CONTENT WARNING: The last scene of this chapter contains depictions of sexual assault and rape. Please feel free to skip this scene if that's not okay for you, any important information in it will be discussed later.

August 9th 2016

DUSTWUN is a term applied when the status of a serviceman is unknown. The label was by nature temporary, intended to switch to something more conclusive. The expectation was that they'd investigate the casualty and the circumstances behind their absence. Unless deemed necessary that the status remained for longer, it stayed at maximum 10 days. After that, they needed an answer.

The investigation into what happened to Heatstroke and Scarab was brief. MacTavish and his men searched their last known location and reached a deadend. Clues suggested they were captured, but there were no leads on where they ended up. They sustained heavy injuries, didn't take a genius to figure that out with all the blood. Several things could've happened to them, from being tortured for intel to being executed elsewhere and their bodies dumped. They might not even be together. General Shepherd said that he'd have his men search the Red Zone for any sign of them, but hostile forces made any attempts at locating them dangerous and next to impossible.

So their whereabouts remained unknown.

No bodies turned up, so on the tenth day, their status changed to MIA. That was another notice to their families.

MacTavish brushed his thumb over one of the dog tags Roach found in their initial sweep. They were Scarab's father's. He dropped them into the little box of personal belongings. Soon it'd ship to her next of kin. A similar box of assorted items sat beside it for Heatstroke. They weren't confirmed KIA, but it sure as shit felt like they were.

Since they vanished, MacTavish bounced wildly between his feelings on it. Some days, he dwelled on the last time he talked to Scarab alone. He should've said more, apologized for leading her on and putting her through so much emotional strain when she'd already been in a bad headspace. He let his guilt shove her at arm's length. Other times, he laid awake running the mission over in his head, trying and failing to find anything he could've done differently so the two would still be here. The sad fact was that those two got overwhelmed by enemy forces. They would have needed a bigger team.

Two knocks broke his vigil. Standing in the door was Ghost. His sunglasses hung from the collar of his shirt, allowing MacTavish to see the tired look in his eyes. Poor bastard lost a fair bit of sleep trying to talk him through his guilty conscience. "General Shepherd's on the horn. It's a new assignment."

"I'll take care of it." MacTavish fell in step beside Ghost as they walked back to his office. "How's everyone else handling?"

"They're taking it in their own ways," Ghost said. "Everybody's worried about the girls… and, well, about you."

"I'll be fine." He had to be. There wasn't another option. As Captain, he wasn't allowed to fall apart in the face of tragedy. He needed to lead his company, to never stagnate.

Ghost wove his hand into his and gripped it tight. "We're in this together, mate. All of us. If they're alive, we'll find them."

Nobody was around. MacTavish squeezed his hand in return.

"Mm… Aren't you worried about someone seeing?" Ghost asked, lifting their interlocked hands.

"I'm a little short on fucks to give about that," he said.

"Then don't mind me if I take advantage." Ghost slipped down his balaclava just enough to press a small kiss on his forehead. When they reached the office, he tugged the mask back up over his nose. "Hang in there, okay?"

MacTavish still held his hand. "Mind suffering through a briefing with me?"

"Eh… I suppose looking into Fregata can wait."

They shut the office door and MacTavish unmuted their end of the call. "General Shepherd."

"Captain," came the gruff response. "We have ourselves a potential security risk. One of our satellites went down deep in the Tien Shan Mountains. There's an Ultranationalist airbase in the area, and we think they may have taken it."

MacTavish exchanged a look with Ghost, who propped himself against the wall. "The one in Kazakhstan, sir? That's more than a little deep in the mountains, isn't it?" It wasn't just entrenched in the mountains, it was on a snow-capped summit and surrounded by cliffs. The best way in was by air, assuming you had that option.

"That's the one. It's vital that you infiltrate the base and recover the satellite's ACS module before they crack it, otherwise we're going to have a lot more problems on our hands. I'm sending you the most recent intel we have on the site. Recommend you keep your team as small as possible and climb the cliffs on the Southeast face of the mountain."

"Aye. That might be our best option. Anything else?"

