Nikolai was up late that night. Staring at some photos, just thinking. The thought of Soap's death was horrible. Since he met him, he always saw something, a sort of resilience, some will to keep going. Even when the odds were stacked up against him. It was hard to find men like that these days. He knew well of that.

Then he heard a thud. Like the weight of something heavy being dropped on wood. In that moment, the Russian looked up and glared to the door's direction in the dark. By the sound of it, the noise came from the main room. Before he left, he dropped the photos into the drawer of his nightstand.

When he opened the door, he found himself assualted by the stench of blood. The distinctive stench filled his nostrils, making him feel nauseous as he kept walking towards the main room. When he got there, he found himself staring at Price, who was standing stone stiff in the center of the room.

"Price?" Nikolai stepped forward, putting a hand on his shoulder, as if to assure himself of the man's presense. But the man didn't respond. "Price?" Then he looked to where he was staring.

On the table was a shadowy figure laying limply in a pool of crimson. But as soon as Nikolai blinked his eyes, the image was gone, as if it never were there to begin with.

"Price?" He then looked back to him, seeing the glassy look in his eyes. "Can you hear me?"

He nodded, slowly, then he met his eyes. Confusion, grief, depression, and not any reconistion in the slightest filled the depths of the gray-blue irises.

"Makarov..."

The faint whisper behind them made the hairs on Nikolai's neck stand on end as a chill rushed through him, they spun around to see a figure coming towards them, sort of limping.

"knows..."

With a quick glance to Price, it confirmed his suspitions that he was frozen to his spot as he was. He wasn't the only one who saw the phantom.

"Yuri..."

That's when the figure cumpled in on itself, like a person falling forward, and vanished. Neither Price or Nikolai moved a muscle as the reak of blood was gone like a heavy wind blew it out. They couldn't believe what had just happened. The figure was too painfully familiar. He knew the figure was Soap.

"You saw that too?"

Nikolai looked to Price, who stared unfocused at where the phantom vanished. He nodded. "Dah, how could I not?"

"And I thought I was crazy..." Price grumbled. "We'd best try and get some rest while we can."

"I suppose." Nikolai sighed. "That is, if I can get any..."


"Open your eyes... you're fine..."

"No. Let him rest. He might be in shock from it all."

"If he doesn't learn now, then it might be more of a shock to him later."

"... Sometimes I wonder about you, Ghost..."

"And you too, yah bugger."

Soap groaned, a headache pounding his skull, why was it he felt like he'd been asleep for at least a decade? Not that he'd ever know what that felt like, I assure you. His limbs stiff, and side throbbing. What happened to him anyways?

Wait! Back up here! He thought after a moment. That guy called the other Ghost! And the latter called the former bugger! He only knew two people like that. They were dead! He knew that! They were dead for more than 2 months! There was no way of denying that. So why, in bloody hell, did he hear those familiar voices and their names?

He pulled himself to a sit, a hand on his forehead to ease the pulsing headache, and blinked until he could filler out the obsenely bright light. And, once his eyes ajusted, he found himself staring at the easily reconizable mask of his second in command and the goggles clad sergeant. He was still on that table. He sat there in his own blood, and, oddly enough, his own body. As if he weren't even in it anymore.

"Told you he'd be fine, Roach." Ghost said smuggly.

Roach sent him an accusing glare for a moment, silly to see the two bicker on the occassion. It was one thing he kind of missed when they died. "Well, Captain? How're you feeling?"

"Yeah, consitering the last person we found who bled out couldn't stand on his feet for a week." Ghost noted. "If you can't stand up or anything, then it's fine."

Shaking his head, Soap sighed. "No. I'll be fine... The faster I get moving the better..." But the moment he decided he would push off the table he stumbled forward, Ghost managed to catch him before he hit the floor.

"Just sit down. Wait until we can fix you up." Roach told him calmly, helping Ghost sit him in a chair, away from his body. Soap caught just enough of a look to see he had died with his eyes closed, or maybe Price closed them, and looked as though he were asleep. But he knew the deathly pale skin was unnatural for him, he could tell he was dead...

As Ghost kneeled to inspect the wound that reopened and killed him, Soap spotted a pair of large white wings that had sprouted from his back, glistening in the sunlight streaming through the window. Roach it seemed, had a similar pair. But when he craned his neck to see if he as well had them, he didn't see the white feathery plumage of the birdlike appendages.

"So you're angels." Soap concluded aloud.

Ghost looked up a second and shrugged. "You could put it that way."

"More like winged collectors of the dead..." Roach grumbled. "We have to go around and bring people up and everything."

"It's not as bad as it could have been. We could be some of those unlucky bastards." The skull adorn man pointed out. "They either end up in hell or limbo."

Roach peaked behind Soap, seeing the absense of wings. "And I guess you're still up for decision. They haven't figured out if you're with us or them."

"Them?" Soap casted a confused look. He didn't know all this crap they were talking about.

"Them..." Ghost replied, not meeting his eyes. "Those demon spawn. Or any of the lost. We're lucky we found you first. It gives you a chance, at least."

"If we didn't," Roach continued, casting a glance out the window. "Then you might be another lost, or worse, another one of those disfigured hell spawn they call remotely human."

Soap took the moment to let this sink in. What had he just gotten himself, unintentionally, into?