That was when Shepard stepped forward. "He is no rougue, Sealers. He is a new kill."

The dark one, Diabolo, glared at him. "I knew I smelled a rougue in here. Get out of my sight before I turn you to dust."

Bravely, Shepard scoffed, "I already am. You'd be doing me a favor by just ending it."

With that, Diabolo sunk back into his bone seat, fingers weaved together as he growed lowly. "And why should we help him?"

Before he could let Shepard respond, Soap came to answer for him. "How about I make a bet with you, for my wellbeing."

To this, Diabolo seemed to grin, and the lighter spirit appeared unnerved by this but hadn't uttered a word of refusal. Clearly the Sealers were curious of his proposal. Now, beside him Shepard casted some rare form of an approving smile, one so quick that it faded as soon as it came.

"Go on, Newbie." Diabolo gestured.

Taking a breath, Soap steeled his nerves before continuing. "I will bet on the actions of someone I knew in life." Then he grinned. "How about, for added fun, you pick who we wager on."

Now that grin turned into a sinister smile. He casted up the flames in the pit in the center of the room to roar upwards. The heat was horrible to them, since they were growing used to the freezing air. In the fire, an image began to form. The face, the figure, the boonie. It was Price! Perfect! Just as he hoped. Diabolo didn't seem to notice the victory that shined in his eyes. "The last man you laid eyes on in life. You know him. What's your bet?"

Soap crossed his arms, appearing to be in deep concentration. "Him? I dunno... The man's very... difficult to predict." Then he played up his reaction to an idea that he already had. "I got it. My bet is he'll kill a Vladimir Makarov. In the next four months time. If I win, then I return to the land of the living. And Makarov will be all yours."

Diabolo chuckled deeply. "And if I win, you will join my ranks as another one of my spawn."

Upon hearing this, Soap felt like shouting that the deal was off, but he instead nodded in agreement. This was going to decide his future. And if he were to return to the living, then he needed to take this risk. Unfortunately, by the look that Ghost had casted him, it seemed that his once XO wasn't entirely in agreement with this. He'd just need to put up with it.

"Remember, no influencing either John Price, or Vladimir Makarov. They must do this on their own."

"I understand." Soap responded in a rather solid tone. "But either way, you still win. So what is there for you to worry about?"

Diabolo hummed as he stroked his chin with long nailed fingers. "I'll get back to you on that one, Newbie. Now get out of here. I will summon you in four months time, unless this Price kills Makarov early. Then I will summon you then. For now, leave."

With a curt nod, Soap turned and left. "Thank you." He gestured for Ghost and the others. "Come on."

Once they left, Diabolo laughed, hitting the bone arm of his chair. "THAT WAS TOO EASY!"

His brother, Angelo, seemed to not agree. "You are not keeping your word?"

"Oh, I am. And I'd better hold that new kill keeps his. Or I'll fry him." Diabolo cackled.

"Price..." He twitched ever so slightly in his sleep. But now he was practically rolling over on his side in the restless dreams that plagued his mind. They were no long dreams, just nightmares. "It's bloody good to hear from you, mate!"

Chest raising and falling faster as he was practically panting, cold sweat trickled over his skin as his fingers gripped to covers a little tighter. His eyes underneath the lids flickered back and forth, a tell tale sign of a very active dream.

"Goodbye, Captain Price..."

"No... no..." He turned over again as the scene played through his mind. Finally, he shot up to a sit as he practically shouted, "Mac!"

And there he was. Just sitting in his dimmly lit room. Once again back on base, and away from the mirror realm that was his darker and horrible dreams. It was very early morning, as the clock reading out in bright blue numbers 4:27 read. The only light came from the pale moon shining it's silvery cast down in through the window of his quarters.

Heart pounding and mouth dry as sandpaper, Price whipped some of the sweat from his forehead with his wrist. Then he took a shakey breath. It had only been a dream. A screwed up, mortifyingly vivid dream. He could attempt to forget the blood curtling screams, the sneer, and more of his close friends dead at his feet, but it wouldn't shake from his mind. He put his head in his hands as he was muttering curses at his mind. At Makarov. At Shepard. At Zhekeov. At the world. All for causing him to come to this.

But then again, being in military, it was expected you might see things you want to forget. You see the most haunting of scenes and the saddest of them too. He knew men who lost limbs in service, and he knew men who died in it as well. There were also people he knew who were mentally scarred for life because of the things they had seen. Soap being one of those men. It was almost funny. He remembered the beginning of the man's work here, how he was so untouched and acting like he was able to take on an army. When in just six days, he had changed. No longer so unprepared, or so easily startled. He was able to put Zhekeov down when Price couldn't 15 years prior. Then he found him again five years later, already a Captain. He hadn't seen a man grow up like that. And he knew well that he had obviously earned it. And he had seen the man's death, where at the time he was so much more introverted and calm. But even through it all, his sense of humor remained intacted somehow.

Just the thought of the man was hard on him as it was. But now as he looked over their over all relationship, the strong friendship that had been forged from loyalty and time, it made his eyes burn and blur. If only... if only he could turn back time and fix the day of his death. Patched his wound as best he could before moving on to the safehouse. He could still have that friend by his side today.

On his endtable sat the black book. This time, he picked it up, flicking on his light in the process, and opened it. This would be how he spent the next hour and a half until he would need to pick some new recruits for the 141.