His head felt like it was being pounded on the inside by a hammer, his body felt cold, and his midsection throbbed harshly. With a low groan, he sat up, using his elbow to keep him from falling back down, and looked at his surroundings. A darkly painted room with clutter strewn across the floor and tables and shelves. He himself was one a wooden table, darkened with long dried blood.
When he pushed himself up completely, an object which had been resting on his chest fell on his thigh. He looked down at it to see a pistol. An M1911, he knew somehow, despite not knowing how he could have knowlodge of firearms. With numb fingers, he took hold of it, holding onto the sense of something familiar. Something that held some warmth of memory which tried to push through his mind...
A man with a mustashe, he felt he should know his name but couldn't place one, slid him that pistol. And he used it to shoot a one armed guy who was about to kill him.
That man again showed up, wearing a knit hat and dirty clothes with his mustashe grown to a beard, and he had handed the pistol back to him. And when he had the pistol aimed at him before they reconized each other, the bearded man called him "Soap". In the breif moment of shock, he called the man "Price".
Who was this man? He wasn't sure. But he knew he should. He knew that he had known at least a name. Something. Then another thought passed his mind, maybe if he found him, he could find out who he was. He probably knew him too, right? So this mysterious bearded man was his best bet.
Problem was, he had no idea where he or the man were. No clue where to go. Some instinct told him not to trust anyone, that everyone was his enemy. With hope, he could find the answers. But pushing his mind to the breaking point wasn't an option, he wanted to know if he would remember in time, if things would start to come back.
And that man called him "Soap". What the hell? Was it his name or something? Maybe it was, maybe not. He wasn't sure at all. But it was all he had to go on, his only clue besides who he could look for. Now where to go is the question.
He sat in the room for a long hour until he concluded that it couldn't hurt to look around. If he was lucky, very lucky, he'd bump into the mysterious man in the breif memories he saw.
At some point, he came across the street, where he saw the windows of a store were being repaired, and few people were walking about. But he felt strange, like he was there before, which could be it. But somehow it felt worse than simply a sense of reconizition. Something dark and eerie about the place haunted him, and he had repressed the memories so that he might fight back whatever horror would face him should he ever see.
No matter how hard he tried, he could not keep them back.
"Just leave me, Price..."
"No! I'm getting you out of this!"
His knees felt weak, and he used the wall for support as he was forced to take the force of his mind, collecting the lost information as best he could. Despite his heavy breathing, and his beginning to tremble, he didn't stop. He went through a store and into an alley, where he saw a dumpster with a dark stain in the front.
"Just patch me up... Get me back in this..."
"We need... Nikolai... get us out..."
"You can make it, Soap!"
The pressure around him was immence, he could hardly breathe at that point. Whoever he was, he must have known a lot of people... and he was probably dangerous. He only needed to see the pistol, the second one strapped to his leg, and a combat knife in a shealth on his vest to get the message.
To that, he knew that finding this man, Price would be very important...
You guys remember what Diabolo said last chapter? Yeah... this is what he meant. Pour confused Soap...