nonsense," the Admiral muttered, crossing his arms once again and shooting a pointed look Corvo's way. Corvo just shrugged, watching Piero as he worked without saying a word.

Piero paused after a minute, most of the blood around Soap's wound cleared. "Huh."

"What?"

"You said there is a wound here?"

"Yes…" Soap looked down, his brow furrowing. "Isn't there—"

Soap fell silent as he looked down at himself, barely able to comprehend what he was seeing. His wound from his fight with Shepherd wasn't bleeding or gaping open like it should've been; it was just a scar, same as it was before Prague, with no sign of ever having reopened.

"You aren't wounded elsewhere," Piero mumbled, quickly wiping away some more dried blood with a frown. "But this blood is clearly yours. How is this possible?"

"My question exactly," the Admiral spoke up.

"This can't be right," Soap said, half to himself, as he reached up to touch the wound on his stomach. His fingers felt cold and refused to steady themselves as he brushed them over the scar, a sudden wave of nausea washing over him. "No, no, no, this is impossible—I know what happened, I felt it tear open, I felt my ribs break, I was bleeding so much—"

"Calm yourself," Piero interrupted, looking up at Soap. "You may not be as wounded as we thought you were, but you're tired and the stress will do you no good. Now, do you remember what happened after?"

"No," Soap replied, his voice wavering. He swallowed hard, then continued, "I…I just passed out. I thought I was dying, but I woke up in an alley and I—God in Heaven, I don't remember how I got here—" Soap drew a deep breath, then looked up at the Admiral. "The date. What day is it?"

"The 4th Day of the Month of Ice," the Admiral responded. When Soap stared blankly in response, the Admiral huffed, gesturing with one hand. "What's so hard to understand about that?"

"That month doesn't exist," Soap said.

Piero, the Admiral, and Corvo were all silent at that statement, the three of them looking between each other with mirroring looks of concern and confusion. After a few moments of silence, Corvo looked down at Soap, his brow furrowed.

"What calendar do you use?"

"Gregorian."

"That makes no sense," the Admiral grumbled. "None of this makes any damn sense."

"What was the date when you were in—in Prague?" Corvo pressed, his gaze unwavering.

"It was…" Soap took a moment to collect his thoughts. "It was October 11th, 2016."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as the date left Soap's mouth, the expressions of the three other men in the room turning from concerned to completely baffled. Piero and the Admiral exchanged glances, and then Piero turned to face Soap as well, blinking owlishly at him.

"The year," Piero said slowly, "Is 1837."

What. The. Fuck.

"…MacTavish, is it?" the Admiral began, rubbing at his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. "How on earth did you come to the conclusion that we're two hundred years into the future?"

"What I want to know is why I'm two hundred years into the past!" Soap spat out, the nausea that had settled in his gut only growing as the Admiral just shook his head and looked at Corvo, who simply shrugged in defeat. None of this made any sense; there was no place on Earth where anyone would believe they were in 1837. Soap balled his hands into fists and let them rest on his knees, staring at the floorboards once again and trying to quell the bile that threatened to rise in his throat.

What the fuck happened to me?

"I think I know what happened here," Piero's slow voice drawled, pulling Soap from his moment of turmoil. All eyes were on Piero now, and he sniffed at the sudden attention, pushing his glasses up his nose and smacking his lips. "It's outlandish and I never thought I'd ever see a real-life application of this theory, but there might be an explanation."

"He's a damn lunatic," the Admiral stated simply. "That's all there is to it."

"Listen to Piero, Admiral," Corvo said. "I…feel that it's not as simple as that."

"Right," Soap mumbled under his breath, half to himself.

Piero stood, fiddling with his glasses again and dropping the now-forgotten washcloth on the table. "This is a theory I've been toying with for a while, ever since I joined the Academy," he began, folding his hands over each other as he turned to face the Admiral. "I'm sure you're aware of the Void, the other realm that the Abbey insists is the world of—"

"The Outsider," the Admiral put in. "Yes?"

"Yes, well, it is my belief that the Void is a world parallel to ours; another plane of existence separated by a veil between realities."

"Aye, that's nice and all, but what the hell has that got to do with me?" Soap demanded. Piero pursed his lips at the interruption but said nothing, wringing his hands together a bit tighter.

