Prompt: Enemy
Characters: Soap, Slip [OC], Yuri, Price [mentioned]
Timeline: Post-MW2 [AU]
Words: 4690
Rating: T

#4

'That is not a good idea, MacTavish.' Yuri said, eyes flicking up from the book he held in his hand. He was leaning against the door Soap had intended to slip through, the picture of casual indifference. 'I know you are angry, but taking it out on him will not do you any good. If you cannot trust me on that, then trust in your own experience. Torture blackens the soul, regardless of whether or not they deserve it.'

There was a brief pause; Soap sizing up the Russian with a dark look on his face. Clearly the man was sharper than he'd originally thought if he'd been the only one to anticipate Soap coming here. They hadn't spoken much. In the weeks after Shepherd's death, Soap had been bedridden, suffering through Loyalist medics and unmasked pain day in and day out as he'd slowly recovered. He'd barely had the energy to deal with the people he knew, let alone those he didn't.

He still didn't have the energy, really. Even now, he was exhausted on his feet, the journey down to the basement having taken more than he'd been prepared for. Yuri would have no problem keeping him from the other side of the door, if he chose to.

'It's Soap, mate,' he finally corrected the man, running an agitated hand through his hair as he did so. He hadn't been MacTavish, Captain or otherwise, since he'd unwittingly led his men to unbridled slaughter. 'Just Soap. And I'm not here for my pound of flesh. I think we both know that I'd blow over if a strong enough breeze hit. It's not exactly the best state to be in when you're planning to shaft the Geneva Convention, now, is it?'

'No,' Yuri agreed after a moment, head tilting to the side. 'Though if I am to believe you, I would need to know what it is you plan to do. Barring revenge, there is not much else he can offer you. Unless you are in the business of absolving a man of his sins. I do not mean to offend, but even with the cross around your neck, you do not seem to be the forgiving type.'

Soap bared his teeth at the thought. 'Not even close.'

'Then you would understand my curiosity, no?' Yuri smiled, all razor sharp edges. 'Personally, I do not care much for his wellbeing. But Captain Price… he seems to care a great deal about his survival. I cannot imagine he would be pleased if I simply let you walk in there without a reason.'

'Price has already brought you to heel, has he?' Soap muttered, irritation mounting when Yuri didn't seem phased by the slight. Perhaps he didn't understand it. Clenching his jaw, Soap rolled his shoulders before releasing an exasperated breath. This wasn't going to progress without some kind of concession on his part. 'I want… information. Answers to things only he can tell me.'

'You think he will cooperate?'

'I'd like to find out.'

Yuri considered him. 'Why would he talk to you? What makes you think this is something he would give without several bloody hours spent prying it from his tongue?'

'A fool's notion… childish, maybe…' Soap shrugged, unable to meet the gaze boring into him for the next few seconds. 'That we weren't the only ones who didn't know what was going to happen until they were told to pull the trigger.'

Silence. Yuri might not have been there for the events that had taken place, but he'd no doubt heard the finer details; from Nikolai, or Price. He wouldn't miss the significance of what was being asked – wouldn't miss the painful, burning desire to simply understand why.

A loud, deft snap of a book being closed – Yuri pushed away from the door, tucking the dog-eared novel into his jacket. Soap found himself searching the Russian's face out of morbid interest, trying to detect traces of whatever emotion had chipped away at his resolve. He never found any.

'… I am going for a walk. It is far too stuffy down here.' Footsteps paused – the man not quite turning around to call over his shoulder. 'If our friend is… gone, when I get back, then I will remember exactly what happened before I left. I will make sure you remember it too… Soap.'

The basement was a tiny, cramped room, with its furnishings stripped bare and a single, flickering light hanging from the ceiling. Its walls and floor were made of solid concrete, though cracks, mixed with the odd flash of green, suggested the waterproofing had failed a while ago. Soap quietly closed the door behind him, lowering the latch.

It was cold; goose bumps rising along the exposed parts of his arms as he stepped further inside, his weakened body unable to adapt to rapid changes in temperature as quickly as it once had. He rubbed at them idly; his gaze focused solely on the short, ragged man slumped before him. Whatever Price had done to bring this one in, it hadn't been kind – purpled skin speaking to a brutality that went beyond the usual snatch n' grab routine.

Not feeling even an inkling of sympathy, Soap moved towards the man. He had his hands pulled behind his back, wrists bound together and tied to the backing of his chair. Each ankle was strapped to one of the chair's legs, preventing him from kicking out. From his lack of response at the presence looming over him, Soap guessed that he wasn't quite with it.

Leaning forward, Soap took in the prisoner's left eyelid, which was swollen shut, before promptly slapping him across the face. 'Wake up.'