"Concerning this operation, no." After a beat of silence, Shepherd added, "Before you ask, I don't have any new leads on the whereabouts of Corporal Jays and Private Macey either. We can eliminate the possibility that they're in the Red Zone."

That narrowed their search slightly. Very, very slightly. "If they're out there, we'll find them."

"Of course."

Once the call ended, MacTavish went through the intel Shepherd sent concerning the airbase. The cliffs he recommended they scale looked brutal according to the topography maps. Extraction posed a bigger challenge than infiltration. Ideally, they'd pull this all off without being detected. The world wasn't anywhere near perfect, so he plotted out a Plan B if they got compromised. Blowing the fueling station would make an excellent diversion, offering them the opportunity to make a getaway.

MacTavish sketched out the layout of the airbase in his journal and puzzled his lip. "The more I look at this, the more it feels like a James Bond film."

"Listen, mate, unless you end up in some high-speed chase, you can't tell me that this looks like a Bond film." Ghost leaned over his shoulder. "So who's going?"

"It's got to be someone with high endurance, stealthy, and able to handle explosives." If there was anyone who fit those criteria, it was… "Roach, maybe?"

"Not a bad choice. Who else?"

Roach had a lot of heart and tenacity. When given the chance, he rose to whatever challenge came his way. Overall, he wasn't a bad pick. And yet MacTavish couldn't leave it at that and choose a second person. There was one way to make sure the kid made it back safe and sound. "I'll go."

"You sure?"

"I am. I can provide sniper support from the ridge over the base while he plants the C4." Plus, they didn't know where the module was being kept. He could use that time to trace its signal. "We should be able to handle it just fine."

Ghost rested his chin on top of his head. "There's that confidence. I was starting to miss it."

MacTavish gave a dry laugh and rested his pen between the pages. "Yeah. Thanks for putting up with my nonsense."

"You deal with mine. Don't worry about it."

The last couple of weeks was one long string of stress that rendered Nikolai exhausted. First, the Ultranationalist regime sniffed out their undercover activity and assaulted their hideout in Ukraine. Everyone stationed there had to retreat to their primary base of operations in Northern India, up in the Himalayas. While en route to the safe house, one of his contacts inside Makarov's terrorist faction got a hold of him about a situation in Afghanistan. A few of Makarov's Inner Circle were in the Middle East working with the OpFor to make sure their arms train went under the stationed Americans' noses. The US got wise to what they were up to, however, and simultaneously attacked every suspected weapons cache. The OpFor chased two operators down to the outskirts of town during this operation, hellbent on killing them.

There wasn't much Nikolai's comrade could do. The Inner Circle took one operator, odds were to interrogate them. It'd be hell to track them down. The other made a run for it before they were shot and left for dead. All his contact could provide Nikolai with some loose coordinates, allowing him to find the soldier in question sprawled in a shaded ditch beneath a wall of rocks.

It was none other than Scarab, who looked dead at a glance. She took a bullet to the back and fell face down into the sand. Crawled some 20 meters too, from the look of the drag marks left in the dirt. Upon closer inspection, she was still alive, albeit faintly wheezing. It was damn lucky he was a short 20 minute flight away when he heard about this, otherwise she might not have made it.

He tapped her face, finding her just responsive enough to crack open her eyes and murmur something incomprehensible under her breath. She coughed, spitting up a muddy mix of blood, sand, and saliva.

"Tatiana, Viktor! Get the stretcher!" He called over the helicopter's rotor.

The pair of Loyalists unloaded the stretcher and carried it over. Taking care moving her, they packed Scarab into the helicopter, and Tatiana got straight to work administering first aid while they continued to India.

"This woman is very fortunate," Tatiana said, long after she'd stripped Scarab of much of her gear. "Her tactical vest slowed the bullet down. It looks like it cracked one of her ribs and punctured a lung, but the wound is shallow. I should be able to extract it easily once we land."

The wound was non lethal, so how did it incapacitate her in the first place? Last time they worked together, she toughed out a gash to the side. This injury couldn't have caused immediate unconsciousness. Did she play possum at first to avoid getting shot a second time? In that case, why didn't she call for help after the danger left? He pondered these questions the rest of the flight.

