Chapter 3 - New Beginnings

John Price sat before three men in the main office at Credenhill. One of the men was Oliver Lowe, the major of the S.A.S. base; he sat across from Price and stared at him intently from over his desk. Price appeared annoyed, stressed, and impatient all in one. The other two men were vastly different; one wore glasses, had his hair gelled back and was dressed in an official looking suit, and the other was one of the soldiers from the Credenhill base, who stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Price's eyes scanned over each of them. The one in the suit was a weak man, Price could read him like an open book.

"John," Major Lowe finally said. Price's eyes found him through a lowered brow. "You've done us all a fine service. Your actions alone has brought honor to the Special Air Service, and I'm proud to speak of your feats. But-" then Lowe interlaced his fingers together and sat them onto the desk, "but things are different now with the war over. I think now would be a good time for your to retire, and finally get the rest you deserve."

Price immediately knew where this was going; he knew way before he came in for his evaluation and he knew the man in the suit standing up was a psychiatrist. The suited man stared with judgmental eyes, had Price been in a different scenario, he'd call the man out. Oliver Lowe then gestured for the psychiatrist to pick up where he left off.

The man nodded quickly and pulled out some papers from his briefcase. He flipped through them with fast hands as Price and the major stared at each other. Finally, the suited man found what he wanted. He walked over in Price's direction then paused about four feet away.

He cleared his throat. "John Price," their eyes met and the man immediately felt the weight of Price's profound stare bear down onto his soul. "You're a highly intelligent man, there is no doubt about that! But you're showing...very high readings in paranoia and stress-"

"Get to the point." Price interrupted. The man could only stare momentarily before coughing and continuing.

"Right. So, in simple terms, not that you need simple terms! But many doctors would say that...well, that you're probably not mentally stable enough to continue your work in the S.A.S...or any branch of military for that matter."

Price sat up in his chair and open his hands out in front of him. "So you're politely calling me crazy?"

"I-well-"

"And you all no longer find me a benefactor, but actually, more or less, a risk?"

The three men stared at Price with a wide-array of emotions. All three couldn't think of the best response.

Price leaned back in his chair, set his left leg up on top of his right knee, and scratched his nose. "No need for pleasantries, gentlemen, I'd much rather have some honesty. This isn't just about my 'sanity', but more about my age as well? You find me too old."

Finally, the major answered this time. "John, the S.A.S. gets rid of their men by the time they reach 40-"

"You don't think I bloody know that?"

The major sighed through his nose and watched Price. He knew no one wanted to have to face the truth of their age and their forced retirement from something they've known their whole life. The S.A.S. welcomed John MacTavish back with opened arms, but still kept a watchful eye on him; the Scotsman was a righteous man, but he too had a history and his relationship with Price was strong.

"Price...listen," Lowe began with a smooth voice, "you've done us a great service. Your drive and determination knows no bounds. But with the war over, we are no longer in the need of your assistance. It's time to take a break, old man."

Price turned his head to the side, still keeping an eye on Lowe. His eyes eventually found the window where a light sprinkle was present outside. For some reason, being called "old man" by someone not too much younger than him was rather annoying.

Finally, Price's crystal blue eyes met the major. "Oliver, you and I both know it's not easy to just simply transition back into normal society. We're different than they are, our minds our different. We've seen friends die, enemies fall, and a lot of death. So, please tell me why you think a man like me can just...return to a normal everyday life, walk the streets with no direction, and miraculously blend in. It doesn't work that way."

Lowe was nodding steadily as Price talked, and once Price was finished with his sentence Lowe had to release a heavy exhale. Price was right, but Lowe still needed to be the one to tell Price it was ready to retire. "Price...I understand. I do. No one here is expecting you to enjoy it or make a smooth transition. That's why we're offering help for you. You know, to help you accept and rekindle with society. This is Robert Clarke, he's offering his service to you."

The suited man nodded and reached a hand out for Price to accept. Price stared at it and merely uttered a small chuckle. He felt attacked, he couldn't deny it. "I appreciate the gesture. But I'm going to have to past. Besides, I have to be somewhere soon. I got some catching up to do." With that Price stood, gave the men before him a nod of the head, but before he left, the major stopped him.