The reaction was immediate. With a grunt, the man snapped awake, his head jerking upwards, hazel eye wide in alarm. He blinked rapidly, trying to get a clear picture of his latest threat. Soap stared back at him, confusion furrowing his brow as he was hit with a sudden sense of familiarity. He'd seen this face before – back in Afghanistan. Back when he'd been staggering around in a sandstorm, waterlogged, a knife clenched in his fist.

He remembered fear turning into anger, his ears having caught the impotent click of a gun as somebody pulled the trigger on an empty magazine. There'd been a survivor from the crash, lying amongst the wreckage, one hand holding onto a wavering pistol. Soap had been ready to slit the bastard's throat, had been ready to witness the man choking on his own blood, lips turning blue, fingers clawing at a gaping neck. But then, he'd seen the eyes. Fogged with terror, on a face that was far, far too young. Tears had cut long, thin trails through grime covered cheeks, and Soap had turned away.

'Well, well,' he said lowly, not entirely sure he believed what he was seeing. 'Fancy meeting you here…'

The man made a choked noise, realization dawning on his features. 'You! Fuck…'

'Aye, it's me,' Soap sneered. 'Bet you're wishing you finished the job now, eh?'

Receiving a hastily shaken head in answer, Soap let out a derisive snort, knowing the gesture was only made to appease him.

'No. I didn't… I mean, I don't-'

'Save it,' Soap barked, hardly interested in bullshit excuses fuelled by self-preservation. He straightened, crossing his arms. 'I let you walk because you weren't worth the effort. Figured the desert would do the job for me, but here you are. Like a bloody roach that doesn't know when to die.'

The man eyed him nervously, keeping his gob shut. He couldn't have been older than early twenties. A grunt from Shepherd's mercenary force – intended as little more than cannon fodder. The already cracking composure was a clear testament to the fact. This one hadn't been built to endure. Five minutes with somebody who'd spent the finer points of their career persuading harder men to talk would have this wannabe spilling his guts.

Lucky that your mates topped Riley, eh? Soap thought, pang of loss quickly dissolving into righteous anger. He'd have you singing like a canary with its bollocks nailed to a cross.

Soap had never quite developed the stomach for torture that his lieutenant had. Ghost had had a knack for taking apart a man that even he'd been wary of, despite it having its uses. He'd never had a taste for suffering beyond the necessary.

'Please…' Slip's hoarse voice broke into his thoughts, as though the younger man had somehow sensed his weakness. 'I don't know what you want from me, but I'll do anything…'

Soap could only look at him for so long, the pleading expression making his gut clench. Beating a man in a fight was one thing, but beating them when they were so completely at his mercy…

'… I didn't come down here to haul you over the coals,' he finally said, the fight leeching out of him. He wasn't a sadist. 'But I do want answers. If you give them to me, I won't mess up that pretty face of yours any more than I have to.'

'… And if I can't answer your questions?'

'We'll cross that bridge if we come to it.'

Slip gave a weak nod, apparently understanding that was as good as he was going to get. 'What… do you want to know?'

'Afghanistan.'

It was an order; sharp and demanding. Soap might have walked in with a single, solid purpose, but that was quickly changing; the situation forcing him to think on his feet.

'We – I… I was picked up by the USAF,' Slip began, obedient once he'd understood the request. 'They sent out a recon team after Site Hotel Bravo went up in smoke. Brought me and couple other survivors back to Bagram Airfield where we got patched up, questioned...'

'I imagine you had quite the tale to tell,' Soap remarked flatly, already knowing where this was headed. He wasn't disappointed – the man unable to meet his gaze, swallowing thickly.

'We didn't… tell them everything. Before we were taken in for questioning, we were met by an old Colonel – said he was a friend of Shepherd's. He told us that it wouldn't be in our best interests to… well, to tell the whole story.'

'So you lied.'

'… Yeah.'

Soap wasn't surprised. There wasn't much honor to be found in those interested only in their own survival. 'The Colonel… Who was he?'

'His name was – is, David Hayne. He had an in with Shepherd – knew all about the Shadow Company, knew all about… you.'

'Me?'

'The 141. He knew… the truth.'

'Of course he did,' Soap muttered. Shepherd had kept his hand in quite a few honey pots. It was no surprise that there were people interested in keeping his secrets. 'What did he want?'

'He came to us after we'd been released from interrogation – offered us a job. Apparently Shepherd's… benefactors were still interested in what Shadow Company had to offer.'

'A bunch of guns for hire,' Soap said disparagingly. 'Who wouldn't be interested in that, eh?'