The safe house wasn't the nicest. It used to be a large home that overlooked the village, but its previous owners vacated the premises for unspecified reasons and it fell into a mild state of disrepair. Since the Loyalists set up shop, they fixed the many structural problems that came with the building. The extra work was preferable to their fate if they stayed in the New Russia.

The Ultranationalists had one place for them: the gulag.

When they arrived at their destination, Nikolai settled in and attempted to get into contact with Soap and pass on what he knew. Last he heard, they went to Fire Base Phoenix. That was the best place to start. The radio operator though wasn't all that helpful.

"And what d'you say your clearance code was?"

Nikolai groaned and rubbed his forehead. "I don't have a clearance code. This is important information for the Task Force 141. Can you patch me through to anybody?"

"I can't patch you through, but I can deliver a message to Lt. General Shepherd," that bored American suggested.

This was the best compromise he'd get. "Alright. This concerns two operators from Task Force 141; I recovered Private Alex Macey and have been treating her injuries. Once she is well enough to travel, I can return her. The other operator who went missing was taken by Makarov's Inner Circle. I do not know where they are or what may happen to them."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. That is." Once the transmission ended, Nikolai leaned back in the creaky wooden chair. This was so much easier when he worked as a mole for the S.A.S. He turned off the radio and went to get cleaned up and rest.

Some time later, barely long enough to consider it a nap, Kamarov sought him out. "That woman is awake. Did you want to speak to her?"

"I should." Nikolai sat up, only to be met with the nagging pain of a stiff back. He stretched, causing several vertebrae to pop. 12 hour flights were such a hassle. They were absolute murder on him, more so with each passing year. "How did she look?"

"Not well. You're acquainted with her, yes? Through that friend of yours."

"Soap? Yes, but we only worked together once."

Kamarov pulled off his hat and scratched his head. "I count it."

They set up a temporary space for Scarab in a small side room. It wasn't cheery, but it was somewhat clean. A cot with a thin mattress was pushed to one side, and Tatiana's bag of medical supplies sat on the table close by. Scarab lifted her head off the pillow when the door opened.

It probably hurt too much to move with that cracked rib. No matter. He approached the cot. "We meet again."

She slipped her arm out from under the blanket to give him a small wave. "Hey, Nikolai. Glad to see a familiar face. Where are we?"

"Right now we're in the Loyalist base of operations in India. You're safe for now."

Scarab glanced up at the ceiling. "Is Riley here too?"

Riley? "If you mean the other person you were with, they are not. Makarov's men took them."

"That so?" She draped her arm over her eyes. "That's it then… She's dead…"

"Not necessarily," Nikolai tried to assure her, "There's a chance that Makarov has not executed her."

"If she's not dead yet, then she will be. That psychopath might make a show of killing her as an example."

It was well within the realm of possibility. Along with it, torture was also likely. There was no telling the hell that faced Makarov's newfound captive. "We are searching for her whereabouts. Hopefully, we can rescue her before it's too late."

His attempt at optimism didn't inspire any hope in her though, none that he could see at least. She took a shallow breath, the exhale crackling like paper.

He steered the topic off of the fate of her fellow soldier. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I guess… We got overwhelmed. So we tried to outrun 'em until we could get backup, but Riley got shot behind the wheel, lost control, and we crashed in a ditch." Her fingers curled tight. "I tried to get away, but they chased me down…" She stopped talking altogether at that point. Unfortunately, none of it was new information. If there was more to her situation, it would have to wait until she was willing to discuss it.

"I can leave you to rest," Nikolai said. "Are you in much pain? I can get the doctor for you."

"That'd be a big help. Thanks." She mumbled.

Steadily over the following days, she found the strength to sit up in bed on her own and then to walk short distances unaided. It was her breathing that brought concern. Scarab breathed shallowly to avoid straining her ribs, but it also put her at risk of pneumonia. When Tatiana explained this, Scarab became pale and since then attempted to take deeper breaths despite the clear pain it caused. While they had some pain medication, it was reserved for severe cases because it was difficult for them to get their hands on a good supply. There wasn't much they could offer for her discomfort beyond applying a cold compress.

