Makarov's lungs were on fire as he hauled himself from the wreckage of the downed helicopter, coughing violently as smoke filled his lungs, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue. The glass of the skylight, cracked from the impact, groaned under the weight of the helicopter; weakened, the glass threatened to shatter and send Makarov plummeting nearly thirty stories to his death.

No. Makarov would not die tonight. He'd narrowly escaped death far too many times this evening alone to have his life taken by glass that refused to support his weight, refused to support the weight of the downed helicopter that had been so close to being his escape—

Price had come for him. In the dead of night, with only Yuri—the traitor, Yuri—to aid him in his endeavor, Price had come, intending to kill Makarov at the Hotel Oasis, the last place that the international terrorist and leader of the radical wing of the Ultranationalist Party could hide. Makarov should've known that Price would find him here, should've been more prepared—and yet, after watching everything that he'd built up around him crumble at Price's hands, after being forced to flee his home country once the freed Russian President Vorshevsky put a price on his head, where else did Makarov have to run? Who else did he have to rely on other than himself?

Makarov staggered to his feet, drawing in a rasping breath and sent sharp pains like knives through his lungs. He coughed, throat burning—the smoke was smothering him, he had to leave, leave—

Makarov stumbled away from the flaming wreckage, clasping a hand over his chest as another jolt of white-hot pain shot through his lungs, spreading through his entire body. His vision blurred, then swam into focus, his eyes finding and locking onto a moving form—a body that momentarily froze when it realized it was in his presence. No, not it. Him. The form was lying upon the glass, his arms supporting his weight as he lifted his torso, met Makarov's gaze—

Another jolt passed through Makarov's body, borne not of pain, but of rage. Hatred. Him.

Price began to crawl towards Makarov, a groan escaping his lips as he forced his body into cooperation, dragging himself across the cracked skylight. No, he wasn't moving towards Makarov, but towards a gun, lying atop the glass. It was Makarov's—how it got there, he didn't know.

Makarov was moving before he realized it, staggering across the skylight as quickly as his uncooperative legs could take him, fueled by a cold sense of hatred. Price had taken everything from him. Price had tracked him down, followed his every movement. Price had killed Waraabe. Given the Americans Volk. Brought down the diamond mine, freed the President and his daughter when Makarov had been so close, so close, to getting the launch codes and finally turning the United States and Europe into a smoldering crater like Zakhaev should've done five years ago—

Price and his allies had taken Zakhaev. Even Zakhaev.

Makarov was brought to his knees by a coughing fit, blood tinting red the saliva that flew from his lips. With a shaky gasp for air, Makarov hauled himself back to his feet, stumbling forward. Price would not get to the gun first. He would not. Makarov wouldn't let him.

Kill him. Kill him. The words echoed in Makarov's mind as blood thundered in his ears. Price reached for the Desert Eagle. So close, he was so close. Kill him. With a snarl, Makarov slammed his foot down on Price's hand as hard as he could, too consumed by fury to relish his cry of pain. Kill him. Makarov reached down. Picked up the gun, heavy in his hand. Pointed it at Price.

Kill him.

Price glared up at him, his blue eyes reflecting the hatred that Makarov could feel with every fiber of his being. Makarov felt his lip curl back in a vicious sneer as he forced his trembling hand to still itself. His finger hovered over the trigger. He heard a voice speak, rasping and filled with bitter hatred, and realized it was his own.

"Goodbye, Captain Price."

A shot rang out in the night, and Makarov screamed as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending him to his knees. Another bullet sang just past Makarov's head, grazing the tip of his nose. A third barely missed his upper back. Snarling wordlessly, Makarov twisted around to see a staggering form approach him and Price, wildly firing shots from a pistol in hopes of hitting Makarov. Yuri. The traitor.

Makarov aimed the Desert Eagle at Yuri without thinking and pulled the trigger. The bullet went through Yuri's right shoulder. The traitor stumbled back, grimacing, but didn't fall. The second bullet went through his left shoulder. He staggered. Still, he didn't fall. Makarov brought himself to his feet, his eyes locked on Yuri's.

He pulled the trigger.

This time, Yuri's head snapped back as the bullet passed through his forehead, and he fell back, crumpling lifelessly to the glass. A bitter sort of satisfaction filled Makarov at watching the traitor finally die like he should've at Zakhaev International. Makarov breathed in as deeply as his burning lungs would allow. Yuri was dead. Finally, Yuri was dead. And now, it was time for Price to die.