'It wasn't like-'

'So you took the job,' Soap overrode him, an edge in his tone that warned against any kind of justification for his actions. 'Which explains how you ended up in our little corner of the world. Taking on the FLDR, was it? Price was wondering why a rag-tag group of Shadow Company survivors were going after African militia – but it turns out you were on somebody else's pay roll.'

'We were hunting an arms dealer…'

'Amare Jakande,' Soap supplied, knowing exactly who he was talking about.

'You got to him first.'

'Being lauded internationally as a war criminal means you have to be packing quite a bit of firepower to survive. That kind of reputation makes it difficult to buy, even from shady backstreet vendors. Slotting one more bad guy to fix our problem seemed like a good solution,' Soap rolled his shoulders, wholly unconcerned. 'Besides, we'd heard that there were some jack-booted American thugs out looking for him. Figured we could kill two birds with one stone…'

'Is that what you plan on doing?' The man rasped, staring up at him with his one good eye. His face was pale, anxious. 'Killing me?'

'If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead,' Soap said, tone cold, matter-of-fact. 'Price would have put you down, but you're more useful to us alive. Even more so with you being the only one we managed to snag.'

Slip heard the unspoken question, gaze dropping from Soap's shoulder to his boots. '… I didn't make it to the chopper in time.'

Price hadn't mentioned why he'd only returned with one unconscious, blindfolded captive when there'd been five ripe for the taking. Soap had been forced to sit that particular rodeo out, gleaning the bare minimum of details from his superior before the man had made himself scarce. It'd probably hurt his pride, somewhat, to have so many slip through his fingers – and, Soap thought with the traitorous beginnings of a smile, to have the one he did catch practically handed to him on a silver platter.

'They left you behind,' Soap said, letting out a harsh bark of laughter. The man flinched. 'No loyalty amongst mercenaries, eh?'

Pain and humiliation flashed across the man's face. 'They found out I'd been on Shepherd's Pave Low – getting a free ride while he torched everybody else. I – I didn't want to be there, man! I was escorting him. I had to get in. If I'd known that… And then what the hell was I supposed to do? Hayne wouldn't have let me walk away…'

'Probably should have worked a little harder to keep that one a secret,' Soap remarked, not even a hint of sympathy in his voice. It wasn't hard to figure out why the man had cut himself off. If I'd known that… He would have climbed into the chopper anyway, because he didn't have the spine to go out alongside his comrades. Soap would have left him behind, too. 'I suppose you have a name, Chump.'

'Colton West,' was the quiet response, after he'd flinched for a second time. The nickname hadn't been lost on him. 'But most of them… called me Slip.'

Reciprocating was second-nature. 'I'm-'

'John MacTavish,' Slip finished for him. 'Captain of the 141.'

'Hardly a Captain, considering that most of my men were slaughtered like pigs by the same people trusted to watch their backs.'

Slip heard the animosity, stiffening. Soap couldn't rightfully blame the 141's brutal massacre on the man – not when he personally knew how good Shepherd was at manipulating the men who'd served under him. That's why Shepherd picked them young, using ego to sway them with promises of power and glory – perfectly malleable for a General with his own, questionable cause.

But even so, Colton West was an unfortunate symbol of the organization that'd singlehandedly destroyed Soap's past, present and future. Shadow Company had laid a river of innocent blood at his feet for which he would be forever judged upon, and Slip was an outlet of convenience.

From Slip's audible silence, he knew it, too.

Soap had balled his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms. Get a hold of yourself. Don't make him into a martyr. He did what he was told.

As far as Soap knew, Slip hadn't spilled any blood.

Shepherd's the one you want. And you slotted the bastard.

The sharp reminder of an empty magazine nearly shattered his calm.

Orders. If it was Price, you would have followed them too.

Soap inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head.

If it was you, then Simon, Chris, Gary – they would have done it without question.

That took his mind somewhere he didn't necessarily want it to be, summoning a mental image of curly, brown hair and roguish dimples. Before he could register what he was doing, his mouth started moving, words falling heedlessly from his lips.

'I had a young sergeant under my command, once…'

He wasn't sure where he was going; months of sadness, guilt and rage driving him forward. It wasn't so much a need to get pent-up emotions of his chest – rather a desire to share the pain with his captive audience, to make him understand what he'd done.

'…He was about your age. Plucked from an American EOD squad because of his aptitude for pyrotechnics. The cheeky bugger always had a grin on his face, which pissed off some of the other lads – especially when he phased out all the other candidates to become our lead demolitions expert. Shepherd stepped on quite a few toes with that decision, but Roach – Gary, was good. He deserved the promotion.'