"My theory is that there are other worlds parallel to ours, similar to the way that the Void mirrors us," Piero explained, "And that they, too, are separated from us by a thin veil of space and time. These veils can be easily ripped by some strong energy or celestial force, and are weaker in some parts than others—"

"Get on with it!" the Admiral urged, looking as though he was moments away from rolling his eyes. Corvo leaned against the back of the booth, casting a sideways glance towards Soap; Soap saw this and pointedly averted his gaze, instead choosing to focus on the way Piero tangled his fingers together.

"What I'm saying," Piero finished, "Is that it is possible that our…guest here must have entered a space where the veil was particularly fragile. A traumatic event occurred, the veil ripped open, and he passed from his time into ours; a rift in space-time, if you will."

"Are you sure you don't spend too much time around that whale oil?" the Admiral grumbled. "The fumes must have gotten to your head."

"I must inform you, Admiral, that this theory has been debated by many in the Academy," Piero shot back, becoming visibly irritated. "Including Sokolov himself. I assure you, I wouldn't be suggesting such a thing unless this was something that the Academy takes very, very seriously."

"So…your reasoning is that I literally fell through a breach in the space-time continuum, right?" Soap shook his head. "Are you really trying to explain all of this with string theory?"

Piero blinked, looking at Soap with wide eyes. "You know the name of the theory!"

"Of course I do, almost everybody knows about string theory." Soap waved one hand around. "Parallel universes, alternate realities, all that shite. It's just never been proven." Soap thought about the times he's debated string theory, remembering the heated arguments he had with Ghost and Price. Ghost was dead-set on the belief that it couldn't possibly be true, that the universe was so mind-bogglingly fast that there was no way that there could be a separate plane of existence. Price didn't know what to believe, and if he was honest with himself, neither did Soap. Maybe there were parallel realities, and maybe there weren't; either way, Soap was a soldier, not a scientist, and he didn't care to try to wrap his mind around things he barely understood.

The corners of Piero's lips twitched upward in a grin. "Ah," he responded, "But that's precisely why it's a theory."

"Well, however the hell he got here, he certainly isn't from the Empire," the Admiral muttered. "Are you sure it isn't possible he's just lost his mind?"

"How would that explain his arrival here?" Piero pressed.

"He could've been brought here by anyone." The Admiral gestured towards Soap. "Who's to say this isn't all an act and he was brought here to spy on us?"

"And who do you propose gave him this vest?" Corvo asked, holding up Soap's Kevlar. "His clothes? Who took the time to school him into acting like he's lost his mind rather than just come after us outright if our location was known, and why? In any case, I believe Piero may be right. The Void itself most certainly exists, and we all know it. You have said yourself that you've seen supernatural things at sea, Admiral, where the veil is known to be weak." The Admiral scowled and reluctantly nodded. "Perhaps MacTavish does come from a place beyond the veil, a place none of us are aware of."

The Admiral rubbed at his temple, pressing his lips tightly together. "I suppose you could be right," he grumbled. He then glanced at Soap. "But despite who he is or how he got here, we still have a trespasser on our hands; he's stumbled right into our base of operations, and Corvo, he's seen you." When Corvo just sighed and averted his gaze, the Admiral continued, "You, MacTavish, aren't going anywhere."

"I figured," Soap said bitterly. "You were ready to shoot me dead the moment I walked in. I've stumbled across something criminal."

Piero sniffed. "Technically, yes."

"Only technically?" Soap scoffed. "You lot are just criminals technically?"

"Yes, technically," Corvo replied, his voice carefully even and low. "Our cause is noble. We aren't…we aren't bad people, if that's what you're worried about."

"Then what are you?"

Once again, Piero, the Admiral, and Corvo all exchanged a look, the three of them apparently deciding who would be the one to explain themselves. With a heavy sigh, the Admiral shook his head.

"...May as well," he grumbled. "We are a coalition of loyalists to the late Empress, Jessamine Kaldwin," he explained. "A usurper, whom we believe to be responsible for her assassination, is now in power, and we are dedicated to bringing him down and placing the rightful heiress, Emily Kaldwin, on the throne."

"A conspiracy, then."

"Precisely," the Admiral stated, dropping his hands to his sides. "Now, you have two options. Stay with us and cooperate, or—"

"I die," Soap finished for the Admiral, his voice a low murmur. Either way, the secret would be safe; the only difference between the options was whether Soap still breathed. Soap didn't know if he could believe what was happening to him; it was more likely that this was all a coma dream and that he was holed up in a safehouse somewhere, but either way, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"I guess the choice is clear, then."

The Admiral raised a brow. "Then?"

"I'll stay." Soap raised a finger. "Just…feed me, get me a bath, and explain to me what the fuck is happening here."