There was a cry. A flash of movement, boots scraping against glass. Makarov turned in time to see a fist flying for his face, connecting with his jaw as Price tackled him to the ground. Makarov hit the glass hard, gasping as the air was pushed from his lungs, the cracking of glass filling his ears. Another blow caught him in the cheek. A third in the eye. Makarov was stunned, blinded by pain as he gasped for air—

Something cold and rough was wrapped tightly around his throat, cutting off his breathing. Cable. The cable was joined by Price's hands, wrapping around his throat and strangling him. Price slammed him repeatedly against the cracked skylight, the sounds of cracking glass getting louder and louder. Makarov kicked and struggled as he let out choked, hoarse cries, clawing at Price's fingers with gloved hands, trying to find purchase, to free himself. His vision was a blur of bright orange fire and black night sky and of Price's face, his expression contorted into a bloody rictus of hate as he strangled the life from Makarov.

Price's hands left Makarov's throat. Grasped his shoulders. He hauled Makarov almost upright and in a startling moment of clarity their gazes met, Price's blue eyes gleaming in the light of the fire. Makarov's eyes widened, his hands flying up to grasp Price's wrists. Price's lip curled back into a snarl, leaning forward and speaking into Makarov's face close enough for their noses to touch, voice hoarse with physical pain and an emotion too raw for Makarov to recognize.

"This is for Soap."

With all his might, Price slammed Makarov back against the glass. It shattered, and they fell.

Three days had passed since the assassination of High Overseer Campbell and the freeing of Overseer Martin, who was thankfully recovering quickly from whatever he'd endured during his brief capture. With the Black Book now in their possession, the Loyalists quickly went to work at deciphering its contents, working tirelessly through the day and late into the night, barely leaving Havelock's quarters. They hoped to uncover information about the Lord Regent's plans, along with the location of the young Lady Emily; although the journal was written in code, the code was quickly broken with Martin's expertise, and the Loyalists were able to concentrate all their efforts on translation alone.

While the Loyalists worked, Soap and Corvo waited. Soap had a sneaking suspicion that he would be sent to help Corvo recover Emily once her location was discovered; the young child—only ten years old, according to Corvo—was crucial to the Loyalist's plan to overthrow the Lord Regent and restore the throne. She was the only direct heir to the throne, and without her, the conspiracy would have no legitimacy, would get nowhere. The child was also important to Corvo personally; he'd protected her all her life, from the moment she was born. One evening, late into the night, Corvo had admitted that he wasn't able to rest easy since her kidnapping, and he wouldn't be able to until Emily was near and safe.

While the Loyalists deciphered the Black Book, Soap decided it was time to finally crack open his own journal. He owned a small dark brown leather-bound, its pages yellowed with age and stained with years of wear and tear—and blood from all the times Soap was injured on the field. He didn't have time to write much, nor did he tend to write a lot to begin with—perhaps this was why it lasted him over five years—but the little book was important to him nonetheless. It contained memories, good and bad, from his first meeting with Price to the bitter betrayal at the hands of General Shepherd. In its pages were drawings, images of friends and memories sketched in black ink, of fighting men, of Price and his old ridiculous moustache. There was one particular doodle that made Soap snicker when he thought about it; a knife stuck in a watermelon, inspired by his old friend once making a remark about Soap's "fruit killing skills."

Soap hadn't opened his journal since his arrival to the Hound Pits, too consumed in observing the world around him to think about writing, and part of him feared what his journal would look like after what had happened at Prague. The last two times he'd nearly died, the journal narrowly escaped being completely ruined by the blood; Soap wasn't sure if his journal was able to take another near-death experience, and he wasn't looking forward to seeing which of his drawings was destroyed this time around.

Not that it mattered in the end, for when he finally decided to look for his journal, it was gone.

"Oh, bollocks!" Soap cried out, sitting on his mattress in the attic, blanket folder neatly on the floor beside him. Corvo looked up from a tin of whale meat, one brow raised, as Soap fervently searched the pockets of his coat one more time, trying to make sure his worst nightmare wasn't happening.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"You say that like you haven't uttered a single swear in your God damn life," Soap retorted through gritted teeth. Corvo simply chuckled and slid down from his spot on the bed, sitting cross-legged before Soap.

"What distresses you?" Corvo asked. Soap, giving up on his search, dropped his coat on his lap with a heavy sigh.

"My journal," Soap grumbled. "It's missing. I must've lost it in Prague."

Corvo blinked. "You keep a journal?"

"Mhm," Soap admitted, glancing forlornly down at his coat. "Between fighting and training and all the shite the world throws at me, it keeps me sane."

"Interesting. I'd have never taken you for a writer."

Soap scoffed. "The stupid thing's been with me for five years. Damn, I can't believe it's gone—"

"It's important to you."

"More than I can describe." Soap tried to imagine how he'd lost the damn thing. Perhaps it had fallen out of his pocket after his fall from the church tower; this seemed the most likely scenario. Maybe it had fallen when Price and Yuri dragged him halfway across the city, scrambling for the safehouse while fleeing Makarov's forces. He'd have noticed if it had fallen out of his pocket while he was in Dunwall. Not that it mattered. Either way, it was gone, lost in the chaos, and Soap doubted that he would ever see it again.