"John, remember, we can offer you help. You know where to go if you need it."

Price paused in the threshold briefly before finally making his way out the door where he found himself in an all too familiar place. The Credenhill base felt...different. It was cloudy and rainy, an eerie mist blew between the barracks. His thoughts trailed around and wandered over his past when he was captain of the 22nd Regiment. It was when he had the best team possible. Gaz was unstoppable and Soap was a talented, young F.N.G. that hungered for knowledge and action. But, things drastically changed then, and when change occurs, no matter how hard a person tries, they will never experience that same feeling again.

He felt suddenly out of place; unwanted and uncared for. The man had weary, but wise, eyes and wouldn't completely deny wanting some rest, but his blood and soul yearned for more. He now realized that he had no other choice but to settle down. He figured he could eventually apply to upper positions that do all of the leading and see no combat, but for now, he just wanted to walk away from all of it.

With Credenhill now behind him, he walked with wide-strides, hands in his pockets, and his mind elsewhere. His thoughts had fallen onto Soap. He was alive and thriving; it made Price's future seem less bleak. When Soap hopped off the plane after arriving in Credenhill, Price couldn't help but bring him into a man hug. Soap had evolved and developed into the most loyal and trustworthy person Price had ever encountered. He matured finely and managed to keep a strong head on his shoulders. Price deeply respected the man, and the feeling was mutual.

He eventually reached his car and fumbled with the keys before setting himself into the driver seat. The battle-hardened war vet needed a moment to just absorb everything that had just transpired. Every emotion seemed to be occurring at once. He was stoked to have the return of Soap, upset because things were different, mad because he was denied re-entry to the S.A.S., and now he was realizing how being called 'old' and 'crazy' made him feel. Price sighed and sank into his seat, before his eyes landed on his phone in the cup holder.

His left hand found the phone, dialed a number, and then brought the mobile device to his ear. He listened to the phone ring almost a solid three times before it got answered.

"Aye?" Soap's voice sounded from the other end.

Despite the old man being annoyed at the current transpiring events, the familiar sound of Soap's voice caused a small smile to grow on Price's bearded face. "Soap, I'm running a bit early. Everything didn't take as long as expected. I'm making my way on over to the pub."

"Sounds good, Price." Soap replied, "I am running a wee bit behind the originally planned schedule. These bastards are taking forever...I kind of get the sense that they feel the need to crack down on my every movement. Also, turns out, trying to prove to the world you are, in fact, not dead takes quite a lot of time and paper work."

"No rush, son. Finish what you need to get done. Proving you're still alive is more important."

Price heard Soap's exasperated sigh through the receiver. "Alright, I'll be at the pub around 1400 hours."

Price nodded, gave a quick farewell, and sat the phone back down before starting his car. As he drove away, he couldn't resist the urge to glance in his rearview mirror one last time at the disappearing peaks and metal rooftops of Credenhill. He was starting to feel so depressed all of the sudden. His shoulders dropped and his eyebrows lowered. Everything was gone. Gaz. The days in the 22nd Regiment. Task Force 141. The war was over, and Makarov was dead. The only thing Price had left was Soap. The old man, at one point, was completely willing to just let everything go after he had hung Makarov from a rooftop. He figured, 'fuck it, I'm done'. But, something told him to just tough it out a little longer. Make it back to the UK, get debriefed, and try to get back into enjoying life once again now that his name was clear and he was back home. Luckily for him, he was willing to push himself back onto the helicopter the Titan Task Force had sent, with Shorty as the pilot; had he not, he never would have received that fateful call from Soap, that had him nearly falling to his knees.

Time felt like it dragged on as Price's thoughts wandered freely. He had finally reached the pub, parked his car, and stepped out. He couldn't recall the last time he had a nice, smooth, and rich lager; he wasn't even sure he was actually in the mood for one. But, he needed some quiet time before meeting up with his old friend, and was willing to walk himself inside and find a seat. In the matter of few quiet minutes, Price was finally waited on, and was served the house lager he had requested. His eyes ran over the glass tankard that had a golden, foamy head that sat atop it. He ran his tongue over his teeth and finally persuaded himself to take a sip.

