Warning! This fic is slash, so if you don't like that, don't read. I should probably also warn that there will be a fair bit of swearing. When I say fair, I mean a lot.

Also! This chapter is rated M for darker themes revolving around interrogation.

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Soap, Ghost, or any other part of Modern Warfare as they all belong to Infinity Ward. I'm just amateur writer who likes to borrow them a little. Technically I do own Lev, Artem and Markov, but you know, I'm not going to get too hung up on them.

Note from Sassy: So an apology. I'm sorry this chapter has taken so long. Firstly, its been a challenge, and secondly its very angsty, and sadly I've been having a bit of an emotional time which has made a dark fic even harder to write, so I'm really sorry. I should also credit VerityA for the use of one of her Makarov lines…if you haven't read her fic 'The Cottage Rewrite' then I definitely would! Either way, I hope you enjoy the drama, and of course, huge love and thanks go to my gorgeous reviewers! :D

VerityA: As always you are too kind, as well as being my muse. I do realise how good (or not) I am though, which is the problem. :P As for Makarov…well, sadly his moral compass has got him into a load of trouble… :/ *hugs*

Leen141: So do I! I would love to see what really becomes of Makarov, as well as the team. And thank you! I think Makarov is very complex, and describing him as just a bit crazy just doesn't do him justice as a character. I hope you enjoy this chapter! :)

xGhostxStealth: NSD has got a bit intense recently… But thank you! You have no idea how happy that has made me, really. :D I'm sorry an update has taken so long, but thank you as always for your brilliant reviews, they make my night. :D

UrgentOrange: Thank you! *Blushes* It's a nice idea to think that I'm improving at least. As for the guns and my creative license…well we've been there already :P I am still honoured to be picked on though. :D

xStealthxSniperx: Thank you! I'm really not very confident with them, so I worry a lot about how they sound. :/ You are far too kind though! I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much. :)

SarkastinenNasse: Aww, thank you! I worried about it being a let down when the fic had building up to Makarov's capture… And I'm glad you liked the Russian POV at the start. I got attached to the characters myself and hated killing them. I'm glad you liked Makarov too! I like to write him as complex, or at least try to. I am gutted I can't read Finnish though! :(

Reeserella: Haha oh yeah…its coming at long last (about 14 chapters too late :P) But thank you, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

"No…" He didn't expect his words to have any real effect but he voiced them anyway, leaning back in his armchair, a clear grimace straining his features. In front of him was the little girl who had quite suddenly become a woman, her green eyes filled with frustration and enthusiasm in equal measure. He broke his gaze away, looking to his right where his wife looked on. "Nina…" Artem's voice was a silent plea for support. "You understand, right?"

"Dad!" Larisa almost begged, bringing his attentions back to where she was stood in front of him, her hands resting on her hips, her face determined. "This is the chance of a lifetime…"

"It's too far away…"

"I'll be gone 8 weeks at a time!" Larisa rolled her eyes. "That's all. Just 8 weeks…" She turned her head, eyes desperately searching for her mother's approval. "Mum…you know what this means to me."

"You knew about this?" Artem stood up quickly, an angry scowl aimed at them both. "Did everyone know except me?"

"She had only applied…we didn't want to worry you in case she wasn't successful." Nina sighed, not in the slightest fazed by her husband's short temper. "I knew that you'd do this."

"So you lied to me?"

"We're telling you now, Artem. That's all that's important here."

"I still don't like it." He shook his head quickly, his gaze flitting between them both. "It's too far…another country! With how things are now? It's ridiculous."

"It's an opportunity." Nina gave him a gentle nod. "Isn't that what you said you wanted for Larisa?"

An opportunity. The word was a sour presence in his thoughts, a bitter realisation that Nina was right. Larisa had always been a bright child, the top of her class and popular with her teachers. She was as motivated as he had been, but she had an added spark of intelligence that seemed to elevate her past his high expectations. He'd always believed in her, always told her that University was where she belonged, was where she would find the drive to continue learning and growing. He'd always told her that everything was possible, that nothing was out of her reach. And now she had taken that advice to heart. Oxford. He knew the meaning of the University, recognised its prestige and the accomplishment of actually receiving a place there to study, especially for an overseas student like Larisa. But at the same time, it was so far, so alien. And the politics of the time did nothing to soothe his paranoia.

"Dad…" Larisa was reaching out, grabbing his hand and holding it in between hers, a move that he couldn't stop tugging on his heartstrings. "This is what I want. More than anything. To study politics there…it would be a dream…"

"But it's England…"

"And I'll phone home every week…I promise. Twice if you want me to! And I'll be home before you know it…" She gave him a soft smile. "It's only three years."

"She won't get a chance like this again, Artem…" Nina added.