Corvo paused a moment; when Soap glanced up, he saw that Corvo looked thoughtful, as if considering his response. "Perhaps," he said after a while, "you would like a new one?"

Soap huffed. "Right, as if I can waltz into the nearest market and buy one. What's the point—it's gone and I probably won't see it ever again, so there's no point in dwelling or wishing." The words felt forced, bitter on his tongue; he wanted that journal back and he knew that it would haunt him for a while yet, and judging by the look on his face, Corvo knew it, too. With a defeated sigh, Soap picked up his coat and stood, sliding into the garment. "I'm going out for a smoke," he stated in an attempt to change the subject. Corvo watched from the mattress on the floor, head tilted curiously to one side. "Wanna come?"

Corvo shook his head, waving his hand dismissively. "You go ahead," he replied, much to Soap's surprise; he rarely ever turned down a good smoke. "I'll go see if the others have made any more progress with the Black Book."

Corvo was still absent from the attic when Soap returned from the roof. He shrugged out of his coat, dropping it without ceremony on his mattress. Assuming Corvo was still talking to the others, Soap exited the attic and made his way downstairs, deciding to sniff out something to eat before he figured out how he wanted to pass the time. Maybe he'd visit Piero for a little while; he wondered just what the bespectacled engineer was up to. It would distract him from the distress of losing his journal, anyway. At least for a while.

Soap entered the taproom just in time to bump into one of the servants, who jumped and gasped at the sudden contact; it was the flighty redheaded girl, Cecelia, her doe-brown eyes widening as she looked up at Soap. He was much taller than she was, the servant only coming up to his shoulders, and this was the closest the two of them had ever been to each other.

"'Scuse me," Soap mumbled, dipping his head at the young servant. Cecelia quickly averted her gaze, casting her eyes downward.

"Pardon me," she replied softly. "I was just going upstairs to make sure your quarters were clean—"

Soap raised a brow. "I was just up there," he stated, gesturing towards the stairs. "It's just a little dusty, there's no need to—"

"Master Corvo asked me to make sure everything is clean, sir," Cecelia said hurriedly, rushing off before Soap could say another word. Frowning, Soap watched her go before turning and facing the taproom once again. He spied Corvo standing by the bar, arms crossed and looking very pleased with himself. The look vanished as soon as he and Soap locked eyes, but the glint in his eye never left.

Soap jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction that Cecelia had gone. "What was that about?" he asked, his confused frown deepening when Corvo simply turned away. "Our quarters are fine—"

"Are you hungry, Soap?" Corvo interrupted, striding behind the bar and opening one of the cabinets. Soap crossed his arms, watching as Corvo sifted through the contents of the cabinet. "I can have Wallace fry some of this whale meat for you if you want something hot."

"I'll pass on the whale meat, thanks."

"Brined hagfish?"

"Corvo, what was that about?"

A grin flashed across Corvo's lips before he schooled his features into careful neutrality once again. "Brined hagfish?" he repeated, not looking up from the cabinet.

Soap stared at Corvo for a few moments, then sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. "Hagfish is fine," he mumbled, giving up. Corvo pulled a tin from the cabinet and tossed it to Soap, who caught it one-handed and pried back the tab on the seal just enough for him to inspect the tin's contents. The fish looked fine, and Soap pulled back the tab a little further before picking at the fish with his fingers; now that he was eating it more often, the taste of hagfish reminded him a bit of tuna, and even though it was over salted, it was otherwise fine. Soap noticed that the others in the pub tended to eat it on bread as a sort of open-faced sandwich, the chunks of fish dripping with sauce; however, Soap found that he preferred it plain, simply sticking a few pieces in his mouth as he turned on his heel and headed for the courtyard-facing door.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Piero." Soap pushed the door open and left without another word, leaving Corvo behind at the bar.

The bright afternoon sun, framed by wispy clouds that drifted lazily across the sky, offered little warmth as a light breeze carrying the smell of the river and the chill of the coming winter swept through the courtyard, sending a shiver racing up Soap's spine. Yes, winter was here. It was still far too early for snow, much to Soap's relief; he wasn't particularly fond of the stuff. It was cold and wet and always found a way into his boots, melting in his socks and freezing his toes—

It was October when Soap was in Prague. October 11, almost late autumn, cool enough for heavier jackets but still too warm for winter coats. Price's favorite time of the year; he enjoyed the brisk weather and the cold breezes, enjoyed the frost that glistened in the grass and the clouds his breath created in the earliest hours of the morning when he stepped out for a cigar before breakfast.