As she recovered, he talked to her more. They traded stories and discussed plans. Nikolai didn't think he was a good storyteller (a summary giver was a better description), but she seemed intrigued when he spoke about his time in Afghanistan with the Soviets and working with the S.A.S. She was young, and so less experienced than him, but had herself a few entertaining anecdotes about her six years of service.

He mentioned over tea, "I am sure you will be able to return to your base soon."

Her eyes lit up at the prospect of going back. "I hope so. It'll be nice getting back in the swing of things, you know?"

… He still hadn't received a response about his first message. Strange, but he assumed they were looking into what little info he gave them. He put a pin in it and decided to bring it up with Soap personally when he next got the chance. "Yes, but it may be some time before you are doing assignments. Your rib needs more time to heal."

After five days, Scarab was as active as possible without popping stitches or hurting her ribs. Although she was doing better physically, emotionally was another story. Being shot left her jumpy, as to be expected. He hoped the acute stress response wouldn't develop into a long term issue, but the best person to evaluate it would be a counselor. Nervousness was one thing, but she went through her stuff and turned her pockets inside out in a panic one evening. "Shit shit shit…"

Nikolai watched this frantic searching from the hall, unsure if he should intervene or leave her be. Kamarov was passing by when he glanced into the room and looked to him for an explanation. Nikolai shrugged.

"Where is it…?! It's gotta be here!" She shuffled through a couple more pockets of her tactical vest before her shoulders sank in defeat. "You've gotta be kidding…"

"Did you lose something?" Kamarov asked.

She peeked back at them over her shoulder and tossed the vest aside. "Yeah… My dad's dog tags are gone. Did you see them anywhere?"

The former Sergeant's frown was deeper than usual. "I haven't. Is it possible that you misplaced them?"

"I don't know. I keep them in the same pocket, but I can't find them anywhere," she responded.

"When was the last time you remember having them," Nikolai asked.

"Back at Fire Base Phoenix." She punched her leg. "Dammit, they could be anywhere between here and Afghanistan!"

Nikolai's stomach lurched. He didn't want to imagine what it'd be like to lose all the family photos he kept in a wallet sleeve. Personal mementos like that were precious things, especially as they risked their lives far from home. He stepped into the room and knelt down beside her. "If any of us see them, we will return them to you."

It wasn't much, but she nodded in feeble agreement.

Nikolai stepped back and let Tatiana and Kamarov handle Scarab while he went back to regular company management for a while. It seemed like their situation was stabilizing when the world decided it'd much rather jump into a grease fire. August 12th, there was a mass shooting at the Zakhaev International Airport in Moscow. It was clearly Makarov and his Inner Circle's doing, but there was a singular detail that all of Russia noticed. It appeared in public addresses from President Vorshevsky and in news articles. Only one shooter's body was recovered at the scene, and they identified him as an American with potential links to the CIA.

One body and the whole Ultranationalist Russia cried out for vengeance.

When they took Heatstroke captive, they taped her mouth shut, threw a hood over her head, secured her arms behind her back, and shoved her in a small space. A trunk, maybe? Under normal circumstances, she could have escaped, but her injured shoulder made it too excruciating to break the thick band of tape through sheer strength alone. She tried kicking too at first hoping to bust out a taillight or something, but they noticed it pretty quick and warned her that if she kept trying, then they'd break her knees. Whether she liked it or not, waiting was her best bet.

And Sweet Jesus, she waited a long time. With no other alternative, she fell back on training and tracked the turns they took to give herself a rough idea where she was. For hours and hours, it stayed relatively consistent; minor changes in bearing that went back. West? They followed that same highway she and Scarab tried to escape down and that'd been going West. Left was the first big turn, sending her South, but then came a right, another left, and right after that, landing back on West. Hours dragged on by as she bumped and rattled in the trunk. They stopped twice, probably to swap drivers, but the third time they did, they opened the trunk and dragged her out into the significantly cooler air.

A couple of men were having a conversation in Russian off to the side. She understood very little of it. This would've been so much easier if MacTavish were here. He knew some rudimentary Russian. Hell, he'd probably be able to escape somehow.