"I know…"

"And it's what I've worked for." Larisa nodded, sensing the sway in his emotions. "This is my life, Dad."

"And…you'll come home…every chance you get?" The medic raised a reluctant eyebrow.

"I promise." Larisa laughed quickly. "I'm not going to miss Christmas for anything!"

He'd known then and there that it was impossible to say no and face becoming a hypocrite. He had no right to stop Larisa where his own father had tried to stop him, memories of being told that he would never make a doctor flooding through his mind. And so, he'd agreed, allowed himself to be enveloped in the crushing hug that followed and trying with all his might to smile, even if inside his heart felt heavy and broken. He couldn't really imagine his life without his daughter by his side.

"I'm proud of you." Nina smiled, tears sliding down her cheeks as they both stood in the terminal, Larisa disappearing amongst the throng of other passengers. The airport was hectic, bustling, filled with tourists and businessmen alike, but right then Artem felt as if they were the only people there, a bubble forming around them both. Swallowing hard, his strong front held back tears, but an arm reached out, wrapping its way around Nina's shoulders and pulling her close. A tearful head pressed itself into his neck and he bent his head, kissing her hair.

"You were right." He almost whispered into the strands, kissing the top of her head again. "This is what she wants."

"…And it'll get easier…"

"It will…" He nodded, pulling back from her so that he could give her a weak smile. "It's just eight weeks."

"Exactly." She laughed softly, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to his lips. "It's just us again."

"I suppose that's not so bad…being stuck with you." Artem smirked, although a quick jab to the ribs soon put him in his place, Nina's face feigning offense.

"I don't know how I put up with you…"

"Because you love me?"

"Maybe."

"Too bad." He smiled quickly, reaching for her hand. "Because I definitely still love you."

3rd December, 2016.

Nina had slipped out of bed without disturbing him, leaving him to rest. It was a bright, inconspicuous morning, a harsh winter sun shining down on Moscow, the kind of pallid light that was beautiful but at the same time brutal. He woke up late, rolling out of bed and at first not realising the significance of the date, a hastily written note lying on the pillow next to him.

"Thought you needed the sleep, so I've gone to pick up Larisa from the airport. Get your wallet ready, I think we owe her a welcome back lunch. Love you, Nin."

A soft smile grew on his features and Artem glanced at the clock that hung from the far bedroom wall. 9.30am. They would already be making their way back.

He pulled on some clean clothes lazily and wandered into the kitchen, flicking the radio on whilst he rummaged in the fridge for some orange juice. At first he was only listening passively, his ears barely even registering the sound, mind lost deep within his own thoughts. It was just like every other morning.

All that changed in an instant.

"…Breaking news... Terrorists are thought to have made an attack on Zakhaev International Airport barely an hour ago. The attack is thought to have been started in terminal four, when witnesses from outside the airport reported to hear loud screaming and heavy gunfire. Armed police were immediately called to the area and it is still unknown whether they managed to apprehend the suspects. As of yet there is no news of how many fatalities have occurred as authorities have cordoned off the airport, but inside sources suggest that the death toll may well be over a hundred civilians, making this one of the most horrific terrorist attacks the country has ever endured…"

He'd barely been aware of his own thoughts, running out to his car and heading straight for the airport, his phone permanently attached to his ear as he continuously rang Nina's mobile, desperate for her to answer. The traffic in the city centre was panicked and congested so he'd abandoned his car, leaving it on the street and running the rest of the way, lungs burning heavily in his chest from the exercise. By now crowds were gathered around the airport, horrified bystanders desperate for news, but they found none, the police cordon holding them back and far away from any further threat. There was no news, no reassurance and people openly cried around him, many of them frantically dialling numbers and yelling into their phones, leaving voicemails that would never be heard. Everyone was spurred on by the same, insane hope, the same mad desire to hear their loved one's voice on the other end of the line…

In retrospect, Artem had always thought that the number of unanswered phones ringing in the airport must have been harrowing.

He'd lost his wife and daughter in an instant. The massacre had claimed them amongst all the others, their names becoming swallowed up within a larger statistic. To the world they were amongst the many innocent souls whose murder led to war. To Artem they were his life, his reality, torn from him in the blink of an eye.

He hadn't cried until their funerals, the sudden sight of the coffins suddenly making everything a reality. After that he felt that he would never stop, regret, guilt and remorse a constant presence in his mind and soul. He was filled with 'what ifs' and with painful questions. He hated himself for at least not dying with them, for not going with Nina to the airport and somehow managing to survive by a mere quirk of fate. The world descended into a pit of depression, self pity and thoughts so dark they could never be repeated. He was lost, suspended in limbo, suddenly trapped in a reality that had no purpose.