Soap wondered how he was, if he'd managed to escape Prague in one piece. What happened at Prague had happened eight days ago—yes, today was Soap's eighth day in Dunwall, his eighth day after passing out on that table in the safehouse. Soap still wasn't quite sure if everything in Dunwall was a dream or some projection of his mind, induced by a coma he'd slipped into. Everything felt so vivid, so real, from the stones that the city was built from to the Void-fueled powers that Corvo used that Soap still wasn't sure he fully understood. Had Soap in his entirety really fallen through some rift in space-time? Back home, did Soap go missing after slipping into unconsciousness? Did he disappear right before Price's eyes, or did Price abandon him, leaving him to his fate—whatever it was. Did Price even know what was happening?

Did anyone really know what was happening?

Soap stuffed a few chunks of hagfish into his mouth, chewing violently as if trying to annoy his thoughts into silence. There was no point in dwelling on the possibilities, on the hows and whys and what-ifs; Soap was here now, and now being what mattered. Pushing his thoughts of Prague out of his head, Soap walked up to the workshop and stepped inside unannounced. Piero wasn't anywhere to be seen on the ground floor; assuming he was upstairs, Soap took the steps up to Piero's quarters, the metal stairs groaning under his boots.

"Piero?" Soap called out. "Are you there, mate?"

There was a surprised cry, followed by a crash as something fell to the floor. Soap winced, quickly climbing the rest of the stairs and entering Piero's quarters. The engineer was kneeling on the floor beside his desk, picking up pieces of...something Soap couldn't identify. Most likely some project that Piero was busying himself with.

"Ah, shite, sorry for startling you." Soap placed his can of hagfish atop of pile of books on Piero's trunk and hastily wiped the sauce on his pants before rushing to the engineer's aid, plucking the pieces of the mystery object that Piero had missed off the ground. Piero didn't look up, sniffing as he gathered the pieces in his hands.

"It's fine, Mr. MacTavish, accidents happen." Piero stood dumped the pieces of the mystery object on his desk. Soap did the same, placing the pieces he'd gathered beside Piero's pile and stepping back, giving him some space. The engineer slid into his seat, grumbling to himself as he searched the array of tools sitting on the desk.

"What're you making? Soap asked, grabbing his tin of brined hagfish off the trunk and taking a seat on Piero's bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. Piero didn't look up, finding the tool he was looking for and beginning the process of putting his little project back together.

"I am not quite ready to talk about that yet, this just a small part of something much bigger," Piero replied in his usual slow way of speaking, pausing to push his glasses up his nose. Soap raised a brow, popping another chunk of hagfish into his mouth.

"Yeah?" Soap mumbled around his mouthful of fish, chewing quietly as he watched Piero work. He was curious as to what Piero was making, but since he'd made it clear that he wasn't ready to reveal his project quite yet, Soap wasn't going to push it. "Want me to leave you to it, then?"

"No, no, I appreciate the company—nobody visits me." Piero glanced up and peered at Soap through his thick, round glasses. "I hear you and Corvo went into the Abbey and spanked the High Overseer in his own home; well done."

Soap let out a barking laugh, covering his mouth before he could spew out bits of half-chewed fish. "Aye, we 'spanked' him, alright," he replied once he regained his composure, unable to wipe the smile from his lips at Piero's choice of words. Remembering himself, Soap hastily added, "Well, Corvo did; I just made sure Martin got out of there in one piece." Although he trusted Piero not to blab to the Admiral, Soap still didn't want to take any chances at Havelock finding out that Martin had escorted himself to safety. It may be too late for a drastic reaction, but Soap didn't want to run the risk of upsetting the Admiral anyway; he did, in fact, defy orders.

Unless Martin himself had already shared that information; in which case, Soap thanked God that Havelock hadn't ripped him a new one. Yet.

Piero sniffed and went back to his work. "Indeed," he mumbled, leaning in closer to his project and pausing a moment to push his glasses further up his nose. "I would suspect that your place among the Loyalists is secure now; you've proven yourself useful to the cause and Havelock and Martin at least must consider you a permanent and valuable ally to the conspiracy."

Soap frowned, pondering this information. If Piero was right—and it was likely that he was—then Soap could consider himself safe in the Hound Pits Pub, or at least as safe as any of the other residents would be. Perhaps not as valuable as Corvo, but valued nonetheless. While he was still at the mercy of his hosts, Soap figured he didn't have to worry as much about getting thrown into the streets—or getting shot between the eyes, considering the circumstances.

And yet, at the same time, Soap didn't consider himself a permanent member of the conspiracy. Soap had his own life to go back to, his own world filled with its own problems. There was a war he needed to put an end to. Makarov was still out there, somewhere, and Soap needed to be there to put him down once and for all. His world still needed him—Price still needed him, his family still needed him—and it was a bad idea to get too attached to what was going on here, in this world that he still wasn't sure was real. Soap was already deeply involved as it was, perhaps too deeply.