It was cold and smooth, but it wasn't a good as he remembered. Such was his life now; nothing was ever going to be as good as he remembered. While he slowly drank from his glass, he felt a change around him, as if a powerful aura had made its way beside him. He suddenly heard a calming, suave voice.

"Surprised you have your hat off, old man. I almost didn't recognize you."

Price grimaced as he opened his mouth, "Is that supposed to be funny-" His eyes then found the man who had spoken. He immediately recognized it as the man who had been in charge of the team that came to retrieve Price on that historic night that Makarov met his death. The man had dark, almost black hair with welcoming green eyes, and a calming smile. Just the way he stared at you was enough to settle anyone back down into their seats.

"Samson?" Price had to completely turn to face him as Samson took a seat down by him. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Checking in. I heard about your retirement."

Price immediately gave him a stare of disbelief. "How'd you-how would you already know that?"

Samson gave a friendly smirk. "We have our ways."

"That sounds awfully sketchy, son." Price stated flatly as he took a sip of beer; some of the foam grabbing onto the hair that covered his lip.

"Price, we've been keeping an eye on you because we-" the server suddenly came up.

"Sorry! Just wanted to get your order." She said quickly as her hands fumbled with a tray.

"Just get me a pint of your house lager," Samson answered and nodded as she returned to her work. He brought his arms up and rested his hands on the bar tabletop before him. His green eyes returned to Price who was awaiting an explanation. "You're talented, Price. We've worked together before, back in the days of the active resistance; I saw you. You have tremendous drive and extraordinary leadership skills."

Price sniffed as he looked back to the televisions before him. "Cut to the chase. I need to know what could an American possibly want with an old Brit like me."

Samson smiled, the old man always knew what he wanted. "Just know that you can be appreciated somewhere again, where you're wanted, where people respect you; a place where you don't get evaluated based upon your age or mental stability." The man's wide-palmed hand reached down into his back jean pocket, where he quickly retrieved what he had reached for.

"Sounds awfully like you're offering me a job," Price muttered.

Samson placed a card onto the smooth finished bar top, and slid the card in Price's direction with his pointer finger. Price's eyes found the piece of paper. "We're always looking for people, Price. Talented men and women, anyone who can offer their skills." Samson began to study Price's face, and immediately saw that he hadn't quite baited the man yet. "What are your plans, Price?"

Samson was fluent and kind enough to where his question didn't come across as intrusive, but rather, expressing concern. Price shifted in his seat and crossed his arms before his chest.

"Plans? Considering I've been forced to settle down, I'm just going to willingly take a break." Price voice was tricky to read, but Samson saw right through the tough exterior and was able to detect uncertainty in the man's voice.

"We all know that you can't simply settle down, Price. None of us can. The way we're trained, the way we operate, it becomes who we are." Samson spoke steadily as his beer order was set before him. He thanked the waiter and returned his eye back onto Price. "Consider the offer, old friend. We're here if you need us, and we can genuinely offer the appropriate kind of assistance. You're not alone." Samson began to stand while placing a gentle hand onto Price's shoulder. He gave the old man a quick pat as he pushed his high top chair in.

Price looked at him in his peripherals. "Aren't you forgetting your drink?"

Samson flashed that warming smile and slid Price some money. "There's that drink I owed you." Price watched him as he began to turn away, but then he quickly remembered something and paused. "Oh, and give your friend my regards."

With that Samson began to make his way for the front entrance where he passed up Soap along the way. The large Scotsman had just made his way through the door and caught the tail end of the conversation as he approached. As the two passed each other, their eyes met. Soap locked onto Samson's kind eyes, where he was met with a nod and a smile from Samson who passed him up as quickly as he had smiled. Soap followed the man's movements as he watched him leave through the door and walk down the sidewalk and out of sight. Growing confused, Soap turned his attention towards his old captain who sat drearily at the unpopulated bar.

Making his way slowly toward Price, he found himself pulling the chair out that Samson was just at. Soap's eyes ran over the two tankards, one empty and one full, and then landed on Price. "What was that all about?"

Price's sharp eyes met up with Soap's soft stare. "Old friend."

Soap raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? May I ask how you two know each other?" He suddenly turned his head back towards the front entrance and narrowed his eyes in thought. "Come to think of it...he looked familiar."