Soap shook his head ruefully. 'Of all the boys, though, he clashed the most with Riley. Simon Riley – my 2IC. He had one hell of a reputation, that bloke. But what people didn't know, was just how damaged the man was underneath. It would be hard to tell, unless you knew him before. He was a different person back then.'

'Somewhere along the line, though, Riley got twisted up and mangled into something barely recognizable. He was dark, angry – a shadow of his former self. But still the best 2IC I ever had. Maybe I did more harm than good keeping him on,' Soap chuckled, the sound almost bitter. 'I guess it hardly matters now…'

'In any case, he was the polar opposite of Gary – the two of them were constantly at loggerheads with each other. I was about ready to toss one of them out the bloody door after four months of it, but then it changed.'

A heavy sigh. 'I don't know what happened, exactly. They never told me personal details – just handed in a report that covered the incident, in-line with basic procedure. It was a standard op, but something clearly went pear-shaped. Gary came back with a haunted look in his eyes that he never quite managed to shake, and Riley – well. I've never known the man to be concerned over anything, but he trailed after Gary like he was afraid the man was going to disappear.'

Soap tucked his hands into his pockets, staring blankly into the distance. 'They were never apart for long after that. Gary became a surrogate brother, of sorts – Riley had lost his little brother years ago, but the instincts were still there. I couldn't put one on a squad and not the other – it would send them both into a right tizzy. So when we were planning our assault teams to take out Makarov, it was second nature to place them together. Of course, it didn't help that Riley hated Price.'

He snorted, unable to keep the regret from slowly bleeding into his features. 'We'd only just pulled Price out of a Russian Gulag. Riley hadn't had time to warm up to him yet – didn't trust him, was convinced he didn't have their best interests at heart. It wasn't that he didn't agree with Price taking risks – he just didn't agree with Price taking risks around Gary. He figured that if he took Gary with him, then he'd be able to watch his back. Keep him from getting burnt.'

Soap finally glanced back at Slip, staring at him with an intensity that refused to let the other man look away. '… Now they're both dead. Buried in shallow graves – forgotten. Not even a memento to return to their families. And here I am – one of the lucky ones. It would have killed Riley, knowing that his decision led to Gary's death. I'm not sure if he'd be able to live with himself. It's probably more merciful that he never had to – for him, and for you.'

The meaning was clear – Slip must have been blessed to land himself the good Catholic boy, instead of his damaged lieutenant. He'd be screaming around a mouthful of blood in other circumstances. Soap wanted him to know that, to know how much worse things could have gone – how much worse off Slip deserved to be.

Soap closed the gap between them when Slip didn't utter a word – not in defense, apology, or explanation, as he'd silently demanded. He pulled his hand from his pocket, noting the way Slip blanched at the action, obviously expecting some form of retribution. The alarm dissolved into confusion a moment later, after Soap tugged free his wallet. He opened it – digging out a small photograph from its depths.

It was a picture of him and a few of his boys in Afghanistan, decked out in sunglasses, scarves and devilish grins. He dangled it in front of Slip, so close that the man went cross-eyed trying to see it. 'You and your mates murdered these men in cold blood. I want to know why.'

Slip licked his lips, visibly anxious. 'We… we were ordered…'

'That isn't what I asked,' Soap snarled, making Slip jump, the man's shoulders jerking painfully. 'I bloody know what Shepherd ordered you to do. What I want to know is why. What reason did he give you that was good enough to justify turning on your own?'

'He… told-'

Soap could have shaken him; Slip's hesitance starting to seriously piss him off. 'Speak up, West. Before I fucking insist.'

'He told us that the Task Force had used Joseph Allen to inflame international tensions,' Slip managed to gasp, eager to prove he didn't need persuading. 'He said that you'd sent him to Makarov like a lamb to slaughter – trying to provoke a war.'

Soap listened, unmoving. His mind was whirring; making the unseen connection between Shepherd's heralded prodigy and the brutal slaying of civilians at Zakhaev International Airport which had incited everything. He'd already known the good General had played a role in setting up the stage for the world's next great conflict, but it hadn't occurred to him that the bastard had been silently offing his men – sacrificing them over the years to further his own ends.

'Go on,' he prompted roughly, when Slip paused long enough for Soap to realize he was stalling. He hadn't been as composed as he'd thought.

'… Shepherd said Allen was just a guy like us, trying to do the best by his country. He didn't know what you had planned for him until it was too late,' Slip took a steadying breath, steeling himself. 'By the time Shepherd found out about the 141's betrayal, thousands of Americans had already been killed. A number that only went up when Price launched the missile in Petropavlovsk…'

'Which is when he told you to top us,' Soap finished, shaking his head in disbelief. To hear the tale that Shepherd had spun… it infuriated him, the shock he couldn't stop himself feeling – because despite everything, he'd trusted the man – quickly adding fuel to the fire. 'And like good little brainwashed soldiers, you did.'