Briefly, Soap's thoughts turned to Corvo. Out of all the people he'd met so far, it was easy to say that Corvo was the one Soap was the most attached to. He wasn't sure if Corvo thought of him as a friend—he wasn't even sure if he thought of Corvo as a friend—but he was good company, if a bit distant. A bit odd. And it was undeniable that Soap owed Corvo his life; if Corvo hadn't been there to stop the Admiral, Soap would've gotten shot the moment he'd set foot in the Hound Pits. And from what Soap noticed, Corvo wasn't exactly friendly with any of the other residents of the Hound Pits.

Could Soap abandon him? Could Soap just up and leave one day, leaving Corvo alone with the conspiracy again?

Soap sighed. Part of him didn't want to, wanting to see this through to the end, but another part of him would take any chance at leaving without hesitation. Despite whether the Loyalists trusted him, despite any feelings Soap and Corvo might've had for each other beyond business, Soap had his own cause to fight for, his own duty to fulfill. This fight wasn't his. John MacTavish had no place in Dunwall.

"Do you and Corvo have another mission planned yet?" Piero asked, distracting Soap from his thoughts. The engineer scowled down at his work, shifting a few pieces around before going smooth-faced again, satisfied. "I suspect that the next step will be to find Lady Emily?"

"We're working on it," Soap answered. "Admiral Havelock and the others are going through Campbell's journal. They think they might be able to work out her location from there." Soap held out his tin at Piero, who looked up at the movement in his peripheral vision. "Want some?"

Piero peered over at the contents of the tin, then wrinkled his nose. "I hate hagfish."

"Noted." Soap popped the last few pieces of hagfish in his mouth and, lacking a napkin, licked his fingers clean as he set aside the empty tin. There was still plenty of sauce, but the thought of tipping the tin back and slurping up the last of the sauce like Corvo would made Soap's stomach churn. "Anyway, they've already broken the code, so it's only a matter of time until they find her location and send us to fetch her."

Piero hummed in acknowledgement, too absorbed in his work to make a coherent reply. Soap fell into silence, glancing out the window in front of Piero's desk. He didn't know how Piero could just leave the window wide open as it was; the cold breeze swept right in, chilling the room enough for Piero to need his jacket, which was stained with grease and worn at the elbows. Maybe Piero liked the cold. Maybe he was like Price, in that sense.

"You know, Mr. MacTavish, I've been meaning to talk to you," Piero said, Soap turning his head to look at him. Piero's eyes remained glued to his work.

"About?"

"Well, I never got much of a chance to learn about you. As a natural philosopher, the circumstances of your...arrival are very interesting to me." Piero briefly glanced up, peering at Soap through his round glasses. It reminded him of an owl.

"Trust me, I wouldn't have any answers for you," Soap replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Piero shrugged and looked back down at his work.

"Part of me still suggests that it's possible that you could be suffering some kind of delusion that causes you to believe you're from some place that doesn't exist, but the evidence presented to us says otherwise," Piero explained unprompted, fiddling some more with his little project. "The technology you bring simply doesn't exist elsewhere in the Isles; that 'radio' you allowed me to take apart, for example, and your pistol—a curious thing, that is. I never would've thought such firepower without whale oil was possible, and in such a small weapon."

"Mhm." Soap started to pick at his nails, listening to Piero drone on.

"There must be so much more that you haven't brought with you, other technologies that even I nor Anton Sokolov could even dream of. And the fact that you're even here is a curiosity in itself; the subject of parallel worlds and realms has been discussed but I never would have thought someone from one of those realms would wind up here." Piero sniffed. "It must have taken some great force to shatter the veil between your world and ours."

"I have no idea what could've even caused that," Soap put in, not looking up from picking at his nails. "I was in the middle of a warzone when it happened." He winced when he pulled too far on a hangnail. "Shit," he whispered, "that hurts."

"Precisely!" Piero cried out, startling Soap as he suddenly swung around in his seat, the engineer now facing him. "We have no idea what could've caused this!" Waving around the tool in his hand, Piero continued, "Imagine what could happen if we found out! Not only has the theory of parallel worlds been proven, but imagine what we could do with that information! Humankind not only discovering the fabric of space-time, but figuring out how to alter it!" There was a bright look in Piero's widened eyes, a smile spreading across his face. "Imagine the advancements that would bring! The discovery of the century, no, the discovery of the millennium!"

"I was bleeding out and dying before it happened, and I was unconscious when it happened, Piero," Soap pointed out, picking his nails again. "And I was the only one present when it happened, whatever it was. I hate to burst your bubble but whatever you're imagining isn't going to happen in our lifetime."

Piero fell silent, the information turning over in his head. He then scowled, turning back to his work with a sigh. "You're right, I'm afraid," he mumbled. Part of Soap felt bad for crushing whatever it was Piero was imagining, but it wasn't like he was lying. "Still, the mere fact that you're here is a huge leap forward in natural philosophy. Before we only thought that parallel worlds existed, but now," Piero said with a grin, "now we know."