Price's strong hand reached for the second lager and pulled it closer to him. "He was with a task force that was assisting in the resistance against the Ultranationalists. You may or may not remember him. Americans. We didn't see them too much, but they were around." His eyes suddenly landed on the card Samson had slid in his direction moments before. It bore a unique logo of a scale and two overlapping swords. The only letters on it were TTF, and some methods for setting up communications. A simple phone call would not suffice.

Soap nodded as his eyes landed back on Price. He noticed the old man's stare and couldn't help but follow it. His eyes observed the business card before him, but Price's hand quickly snatched it up and followed through by placing it in his pant pocket. Soap's attention immediately fell onto the aged man, and couldn't help but immediately sense a certain tension swarming around Price.

Soap gestured his head in Price's direction. "What was that?"

"Nothing to worry about, son." Price began. The server returned to get Soap's order, but the man hesitated. "Get something, Soap. You can have one drink with me."

Soap leaned back into his chair and placed his hands onto his once again buzzed head and well-groomed mohawk. He was one of few men who could pull off the look. "Eh, if you insist. Get me the stout."

"16 ounce or 24 ounce?" The server asked.

"24," Price answered for Soap.

Soap had to smile, "Alright, 24 it is." The server nodded and walked off hurriedly. The two men didn't know why she seemed to be in such a rush, they were two of very few people that populated the bar. Instantly, Soap's blue eyes fell onto Price and stared at him intently. He knew something was wrong. "Price, you're going to have to tell me what is eating at you."

Price sighed and repositioned in his seat. "My military career is behind me now, Soap. It's time to move on and take a break."

Soap absorbed the comment and pondered over it. He finally sat back up and placed his arms onto the tabletop. "Wait, you mean-" The server returned with Soap's stout. His eyes ignoring it.

"Retirement, Soap. S.A.S. and the Royal Army said it's time to get some rest."

The Scotsman had to narrow his eyes at the comment. "Well, that's horseshit. You'd think they'd have a little more respect-"

Price could tell Soap was beginning to get worked up, so he had to intervene to get him to take it down a notch. No one wants to see an angry Scotsman. "Soap, I turn 50 in January. They're right."

Soap's mouth hung slightly open as he prepared a response. "So what? What the bloody hell is stopping you from pursuing something else?"

"Apparently, my old age and sanity, or lack-there-of." Price replied with a raspy voice.

"They gave you a fuckin' insanity evaluation, too? The audacity-"

"Soap, please," Price raised a hand. "What matters is that you're back. You get to be a captain again, train the incoming F.N.G., all while enjoying the lifestyle that Credenhill can offer you. Don't get caught up on me."

Soap's shoulders slumped as he released a heavy sigh. "Price, that's the thing. I don't know...I'm not sure if everything is all right."

Price raised an eyebrow at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Everything is so...so odd now; it's outlandish, it doesn't feel right. The worse part is, I feel like they're holding back on giving me the full briefs on everything, and hiding information from me, as if they don't trust me. That's an awfully shitety feeling." Soap allowed his eyes to drift as he rested his broad chin onto his fist. "They keep asking questions about you, Price."

"Like what?" Price crossed his arms.

Soap was staring down at his drink, and decided to take a large gulp. He sat it down, exhaled and returned his attention to Price. "Constantly asking about your whereabouts, your plans, just questions concerning your personal life. I do not like it. Seems suspicious."

"Soap, they're just keeping tabs on me. It's obvious. They know you have a close relationship with me. Even though our names are cleared, they still have access to our past. It's no doubt they are skeptical about the returning of two ex-war convicts."

"Oh, for Christ's sakes," Soap murmured. "Then why did they even bother allowing us to return? Or for me to get reaccepted into the S.A.S.? I'd rather them just be honest and blatantly say, 'Oh, no! You two are absolutely unpredictable. Please don't come back.'" Soap had to have a quick, amused chuckle. "Look, Price. It's like this. If they don't respect me, how should I respect them?"

Price's eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of someone snapping a quick picture of them through the glass windows. The man quickly wandered off. Price's brow lowered. Soap immediately saw the stare and looked over his shoulder with anxiousness.

