Author's Note: So... this is really the beginning of Roach and Ghost's torments... Or how they came to be tormented. As said, it's an alternate view to Roach's falling from the roof in the "The Hornet's Nest" level in MW2. Mixed around the characters a bit though...

WARNING! This story contains graphic depictions of character torture, hints of rape/abuse and slash. (not quite yet though... It'll come)

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 II – Six Weeks Prior

"My friend, from up here, it looks like the whole village is trying to kill you!"

Roach slid across the corrugated iron rooftop to turn the corner. Gunshots reverberated in his ears, ricocheting from every wall around them. He had been caught in a crossfire just as the rest were fleeing, otherwise he would have been the fastest of them. Soap was up ahead, navigating the way towards the beta Landing Zone, Apex just behind. Ghost directly in front of him, glancing back every few seconds to see how he was holding up.

It had been a year since he joined Task Force 141. With over twenty special operations to his name, Roach was no longer the rookie of the regiment, but he remained the youngest – the prodigy -by at least four years. Since his arrival onto TF141, only Ghost, Soap and Roach three remained from the original unit. The terror Soap once brought him with his Scottish sonic-boom of a voice saying, 'Drop and give me fifty!' no longer existed. The Scotsman was fond enough of Roach as to not tell him to learn his place when Roach reminded him that if he wasn't killed by bullets, it would be by the lung cancer.

As for Ghost, Roach and he were close. Was that a result of his brother, Robert Sanderson? Roach didn't know, but whenever Roach's arrogance, quick temper or attitude had gotten him into trouble, Ghost had always been the one to claim defensiveness.

Day 4. The Hornet's Nest.

Roach had never been fond of the idea of torture, but extracting the information they needed from Rojas and his assistant was more difficult than they had thought. Ghost often told the story of his friend, Lieutenant Simon Riley who had been tortured for months with the most unspeakable torments. Soap dismissed it as fiction, but amongst TF141, it remained the reason for Ghost's permanently hidden face. It had all suddenly become much more real when Roach had viewed how calm and impartial Ghost had been in the application of electricity which ended the lives of both men.

But they had the information they needed and were on the way to obtaining it: Prisoner #627.

However, there were people in the favela - Russian people - who were not all too happy with the knowledge that Rojas had been hunted down. They had no option but to leave. They didn't have time for another firefight.

"Tell me something I don't know!" Soap yelled into his comm. piece. Roach leapt over a small alleyway gap and landed, watching as the field commander slid backwards through some bed sheets hanging out upon the line. His heart was beating, the adrenaline of his flight flooding through his body. Fighting was natural for his missions, fleeing the enemy without attacking was not. "Just get ready to pick us up!"

Soap spun around a corner just as Roach sped across a make-shift roofing bridge. Ghost's voice shouted back at them in his sprint. "We're running out of rooftop!"

He turned the corner. The Pave Low was hovering with its entrance level with the rooftops just opposite the alleyway which split the favela blocks. Thank god for his goggles; the dirt and dust whipped up from rotors was almost unbearable.

"We can make it! Go go go!" Soap boomed, passing Apex in his flight.

Roach watched as Soap sailed through the air first, a massive crash sounding as his feet collided against the iron rooftop, stumbling forwards for a second before regaining his balance, followed by Apex. Ghost made the leap.

He held his breath.

A sudden pain shot through his leg. "NO!" Roach felt his leg buckle beneath him as the bullet made its exit.

"Roach!"

He wasn't going to make it. Roach crashed down against the rooftop, his weapon hanging upon its sling beside him. But he was sliding. Roach grappled to find a holding upon the corrugated iron but there was none.

Roach felt himself jerk upwards. His fingertips had just held onto the edge of the rooftops.

He saw a skull emerge from above. Its hands were stretched out towards him, trying to snatch his into it. Roach released his left hand to catch its grip. But it stumbled forwards.

Ghost's supporting right arm crumbled beneath him. His left shoulder came crashing down to the rooftop. As Roach began to fall, he watched as Ghost followed him down. His eyes widened in horror.

Then his vision cut.

Roach had suffered plenty of concussions, but falling twenty feet was a different issue. Helmet or not, the impact was enough to put him out for a few minutes. His head throbbed. His leg was numb.

Hands padded across his body. Roach could feel them strip off his vest, pulling it over his lolling head. His gloves were pulled from his hands. Through the blurriness, he could see his helmet tossed aside with his goggles and balaclava and his weapons.

"Ghost? Ghost…?" Roach muttered, unable to comprehend the world around him.

He heard laughs come from around him. "Идиот понятия не имеет..." The idiot has no idea.

The hands pulled his hands behind his back, tying them together so tightly he could feel the blood flow cut. His ankles were linked together as well before they hastily moved to his head. A man placed his hand around his mouth so his index finger and thumb met the opposite ends of his teeth beneath his cheeks. It squeezed, forcing open his lips to part. Roach felt something stuffed inside his mouth before another rag wrapped around his head and tied off.

Roach felt himself get pulled up from the ground and his athletic frame thrown onto a large black Cuban's shoulder twice his size. He grunted as the air was pushed from his stomach. Sweat was drooling down his face and through his hair as he stared to the dirt street below. Roach attempted a struggle before he felt a hand clutch around his throat. His own flip-knife was brandished before his face.

His breath stunk of vodka and cigarettes, his face scarred with a massive slice down one eye. Roach was staring into the face of his enemy; Yessen Chekov. "Struggle, young one, and I will cut your friend's throat." He jerked the knife in another direction.

Roach tiredly raised his head, immediately pausing. Ghost hung over another man's shoulder, tied, limp and unconscious. For the first time, Roach saw his auburn-red high-and-tight and real face without his skulled balaclava, headset or sunglasses. He resumed looking to the ground.

"Good boy." Chekov patted his head with a freakish smile. Roach growled angrily. If there was anything he hated more than the Russians, it was condescension. Chekov laughed. "If you plan on surviving, American, you should save your energy." He looked to his henchmen. "Let us go."