"...You're right," Soap admitted, "I know that you're right. But part of me still thinks that this is all a dream and I'm just in a coma back home."

"I suppose I don't blame you. You said you were 'bleeding out and dying,' as you so gracefully put it, and fell unconscious shortly after. I would have the same thoughts too, in your position. After all," Piero said matter-of-factly, "all of this must be overwhelming for a common mind to even begin to comprehend." He paused, then looked up at Soap, grinning sheepishly. "No offense intended."

"...None taken."

There was a pause as neither man knew what to say, Piero muttering to himself as he became fully absorbed in his work again. Soap glanced out the window, thinking over what they'd just discussed.

"Piero?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think I could ever go back?"

Piero paused his work, frowning as he considered his answer. "Without knowing what brought you here? Unlikely," he replied after a while, the corners of Soap's lips twitching downward even though he wasn't really surprised. "We would have to find the breach in the fabric of space-time that brought you here and figure out a way to send you back, and we simply don't have the technology to do so."

"A machine didn't bring me here," Soap pointed out. Piero pursed his lips.

"I'm well aware. Theoretically, the only way to send you back without such technology is to find the breach and, while there, put your body under the same stress. Theoretically. That would be much too dangerous to attempt, and it may not even work." Piero hesitated. "You could just wind up dead, and I doubt the Admiral would allow us to attempt something so reckless."

"I don't care," Soap found himself saying. When Piero raised a brow at him, Soap added, "Oh, fine, I do care, but if I could survive almost dying three times now, I can do it again if it means I could go back home."

"Even if it might kill you?" Piero asked.

"Even if it might kill me." When Piero just stared, Soap continued; "I almost died getting here, and this isn't even my world. This conspiracy isn't even my fight. My fight is on a completely separate plane of existence, and if it takes me nearly dying to go back to it, to do my job, then I can risk it."

There was a brief moment of silence as Piero looked down at his work, quietly continuing to fiddle with it as he considered a response. Then the engineer paused, still peering down at his project, his hands resting on either side of it.

"What is it that you want to fight so badly for?"

Soap blinked. "What?"

"What is it that you want to fight so badly for, Mr. MacTavish?" Piero looked up from his contraption, staring straight at Soap. "What's so important that you're willing to abandon what's going on here and now in order to go back?"

"The world," Soap bit out. "Quite literally the entire damn world."

"A world that you no longer reside in," Piero pointed out. Soap felt heat crawl up the back of his neck, his jaw tightening. "Those problems don't affect you anymore. You're no longer involved. What you're involved in now is the conspiracy, our world's problems. You've become a member of this conspiracy, and despite your attachments to your own world, this world is your world now." Either not noticing or not caring about the way Soap's hands involuntarily curled into fists, Piero pushed up his glasses and continued, "As long as you're here, the plague is your problem. As long as you're here, the missing heir to the throne is your problem. As long as you're here, the Lord Regent is your problem."

Soap stared at Piero, baffled and feeling anger crawl up his spine, too stunned to think of a response.

"You're wrong," were the first words that came out of Soap's mouth after a long while. Piero raised his brows.

"I am?"

"None of this is my problem. Your fucked up government? This plague? None of this is my problem. I never asked to come here and deal with it." Soap sat up straight, fists resting on his thighs, ignoring the way Piero blinked at his profanity. "None of this has anything to do with me," he continued, gesturing vaguely towards the open window. "I never asked to be a part of this, I just stumbled here, and I don't have a choice but to take part in it."

"None of us do, Mr. MacTavish."

"At least this is your world that you're fighting for!" Soap snapped, leaping to his feet, Piero jumping at the way his boots slammed against the metal floor. "Look at me, Piero! I don't belong here! Not in the Hound Pits, not with your conspiracy, not in Dunwall, not in this entire fucking world!" He gestured wildly again, towards nothing in particular. "I'm needed at home, Piero. There's a world war that's the result of a shitstorm that's been brewing for five fucking years and I've been involved since the beginning, and I need to be there to help end it!" Soap stepped forward, slapping his open palm on his own chest. "I have my own people to fight for. Family and friends and people I don't even know but are dying every day because some maniac decided to turn everything upside-down. I have people who fucking need me, Piero! Imagine if Corvo suddenly vanished without a trace? Where the fuck would the conspiracy be then?!" Soap pointed out the window again, at the cold blue sky. "That's the position my allies are in. 'Where the fuck is Soap?' Well?!" Soap threw both of his hands up. "Where the fuck am I, Piero?! Certainly not where I fucking belong!"