"The fuck-"

"Soap," Price patted the man's strong shoulder, "let's go to the race track, we can catch up some more there."

Soap immediately agreed, as the two downed their drinks, paid the bill, then left through the front doors. At the horse race track, the two of them watched the horses gallop by and the jockeys prep their horses. Price and Soap hung over the side of the white fence and watched with contentment. It brought back memories of their past together, and it was relieving. Price lit a Villa Clara cigar as the two of them talked quietly, saying few words, but the words were full of meaning. It was cloudy as always, but the space around them was serene.

After spending two hours as the race track, Soap finally noticed the time. "Price, I am going to visit my mum tonight. Poor woman thought she buried her son a few weeks ago. I'd like to check in," he stated as his eyes moved away from his wristwatch.

Price nodded. "You do what you need to, son." They sat there in a brief silence as Price began to ponder over his encounter with Samson, and how the offer suddenly didn't seem so bad. He finally broke the silence, "Soap, there's something I've been meaning to tell you. And I think now is the best time to say something." He puffed on his cigar before continuing; Soap's eyes running over him. "You're the son I've never had. This last time, I was convinced you were gone, dead, along with my willingness to care."

Soap's expression drastically changed. He appeared caring and somewhat overwhelmed with emotion. "Price…"

"I figured I failed as a father for my daughter. She just graduated from college, and I couldn't be there for her because we were out running around, avoiding detection, and hunting terrorists. I like to believe that I at least was able to be there for you when I couldn't be there for my daughter." Price allowed for what he said to sink in; he couldn't remember the last time he had opened up that much.

Soap didn't know the best way to respond, but he was honored and content. "That means a lot. Thank you."

Price nodded, and was ready to move on from the emotional moment. "You better go see your mother."

Soap agreed and with that, the two parted ways. What Soap didn't know was that was going to be the last time he was going to get to see Price again, at least for awhile. Price was starting to grow more intrigued by the thought of assisting the TTF with any missions and tasks they would throw at him, and he was willing to give it a shot. He also knew that he now had to keep communications with Soap at a minimum. He didn't want to, but he knew it was important at the moment, especially since he knew that the Royal Army was now using Soap to get to him. It broke his heart knowing that he had to now break off communications temporarily with Soap, but it was necessary.

Back at Credenhill, Soap reached for his phone to send his mother a call. The phone rang once before she eagerly answered.

"Hello, mum," Soap stated into the phone.

"Oh, John, it brings joy to my heart hearing your voice again," his mother had a soft, sweet voice. He had almost forgotten how kind she sounded. "Are you still going to make it for dinner? I hope you're not starving. It's already so late!"

Hearing his mother's voice again brought a smile on his face, a smile that he would shine when he was a young boy. "I'm leaving now, I should make it over by 1900 hours."

He heard his mother huff quietly into the phone. "John, you know I don't know all of that military time!"

Soap emitted a small chuckle. "About 7:00 P.M., mum."

"Oh, great! Duncan and Lacie will be here too," his mother claimed with a mild charm. Those were his two siblings. Soap found himself in the middle. "Oh! And your nieces and nephews." This was turning into an all out get together. Then Soap heard something odd, something was off. He heard a click in his ear, and what he thought was a male's voice. Soap paused.

"Did you hear that?"

His mom sat silently for a moment. "Hear what?"

"Is Duncan already there?"

"No, not yet, why? You sound scared, John." His mother's voice lowered. She knew her son was different, no longer the young man she had known back from his childhood.

He noticed that their voices seemed to reverberate back, and he couldn't help but feel like someone was listening to their conversation. Not wanting to scare his mother further, he wrapped up the conversing. "Hmm, maybe some connection issues. I'll see you soon."

"Alright, John. See you soon, darling."

With that, the conversation ended and Soap was left to get lost in his thoughts. After having met up with Price, his paranoia and suspicions had skyrocketed. He couldn't help but notice odd things, such as swearing he was seeing the same faces, feeling watched, just everything. He tried to convince himself to calm down, but his gut had never let him down yet.