That was when he had found it. A letter from his old friend from years before, written to him back in the days when he had been too content to even consider it. Nikolai. They'd been good friends back in the days when they were both soldiers, but when Artem had left to settle down Nikolai had seemingly disappeared, no longer returning his letters or calls. The letter had come out of nowhere and although he had kept it for posterity's sake, Artem had pushed all thoughts of it aside. Until now…

"My friend…I need men I can trust. Men who are not completely convinced by our new government. Maybe you could call us the last loyalists. Either way I think you know what I'm asking of you. We need a medic. A loyal, good man like you. If you agree with anything that I've said, then please, at least consider it.

-N- "

He had nothing left to live for, and in an instant his mind had been made up. He would fight again, for the wife he'd failed and the daughter who'd been murdered by the same politics that she'd loved…

Makarov.

As the aircraft buzzed around them, Artem was almost in touching distance of the man who was behind it all, the man who'd walked through that same airport and cut down the people he loved. He was lying there, pathetic, handcuffed, a grubby brown bag still masking his features. Many of the men on board weren't paying attention, sore, injured and wearied by the operation. Artem was so close he could have simply reached over and pushed the fabric of the bag into the terrorist's mouth. No one would even miss him…

He would have done it too, but it was too kind. Suffocation would be relatively painless, unconsciousness falling like darkness and removing all suffering. It wasn't the death that Vladimir Makarov deserved…

He'd have to wait. But as he sat there, closing his eyes and thinking to the future, Artem reassured himself that Makarov would suffer. He would pay for every life that he had destroyed in Moscow. Not just the people he'd massacred, but for the people that had been left behind too…

Interrogation and torture were two very different things in Price's mind. Interrogation was unpleasant, inhumane and yet necessary, usually where the fear of pain far suppressed the pain itself. Torture was barbaric, pointless and savage. It served no purpose.

He'd not always known the difference. John Price considered himself to be as far from perfect as you could get and many times in the past he had confused interrogation with torture. He'd inflicted pain just because he could, or just because he thought he should, pushed people to the very brink of their limits without asking them a single question, not even allowing them the grace and kindness of death. It didn't make him proud to remember any of it, didn't make him feel tougher, or stronger, or simply more of a 'man' because of it. If anything, it made him feel ashamed, although he would never admit it to another human being for as long as he lived. However, he took solace in the fact that the experiences had taught him something, showed him what uncontrolled and unchecked vengeance was truly capable of.

But what he was doing with Makarov, what they were all doing, was something in a grey area. Price had questions, lots of them, and as a result Makarov's suffering was an interrogation. But at the same time, he hadn't asked any of them yet and that suddenly made everything feel so much more like the mindless torture he had come to despise.

"Hey!" Makarov's eyes had drooped closed and Price swiped at his face with his fist, connecting a firm punch into the Russian's already battered jaw. Flecks of dried blood spotted the pale skin of Makarov's face, smears darkening areas of his stubble. His lip was already inflamed and angry, a deep purple bruise beginning to circle his right eye. It was mainly Ghost's work, although the split lip was a direct present from Price himself. The idea was to make Makarov as malleable as possible, and his every experience at the base was crafted to cause him suffering, either through humiliation or more physical means. He was denied food, water, even movement, strapped to the cold metal chair, his hands tied at rough angles behind the back, his legs secured to the chair legs. By now they would be almost burningly with the need to move. "No sleep." Price waved his finger as if he was reprimanding a child, watching as Makarov's head lolled forwards onto his chest. They'd been meticulously keeping Makarov awake since his capture, and now his brain was lost deep in a bout of 'microsleeping', switching off into unconsciousness for a split second before his guard would rouse him brutally. Price doubted that it was all enough to actually break Makarov, but it was at least a start.

"How many…" Slowly, as if it was using all of his strength, Makarov began to speak, although due to his dry throat it was more of a croak than anything else. He managed to lift his head, eyes level with Price. "…have you broken like this?"

"Enough." Price replied immediately.

"I will not be… one of them…" The mismatched eyes showed true defiance.

"I don't think you're in a position to talk like that…" Price rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "But if you say so."

"…What do you…want?"

"Who says I want anything?" He raised a curious, almost bluffing eyebrow.

"Because…you and I are the same." The noise that escaped Makarov's beaten mouth was a breathy rasp, as close to a laugh as he could probably manage. "…You wouldn't want to give me the satisfaction of knowing that you were just torturing me…"

"Then maybe you and I can reach a little deal…?" To accentuate his point further, Price leaned forwards, his face as close to Makarov's as he could bear.

"…A deal?"