… Then again, he didn't get away from those arms dealers back in Germany, so maybe not.

The hood was tugged off her head, ripping at the scabbing mess of her ear. Heatstroke got her first glimpse at her surroundings. It was dark. Much of the landscape was dusty and rocky around them, with a few dark spots in the distance that could have been smatterings of foliage. There were two cars parked on the side of the road; the one they had dragged her from, and a van. The person who removed her hood was white, with a thick face and buzzed brown hair. He grabbed her by the chin and turned her head every which way, as if appraising her like a vintage porcelain doll for auction. He clicked his tongue in distaste at the mess of dried blood that caked the side of her head and down her neck from the bullet hole in the shell of her ear, and pulled the hood back on over her.

They had to be on the far side of Afghanistan by now, right? If not, then over the border and in Iran. How far were they going to take her? They shoved her along to the van and threw her in the back. The driving continued, and she tried her best to keep track of the turns. It just kept going on and on. Every time they stopped, she thought this was it, they'd pull her back out and it'd be their destination. They didn't even open the hatch. The stops were brief. It felt like they started going North, but her ability to keep up with all their turns was steadily failing her the longer this carried on. Her mouth and throat went from gummy to bone dry as the beginnings of dehydration set in. She'd been holding her bladder too, but one wrong bump and she pissed herself and had to lie in it for God knows how long.

When they did finally open the hatch again to retrieve her, one man loudly complained — likely because she'd been marinating in urine for so long that she'd become blind to the smell. They dragged her out and pushed her to her knees. She had two seconds of peace to notice bird song and wind through branches when she was splashed with water and once more for good measure. The water loosened some adhesive, which allowed her to wiggle her cheeks and mouth enough to dislodge part of the tape.

They walked her inside a building, then down the stairs and tossed her in a tiled room where they locked the door. Through mild investigation, or rather strategic kicking and bumping around because she couldn't see through the hood's black fabric, she determined that this was a bathroom. A bathroom also meant water, if she could get this hood off and turn on the sink. She moved about until she found the doorknob to catch the hood on and pull it off. It strained her jaw, but she used her teeth to turn on the tap and stuck her head underneath. The cold water was a blessing, soothing her sore throat and swollen tongue.

Out of nowhere, a man grabbed her by the hair and yanked her from the sink. This man was none other than Vladimir Makarov. There was no mistaking him. He cast his attention to the running water and asked, "Thirsty?"

She swallowed thickly, a lump forming in her throat.

He pressed the discarded hood over her face and shoved her under the tap. Water saturated the fabric, which clung to her nose and lips. She couldn't breathe, not without feeling like she was drowning. She thrashed beneath him, unable to break free. The edges of her vision darkened the longer she went without getting a proper breath of air.

And then it was over. He tossed her to the floor. Her shoulder connected with the tile first, sending her nerves haywire. She coughed and gasped, water dripping off her hair and face and soaking her shirt. Makarov planted a shoe directly over her injured shoulder, tearing a cry from her between ragged coughing. "Still thirsty?"

A tremor of fear rattled her to the very core. She shook her head frantically.

"Good." He smirked, features twisted with sadistic glee. "I will make use of you, American."

That was the beginning of hell. He sicked his man, Kiril, on her to torture whatever information he could from her. For days, he beat her black and blue. She stayed quiet despite his methods. When it was clear that she'd sooner die than crack this way, Makarov called him off.

Makarov cupped her abused cheek. "Your entire faction is founded on a lie. Shepherd plays his own game, with his own rules. He doesn't care who he needs to kill. Loyalty means nothing to him. What makes you believe he cares what happens to you?" He gripped her thigh. "Well, Riley?"

She pressed her legs shut. It was the only thing she could do. "We don't abandon our own."

"And yet he has done nothing to rescue you. You are another expendable pawn in his plans, one of many more he's willing to sacrifice to feed his ambitions. Your General and I want the same thing, warfare between Russia and the West. What he doesn't realize is that he is setting events into motion that he has no hope of stopping. This is bigger than him." His nails bit into her bruised flesh. "Mark my words, he will betray the men he leads, and he will be rewarded accordingly."

