Author's Note: Part 1, how Roach came to 141...

Disclaimer: I own no characters in this story besides Chekov, Alina Kerenskaya, Yuri Kerensky, Radion Kerensky and Dara Park. All characters are otherwise property of Infinity Ward.

PART I - One Year Ago

Gary rappelled from the Sikorsky MH-53 Pave Low down into the barracks. He had felt a sudden pang of inadequacy after seeing the troops who loitered around the compound. Some were jogging around the perimeter, others were benching what looked like tons on the outdoor gym whilst the rest appeared to be chatting in observation or sparring one another in hand-to-hand combat. They were thick, largely built men with bulging muscles and throbbing veins, their fronts and faces covered in the sweat and scars of every front line they had seen. Gary was 5"10' and just on 171lbs. Most of them could crush him beneath a single finger.

He unclipped the rappelling line and waved off the pilot before he began to head towards the massive concrete bunker in the middle of the compound. Though his face was disguised with a bland khaki balaclava and a pair of goggles, he could still feel their eyes watching him as he climbed the stairs to the bunker.

Gary knocked upon the door.

"Star?" In the single word, he could hear the rough voice of a Scotsman.

"Lincoln."

"Enter." Slowly, Gary twisted the handle.

Six men stood around a table. He felt a chill go down his spine as he saw the red-tinted lenses and a skull turn in his direction. His patch said he was British, but Gary couldn't tell. There was something freakish about this man, but Gary couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

Gary dismissed the feeling, putting his hand to his brow and standing at attention. "Sergeant Gary Sanderson, sir!"

"At ease, soldier. Good to see you made it in one piece." Gary recognized the man from the file. Lieutenant General Shepherd; commander of Task Force. "Glad to hear another American voice on my base. Where are you from, soldier?"

"Detroit, Michigan, sir."

"Nice place." Gary knew Shepherd was being a smartass with him, going by Detroit's common reputation. He would have picked a fight had it not been the Lieutenant General, but it was and Gary's hot head at least knew its place here.

Shepherd left the table and came to stand before Gary. He smelt of old cigars, a disgusting odor. "I take it you were briefed by Messenger on the way here?"

Messenger was the Australian on board the Pave Low who had accompanied Gary from Georgia, where he was last stationed. After being grafted from his previous deployment by special demand, he had been informed that he was no longer a regular Green Beret; he was Special Ops.

"Yes, sir."

Shepherd crossed his arms across his chest and jutted his head to the five left standing around the table. "Then this is your team for the mission. You'll be led by Soap."

The man had a defined high-and-tight with a gruff stubble and thick eyebrows shadowing over dark blue, almost black, eyes. A scar shot through his left eyebrow. He didn't look as though he could smile.

'Soap' looked to the aging lieutenant general with a raised eyebrow after taking a moment to inspect Gary. "You're giving us a kid to work with, Shepherd?"

Shepherd patted Soap's shoulder, taking a cigar from his pocket and lighting it. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Soap. The kid's dangerous. He's got a definitive skill set your unit will do nothing but benefit from. But go easy on him. He's the FNG." He looked to Gary with a smile. "Am I right, Sergeant?"

Gary nodded again. "Yes, sir." He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.

The Lieutenant General stared at Gary with adamant eyes. "From the moment you exit this room, Sergeant Gary Sanderson no longer exists. He was killed in Georgia three days ago. To the rest of the world, he's dead. To One-Four-One, you've just been born." A grin emerged beneath his mustache. "Don't let me down, Roach. Do your duty, and do it well."

Before he could reply, Shepherd had passed him and through the door into the courtyard and he was left standing before the five other troops glaring at him. Soap inspected him again.

"Roach, eh?" He couldn't tell what the big man was thinking, or whether it was in scorn or interest. "What's a kid like you doing around here?"

"Saving the world. What about you?" Gary said. He knew Shepherd had thrown him into the deep end, especially with this Scotsman. 141's were big, but he wasn't about to let them get the better of him.

"American; should have known. So you're some flashy triple-A Yankee, are you?" Soap shoved Gary lightly with a smirk.

Gary crossed his arms with an equally arrogant sneer. "You just met fucking Roger Clemens."

"You sound like typical gangland trash to me, those one without even half a brain cell." Soap grunted. "Like a bit of Eminem then? Maybe a bit of Pitbull?"

"Tell you what, Teuchter, first mission and I'll show you how I'm gonna rip this shit till my bones collapse." He had to admit, Eminem always had his back. Coming from downtown Detroit, Gary had a bit of pride in being Caucasian and from the 'hood. His family had come from substantially below the poverty line, but he always had the desire for military. In order to avoid his drunken father and drug-dealer mother, he spent his time training for selection. It was a way of breaking free of the vicious poverty cycle, and so far, he had succeeded. It had brought enough scorn in his career already, and he wasn't about to just let anybody tear him down for it.

"I'd lik-"

"The kid's an anchor, Soap, I think it's best you keep him on your good side." They all turned to the skull-masked figure. He had a cockney accent to support the British flag upon his arm. "I read your file, Sergeant. Age waiver Green Beret at nineteen. Impressive." Gary gave him a smug smile of satisfaction. "Following in Rob's footsteps?"

The FNG straightened, swallowing the lump that had developed in his throat. Robert Sanderson was in the Special Forces too. He had been killed four years ago, just as Gary had entered Special Forces training. It had led Gary to work harder and more vehemently, to never be as foolish as the older brother he idolized. Gary had always been an overachiever and he wasn't going to let it stop him getting his Green Beret by his own merit.

"Making my own, more like." Gary replied.

"He was a good man, good soldier. Always told me about you; his overachieving baby brother." The man looked down at Gary as he spoke. "I didn't think I'd ever be dealing with another Sanderson ever again."

"You won't be; I'm not Gary Sanderson." The twenty-three-year-old Sergeant smiled.

The man held out a gloved hand in front of him at chest height. "Ghost."

Roach clutched hold of it. "Roach."

"Welcome to Task Force 141, mate." He felt Ghost squeeze his hand before letting go of it. Behind the harsh red-tinted sunglasses, Gary could see a regal air of elegance from his soft refined blue eyes rather than a hardened soldier. Though he remained frightening, he seemed to be another in the band of misfits from here and there. Suddenly, it wasn't so bad. They felt like they were his new family, replacing the one he had left behind.

Ghost pulled out a flip-knife from his pocket, handing it to Gary. It was made of brushed gunmetal, engraved with a hardened 'G-R-S' upon its handle. "All of us have one. This one is yours." Gary took it, inspecting it carefully. Ghost rubbed Gary's hair, departing from the room. "Hope you enjoy your stay."

After all, Sergeant Gary Sanderson was dead. He was Roach, of Task Force 141.