The dinner with his family was great. He was greeted with an over-amount of love and joy, he welcomed it. While they sat around and chatted at the dinner table, he smiled and chuckled with his siblings while they talked, but he could tell that they knew he was different. A changed man. He knew the things that once made him laugh and smile, would no longer have the same effects on him. Soap felt somewhat guilty, knowing that he wasn't as conversational as they may have liked, but his emotions and mind were elsewhere, in addition to feeling overwhelmed.

Eventually, by 8:30, he was ready to get heading back to base to get some rest. He still felt tired a lot, and the recent amount of paperwork, paranoia, and stress had begun to take its toll on him. Soap was ready to crash into a bed, where he probably would still get no sleep. Lately, he had been staying up through the majority of the night, just writing, drawing, and working out. One may say he had developed insomnia, but he knew it was just his mind and body still trying to hone in on a single goal.

On his walk back to base, he heard someone utter his name from a bench that sat under a lone streetlight. He paused and looked over his shoulder.

"John, take a seat." It was a woman's voice. From where he stood, all he could see was the back of a black Sutton rain hat, a red trench coat, and a few loose, dark blonde trellises. He blinked and slowly made his way around the bench, where only her chin and lips were now visible.

"Do I know you?"

She sat in silence for a little bit before flashing her eyes up at him from under the rim of her hat. He still couldn't make out her face. "Please, take a seat."

He hesitated before finally finding a spot near her. His eyes stared ahead into the wet street, before they landed on the side of her face.

She finally spoke. "Are you doing better?"

"What?"

"I asked if you were doing better. You know, after your recovery?"

As if his paranoia couldn't get any worse, he began to worry and wonder how she seemingly already knew so much about him. "Sure."

She turned her head to face him where her pink, heart-shaped lips became prominent from the streetlight. "For a man who's finally made it back home and returned to the life he once had, you sure do sound disheartened."

He blinked in her direction as he leaned forward, just hoping to see more of her face. She watched him closely. "What do you want?"

"Things are different now, aren't they? Nothing seems natural," she spoke silently, "everything seems forced, and you can just sense the changing tides. So, now I must ask, are you happy?"

He rested his elbows on his knees, and for some very odd reason, her voice was causing certain memories to come back. "What kind of question is that?'

She finally lifted the rim of her hat up, revealing more of her face. He suddenly realized that he recognized her from somewhere, but couldn't put a finger on it. "Please, don't be hostile. I'm not here to be intrusive. I apologize for coming off that way."

He eased down slightly, but wasn't ready to just tell her his feelings. She had no right to know, anyways. "If you don't mind, I'd much appreciate it if you just got to the point."

She smiled faintly as he got a glimpse of her wide, round eyes. "Are you ready for something better? Do you want to be apart of something where you feel appreciated again, a place you can continue doing what you love, but no longer feel anxious?"

He stared into her face. She had soft features from what he could see. He lowered his eyebrows into a curious stare. "What, do you have some kind of proposition?"

"We heard back from your old man. Samson did a fine job at persuading him. We're always looking for versatile, elite soldiers. Sometimes we have to do some scrapping, but that's where you find the best men and women; soldiers who feel like they have nothing left to lose."

He continued to watch her from the corner of his vision. She turned her head back towards the road, bit the inside of his cheek, and brought herself up. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a card to hand to him. He stared at it blankly, but then recognized the symbol. So he slowly reached out to grab it; noticing how much bigger his hand was compared to her's. She suddenly signaled a taxi. He brought his eyes up to her.

"What kind of work would I be getting into." He asked with a deep voice.

"We're private contractors. We're a multi-billion dollar industry. Not run by the military, but we're what people send in when they don't want to spend millions on sending in military personnel." She shot her eyes in his direction. "You can be valued again, Soap." She said with a soft voice.

His eyes widened. "How would you-" He quickly stood, where he found himself staring down at her. "Wait, have we met before?"

She shrugged. "Maybe." A faint smirk pulled across her face as a taxi pulled up. She opened the door, but before jumping in she looked at him. "Remember, you are wanted somewhere. You're not alone in this cruel world." Her eyes shifted around as she lowered her voice. "Also, you're being watched right now."

With that, she pulled herself in as the taxi drove off. Soap immediately began scanning his surroundings before peering down at the card. Titan Task Force. Maybe starting somewhere fresh; starting a new beginning wouldn't be so bad.