That couldn't be right. The General swore an oath to protect the American people just like she did. Surely he wouldn't put so many lives at stake for his own gain. Right? "He wouldn't."

"He would. It has already begun." Makarov let go of her face and walked towards the side room. "If you won't talk, then we have other ways of making use of you. Viktor, take her. You and the others can do what you wish."

Viktor and Lev approached from the side, where they and a few other men were observing the interrogation. While one untied her from the chair, the other held her at gunpoint until they secured her wrists behind her back. They escorted her downstairs to that little bathroom. Once there, they kicked her inside, and she fell over the wall of the tub. The lip collided with her gut and knocked the wind out of her. Wheezing, she hung half inside the bathtub, struggling to right herself.

"You should have talked when you had the chance," Viktor said. He reached around and slipped her belt buckle loose. An icy hand shoved its way down her pants, and a similarly icy dread engulfed her as fingers jammed themselves inside past painfully tightened muscles.

Her legs scrabbled, but she couldn't fight him off. The stretching had her shrieking. "Please, please, no!"

A fist cocked her upside the head. "Quiet!"

She tried to be quiet, she really did. But as her pants were ripped down to her knees, and the violation continued, she shook and sobbed. One particularly hard thrust dug the tub's rim into her stomach, and that set off a chain reaction. She gagged and threw up a mouthful of bile, which she coughed and choked on. The acid hit the back wall of her throat and got pushed up into her nose from her desperate attempts to breathe, further burning her sinuses.

When that bastard finished, she felt the uncomfortable slick of semen down her inner thighs. She thought it was over, but that was when the other one yanked her off the tub. He pushed her face into the peach tile floor and shoved himself in, biting some Russian profanity out as he further raped her. Even after they were done, it wasn't the end. She had brief breaks, but either they came down for more or someone else did.

When Kiril came, he tore her uniform apart piece by piece. "Your country is never coming for you. You should thank me for destroying this garbage."

Find a happy place. Escape to a mental room where dad was waiting at the airport, to home where it smelled of vanilla and the kitchen was bright with laughter. Escape to that Taco Tuesday two years back at the table with a fruity margarita and a collection of friends. But whatever you do, don't stay in the bathroom, with all that pain and hopelessness. Don't stay and listen to the awful things they say and do to you.

Don't let yourself dwell on how deeply they violate you.

Sensations stopped having meaning. She didn't feel like she was present in her own body. Pain was there, but it didn't matter. Her body operated on autopilot. Anything to get her through this. There was a stretch of time when she was finally left alone. She dragged her aching body into the corner and curled in on herself. It was only a matter of time before this hell began all over again.

The next one in the room was the quiet one. Yuri, she'd heard Makarov call him once. He looked down upon her and, with a sigh, he set down a plastic bag on the toilet seat. He then turned on the water in the tub. "Get in."

At first, she didn't understand it, so she gawked. What the hell was he planning?

"You must feel gross, yes? Get in the bath." He said, nodding to the steadily filling basin.

Hesitantly, she did as told and climbed to her unsteady feet. She stepped into the tub and felt the welcome feeling of warm water wash over her toes.

"Hold still, I am cutting the tape." The edge of a steel knife brushed her arm hair as it sliced the duct tape apart. "Okay."

She rubbed the tacky residue left on her skin and lowered herself into the tub, hugging her knees against her chest. "Why are you doing this?"

Yuri got up and shifted through the plastic bag, setting out various first aid supplies and a couple folded garments of clothes. "A guilty conscience." He took the first aid kit and sat himself on the side of the tub. "You were shot. Let me see."

She released her shoulder and scooted closer for him to examine it.

"The bullet passed all the way through, at least. You will need a doctor who can treat you properly." For now, he cleaned it out. There were many injuries she couldn't reach, let alone see. He attended to each with care. "Do you have family, Riley?"

"I do," she answered quietly as the sponge swiped along her bare back.

"Close?"