There was a long stretch of silence as neither man spoke, Piero stunned into silence, Soap crossing his arms tightly over his chest and sighing, exhaling sharply through his nose. This world had its own problems, and they weren't Soap's. He didn't know if he could find a way back or even if a way back was possible to begin with, but damn it, that didn't change the fact that he was needed somewhere other than Dunwall. He didn't understand how Piero could be so...so...

"I need another smoke," Soap grumbled, turning and snatching his empty tin of hagfish off Piero's trunk. "I'll be on the roof."

"Mr. MacTavish, wait—"

Soap stopped, looking over his shoulder at Piero. The engineer closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, taking off his glasses and rubbing them clean on his shirt. He perched his glasses back on his nose and opened his eyes, looking at Soap once again, regretfully. He looked almost sad.

"I'm sorry," Piero murmured.

Soap ground his teeth together. "...Yeah, well, me too."

"What I said was...insensitive. Please forgive me."

Soap hesitated, staring into Piero's eyes. The engineer, uncomfortable, averted his gaze, and Soap sighed and looked away. "Yeah, no. It's cool, Piero. I jus' need to blow off some steam." He paused, then added, "Sorry for shouting at you like that."

"No, no, you have every right to be frustrated, Mr. MacTavish." A pause. "I have a lot of...delicate parts to work with, Mr. MacTavish. I will need some peace, if you don't mind."

Soap took this as Piero's way of dismissing him. With a nod, Soap silently departed, heading swiftly down the stairs and leaving Piero alone with his work. Sighing, Soap exited the workshop and entered the Hound Pits, striding briskly into the taproom. He walked up to the counter, tossed the empty tin of hagfish upon it without bothering to look for a wastebin, then turned on his heel, marching for the stairs.

I shouldn't have lost my temper. Soap had every right to be angry; he knew it and Piero knew it. If he didn't, he wouldn't have apologized. Still, a sense of guilt burned at the back of his mind. Piero may have been insensitive—

No, that was beyond insensitive.

Soap scowled.

...But he couldn't have known all of that.

Sighing again, Soap reached up and rubbed at his temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache.

First my journal, and now Piero. Lovely day.

A slender form, clad in dark brown, was coming down the stairs and paused momentarily when she saw Soap coming up. Callista Curnow, Soap immediately recognized; the soon-to-be governess to Lady Emily, as planned by Havelock, and the niece of Captain Curnow, according to Corvo. She seemed a nice enough lady, although she and Soap never really talked beyond simple introductions. Now, she smiled politely at Soap, dipping her head as he drew closer. Soap returned the nod in an effort to be polite.

"Good afternoon, Mr. MacTavish," she greeted, her polite smile widening by just a small amount. She slowed and stepped to the side, expecting Soap to stop beside her.

"Good afternoon," Soap mumbled in response, keeping his gaze low as he passed Callista without slowing. She tilted her head, both brows raising curiously as she watched Soap continue up the steps.

"You seem troubled. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Soap grumbled, tossing a glance and a slight nod over his shoulder in Callista's direction. "Just need a smoke, is all." He walked on without another word, leaving Callista at the bottom of the steps; it felt rude to just leave her hanging like that, but damn it, Soap wasn't in a talking mood.

I need a bloody cigarette.

The attic door was open just a crack; Soap pushed it open all the way, scowling at the way the hinges creaked loudly, begging for a good oiling. He stepped into the foyer and kicked the door closed behind him before striding into his and Corvo's shared quarters. His cigarettes and his Zippo were in his coat; all he had to do was grab it and head out to the roof—

Soap didn't notice Corvo until he moved, rising from his spot at the edge of the bed and stepping silently in front of Soap. Startled, he came to a sudden halt, staring up at Corvo with one brow raised. Corvo peered down at him in return, dark brown eyes unreadable. He'd obviously been waiting for a while.

"Corvo, what—"

Without a word, Corvo pushed a small object into Soap's chest, who let out a soft oof at the sudden contact. Quickly gathering the object in his hands, Soap looked down at it, not quite sure if he had the patience now to deal with whatever Corvo was up to—

My journal. No, not Soap's journal. It was very similar, however, small and thin enough to be stored in his coat, bound in dark brown leather. It was somewhat new, its cover free of stains and the binding not yet worn from use. The edges were a bit worn, however, as if it had been once owned but never really used. Upon the journal was a pen, clipped to its cover; it was a fountain pen, and looked fairly expensive, bearing a single golden initial engraved onto its side—a "P."

"This is for you," Corvo stated, stepping back a pace as Soap continued to stare at the journal in his hands, running his fingers along the cover and tracing the outline of the pen. Corvo shifted his weight from foot to foot, clasping his hands behind his back. "It was Cecelia's," he explained, watching as Soap unclipped the pen from the cover of the journal and started thumbing through its pages. All of them were clean. Soap's brows knitted together and he drew a deep breath. "She had intended to keep a journal, but never found the time. She was going to find a way to sell it, but she agreed to give it to you, seeing as you might put it to better use." Corvo paused. "Your journal kept you sane in your world, yes? Maybe this new one will keep you sane here."