'How were we supposed to know any different?' Slip tried to defend their actions, desperate. He knew he'd fanned the flames, knew this wasn't going to end well, but apparently couldn't stop himself from taking the last step over the edge. 'He told us you were traitors…'

Soap slammed his hands down onto the chair arms, face dark with fury. 'You fucking think I'd do that to one of my men? That I'd sell out your country? Start a war that would butcher thousands of innocent men, women and children?'

'I-it's what he told us,' Slip choked out, nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide. The argument sounded weak, even to his own ears – like a child that'd gotten caught doing wrong on the whim of an older sibling.

'What reason did he give you?' Soap spat. 'That justified us turning on our own and going against everything we stood for? Everything we swore to protect?'

'He… never gave us one.'

It was said with no small amount of bafflement, as if the man hadn't put much thought into it and wasn't sure why. It was such a simple question to ask: critical in determining motivation, in fostering understanding about the enemy, in anticipating their movements. Slip looked bewildered, realization dawning slowly – a pawn, finally comprehending their worth.

'Too fucking right he didn't,' Soap said, sotto voce, as he drove his point home. 'But you followed. Murdering good men simply because you were told to. Blind fucking robots willing to do anything for a shred of validation.'

Slip, who'd pressed himself reflexively against the back of his chair when Soap invaded his space, went lax. He scoured Soap's face, desperately searching. For a lie, perhaps – something that would wash off the blood now dripping from his hands. 'I'm sorry, man,' he eventually croaked, looking so spent that Soap briefly wondered if it would have been kinder to hit him. 'I didn't know. I just… didn't know…'

The wrecked expression on Slip's face told Soap he'd broken something in the man, but he couldn't bring himself to feel an ounce of satisfaction over the fact. Straightening, he stared down at the dejected prisoner for a few seconds before turning away, unable to stand the sight.

He glared furiously at the wall. This was what he'd wanted – but it didn't feel anything like he thought it would.

He just felt… empty.

'What happens now?' Slip – West's soft, defeated voice asked from behind him, when it became clear that Soap had no interest in continuing the conversation. 'What are you going to do with me?'

Part of Soap wanted to ignore him – to walk out the door and forget about the young, shattered little puppet behind him. But he couldn't. They were both just victims of circumstance.

'We need you as evidence – an example,' Soap said tonelessly. 'When the world is ready to hear about Shepherd, we'll trot you out. Uncle Sam will have plenty of questions. I expect you'll happily oblige, considering their methods of persuasion.'

Interrogation. Torture. Soap had accepted those possibilities with a vicious sense of just desserts. Now, he kept his attention on the bland, grey concrete, Slip's reaction to the news remaining unseen.

'… And if they're not ready to hear it? Haynes…'

If it was decided that the truth about Shepherd was too damaging to come to light… they'd all be well and truly shagged. Carrying around dangerous secrets on a loose tongue was the quickest way of getting your head stuck on a pike.

'We'll get snuffed, won't we?' Slip said, shaky. Maybe it had finally clicked – the fact that even if he was rescued, his own country would be willing to close the blinds on him to keep things quiet. His days were numbered, no matter what. 'In some dingy little CIA black site… Jesus…'

'Nobody's getting snuffed,' Soap heard himself snap. He couldn't say why, exactly, but the fear in the man's voice was starting to grate. 'If anyone's wringing your bloody neck, it'll be me. That's my fucking privilege…'

And it was. Slip owed Soap his life.

There was sudden silence; then a slow, raggedly drawn breath.

'… You'd make it quick?'

Soap felt his eyes widen a fraction. For one long, long moment, he was still, quietly working to erase his reaction. He hadn't expected that question at all; sounding hesitant, hopeful. It dropped a heavy weight on his shoulders, the request leaving him tired, drained. He'd mercy killed before. Ending minutes, hours, of needless suffering in the blink of an eye.

But for a man whose suffering he could justify?

'If it came to that,' Soap finally said, craning his neck to look back over his shoulder. He met Slip's gaze; caught the stricken lines etched into pale skin, the silent plea burning in too-bright hazel. '… I would.'

Because he couldn't justify it.

Ten years his younger, following orders like every other recruit in the armed forces. It wasn't his fault the man giving them was aggrieved with insanity. Soap could, grudgingly, see that. Even if he had to actively work for it.

'… Thank you.'

Soap nodded once before leaving, the gratitude tasting bitter on his tongue.