She nodded. "Yeah…"

Once she was clean, he dressed her wounds and passed her the bundle of clothes. They weren't much, a pair of men's pants and an olive drab tee shirt, but they gave her a shred of dignity back. The last things he handed her were a cup of water and a bread roll. "What Makarov said was not a lie. General Shepherd has been colluding with him for some time now."

She'd hoped it was a lie, but apparently not. "He is?"

Yuri glanced at the door and kneeled in front of her. "Shepherd has sent an American agent to operate undercover in our ranks, and he is coming with us on our biggest assault yet. He will be used to implicate America in a major conspiracy... Tomorrow I will be back to get you out of here." He left after that, taking the plastic bag and first aid kit with him.

He never returned.

{—To Be Continued—

Summary of Plan B Chapters 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, and 31a

26. Nikolai is the best. Soap wakes up hurt and confused. Scarab wakes up in the safe house, meets the Loyalists.
27. Q&A w/ Nikolai. Price segment. [ Price Redacted ]
28. Q&A w/ Scarab. Soap and Roach are starting Cliffhanger. Cringy dialogue.
29. Scarab and Nikolai chat more. More Price. More ice climbing. [ Price Redacted ]
30. Scarab has PTSD. Middle of Cliffhanger suddenly.
31a. Scarab angsts. Tatiana is a G.

A/N: This begins the chaos that is Act 2. It's crazy coming back to writing Plan A after all this time I spent working on the JJBA fic Reverse Psychology for most of this year. That fic's not done and I'm intending to get back to it come January, so I may be in a weird situation where I'm juggling both these fics at the same time, at least until I wrap up Act 2 of this fic and take another break from it.

Right, so let's discuss some of the changes, shall we?
Firstly, and probably the biggest change, I scrapped writing out Cliffhanger's transcript as a narrative. As much as I adore that mission and all its icy coolness, there's no good way I can write it that won't just rehash what we see in game. I don't want to do that unless I'm showing events from a unique perspective or am changing things in some way from the canon story. Just assume this mission plays out exactly like it would if you were playing it. Along with cutting out the mission itself, I gave Soap and Roach's cringy side convos the chop.
There's also a stunning lack of Soap waking up hurt and confused. Originally, if you remember the summary of the previous chapter, Shepherd attacks Soap and uses the stupid mind probe. Apparently he drags Soap's unconscious body back, says he got attacked by a bear, and ditched to go shoot Scarab countries away. Because Shepherd doesn't do that here, Soap has no reason to be injured. Don't worry about it.
Scarab and Nikolai have EXTENSIVE back and forth about what the situation is for, I kid you not, FOUR CHAPTERS. It rambles and gets into dumb side stories that don't matter. Because Shepherd didn't shoot Scarab here, she has no concrete reason to suspect him, so she doesn't bring it up to Nikolai. I needed to make Nikolai suspicious of Shepherd in other ways, so this is the beginning of that.
Scarab doesn't have PTSD in this, at least not yet anyways. At the moment, it's too early to diagnose her with it, because PTSD is when the crippling anxiety, nightmares, and flashbacks after a traumatic event don't go away months and sometimes years afterwards making readjusting to daily life difficult if not impossible. Amusingly, Younger Me claimed to include it because it made the story more "realistic."
Then Price's scenes in the Gulag doing basically nothing got cut and I added what's going on with Heatstroke instead. I plan for her to do stuff that impacts the plot, so I kinda need her to still have a presence, you know? I also added Yuri to the mix, because Plan B was written pre MW3. I figure I'll blend elements of the third game to ground the events of this fic. It won't be MW3 all over again, because I have a love/hate relationship with that game.
One last thing. I call the extremist group that they're dealing with in the Red Zone OpFor (Opposing Forces) here because the faction you fight in Team Player has no name. I toyed with the idea of either calling them Al-Qatala after that fantasy Middle Eastern country's terrorist group in the new Modern Warfare reboot or coming up with an original name, but they don't play enough of a role past this point for me to bother.

*deep breath* ALRIGHT. And lastly, I'm bumping up the rating to E because of rape scene and any potential sex scenes (consensual later, I promise) that'll come up in the future. I'll add a warning as well.

Thank you guys. Stay safe and much love.