An overwhelming sense of gratitude washed over Soap, and he tore his eyes from the journal long enough to gaze wide-eyed at Corvo, whose lips were curved in a soft smile, deep brown eyes gleaming. "I don't know what to say."

"Just say you'll speak well of me in there," Corvo replied, nodding at the journal. "Whatever might happen in the coming days, I would like you to think of me as a..." Corvo trailed off, frowning at the floor.

"A friend?"

Corvo lifted his gaze, the slight smile returning. "Yes. A friend." Corvo tilted his head, peering at the journal in Soap's hands. "I expect you to be with us for quite some time, and I would like to enjoy your company as a companion while you're here."

Soap grinned. "You say that like I'm not a charming bastard," he responded, earning a snicker from Corvo. Soap looked back down at the journal in his hands. So, this was a friendship offering, a way to ensure that he and Corvo would be in good graces for the duration of the conspiracy. Soap wasn't sure of exactly how long he'd be sticking around; any day now the rift that brought him here could bring him back home, or he could wake up in some safehouse, but for the moment Soap pushed those thoughts aside. Corvo had gone out of his way to replace Soap's journal, and that was a gesture that resonated deep in him. Corvo wanted Soap's friendship, enough to put actual effort into building it, and that was something Soap couldn't help but admire.

"Thank you, Corvo," he murmured after a moment, looking up at Corvo once more. "This...means a lot. Really."

"Ah, it's the least I could do," Corvo replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I could've snuck out and raided some poor fool's house for a better gift, but that would've taken far too much time."

"Oi, don't depreciate the gift, mate. Besides—" Soap held up the fountain pen, one brow raised. "—This beauty is expensive enough. Where in the bloody hell did you even find this?"

Corvo smirked. "Lord Pendleton trusts us enough to leave the door to his quarters unlocked while he works with Havelock and Martin," he explained. "He has three of them, and plenty of ink. I'm sure he won't miss the one."

"You thieving bastard."

Corvo laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "Only the best for you, friend." He then turned on his heel, starting to walk towards the other side of the room. "I'm going out for a smoke," he stated, glancing over his shoulder at Soap. "Care to join me?"

Soap hesitated a moment before grinning, clipping the fountain pen to the journal's cover once more before striding up to his mattress, bending over and grabbing his coat. "I'm coming," he replied, shrugging into his coat and tucking his new journal carefully into his breast pocket. Soap stepped beside Corvo, and together they walked out onto the roof, striding into the early winter air.

Pain.

He was in such blinding pain, his body wracked with a deep ache that radiated from his chest. Makarov gasped, sucking air into his burning lungs, and rolled over onto his side. He clawed at his throat, still feeling the cable wrapped tightly around his neck— No, it was gone—

The chaos atop the Hotel Oasis had been replaced by cold silence. No fire. No smoke. No glass. No Price. However, Makarov still felt. Felt the agony that gripped his trembling body like a vice, refusing to let go. Felt the deep, burning ache in his lungs, the tightness of his throat, the lead-like heaviness that weighed down on his limbs, the chill that had long settled in his fingers and toes. Felt the surface he was lying on, cold and hard—wood? Yes, Makarov was horizontal now. On a floor.

How?

His life had ended on top of that hotel. He was sure of it. Price had killed him, shoved him through that skylight with a flight cable wrapped around his neck. There was a sickening crack, a strangled sound an animal might make in its last moments, and Makarov's world went black.

Yes. He had died.

Then why am I still breathing?

Slowly, Makarov opened his eyes as much as he could bear. There was a dim light that was simultaneously too bright and too dark. His vision swam, everything a distorted mess of vague shapes and dull colors that he couldn't make any sense of. Makarov groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he turned his head towards the floor, pressing his forehead against its coldness. His stomach churned and he felt bile trying to rise in his throat. He held it back, curling up on his side in an attempt to contain the burning pain in his chest.

He decided that this must be what awaited him in the end. Not Heaven and not Hell. Limbo, perhaps. Or purgatory. Makarov's thoughts, slippery as eels, drifted to the Eastern Orthodox teachings from his childhood, teachings that he still believed in, to an extent, no matter how distorted his interpretation of them had become over the years. Was this the Afterlife that awaited him? No, this couldn't be—Makarov was sure that it would be different if this were any sort of life after death, that everything wouldn't feel so raw, so physical, so real—

There was a soft gasp, distant, yet still heard. There was the sound of fabric rustling, the sound of knees scraping against wood. A hand rested on Makarov's shoulder. Small. Warm. There was a voice, gentle—a child's.

"Mister? Are you alright?"