"Give me everything you have on Shepherd...and maybe I'll tell the Yanks to play nice with you when we hand you over…"

"…I will not be intimidated by the brutalities of the West…" Makarov shook his head, a pained, slow motion that threw shadows across his bare, bruised torso.

"And what about your own country?" Price raised an eyebrow. "They want your blood too…"

"My country…is led by a fool. An idiot…trus." Makarov grimaced. "I fear no one."

"Not even me?" Price let out a sarcastic laugh, fumbling for a packet of cigarettes. "I'm hurt."

"Least of all…you." Makarov forced an almost satisfied smirk, his fat lip hiding most of the gesture. "…You can't do anything…You need me. Alive." He let out another rasping laugh. "…And you hate it…"

It was a move too fast for Makarov's sleep deprived brain to understand as Price launched forwards, his pack of cigarettes lying neglected on the table. His left hand instinctively reached for Makarov's hair, gripping it tight and pulling his head backwards, his M1911 pressed firmly against the Russian's temple. When he spoke he kept the same calm, controlled tones, although there was an undeniable shake in his forearm. "Don't think for a second…that you can read me…"

"Should I be scared?" The determination that met Price's gaze was not to be underestimated.

"If you know what's good for you…No one said I needed you alive…" Price spat bitterly. "It's only easier that way…"

"Then…why stop?" Makarov spluttered, pushing his head closer to the gun. "Finish it…I dare you to…"

"Price…" There was another voice in the room, catching both men equally off guard. The Captain spun round, his eyes meeting with Markov and for a moment he stood motionless, almost as if he was embarrassed. Makarov's head lolled back down onto his chest and he choked again, not bothering to lift his gaze to look either of his captors in the eye. Markov faltered for a second, before giving Price an unsure look. "I'm your relief."

"Good." The Captain nodded abruptly, deciding that to show no emotion was the best course of action. His gaze slipped back to Makarov who was beginning to drift again and Price thrust his hand gun down firmly down onto the back of his neck, not a shimmer of remorse in his features. "Keep him awake."

"Yes…of course."

"Are the others around?"

"They're waiting for you in Artem's surgery…" Markov nodded slowly, sitting down in front of Makarov. "Nikolai sent me."

"Perfect." Price was already by the door when he spoke out, opening it and giving a fleeting nod towards their prisoner. "You might want to gag him too…if he hasn't got anything important to say then I don't want to hear it. Ok?"

The atmosphere in Artem's surgery was not a celebratory one. It was sombre, dark, almost brooding as Price stepped into the room, Nikolai, Artem, Ghost and Soap all stood waiting patiently for him. He gave them all a polite nod, although his eyes lingered on Soap, the other Captain looking pale and severely unwell. Price was quick enough to notice an almost concerned, caring squeeze to Mactavish's shoulder by Riley, but he ignored it, speaking to Soap directly instead.

"You look like death, mate."

"Cheers." Soap rolled his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably on the desk that he and Ghost were leaning on, the lieutenant moving aside slightly to allow him a little more room. "I'll be ok."

"I will give you more pain medication." Artem nodded curtly. His eyes immediately fell on Price. "Makarov?"

"Still with us. He's losing it a little…but he's tricky."

"Tricky?" Nikolai raised a confused eyebrow.

"He's not your average merc…he's trained, damn well too. He knows every trick in the interrogation handbook."

"So we push him as far as he goes…" Soap shrugged, trying to hide a wince of pain as he did so. "We've done it before."

"It'll take time…" Nikolai added.

"We're not going anywhere." Price sighed. "If it comes to it...we've got all the time we need. Long as he's still breathing."

"…Or we play by rules of our own…" Artem said slowly, his voice dark, eyes staring out into space. "There are some things he cannot protect himself against."

"Artem…" Nikolai's voice was almost warning, a scowl sweeping across his features as if he knew what the medic was thinking. "We cannot…-"

"We can." The medic turned around, stepping towards his medicine cabinet, reaching into it and hunting through the vials of chemicals purposefully, most of them looking as if they'd never been touched. Finding what he was obviously looking for, Artem brought the vial of clear liquid out into the light, holding it out towards Price. "Atropine…"

"Psychochems?" Price raised a knowing eyebrow. "I can't say I know much about it."

"I use this drug if I am resuscitating…it increases the heart rate." Artem nodded slowly. "But if I inject more than 20mg…it is different."

"What does it do?" Ghost's voice was blunt and unfazed.

"It makes you dizzy, nauseous and blurs the vision. It confuses you, light becomes unbearable and…" The corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile. "High enough doses will give you hallucinations."

"What kind of hallucinations?" Soap said almost cautiously.

"The worst kind…" Artem flicked the bottle. "This is not for recreation."

"But is it safe?" Price shook his head softly. "We didn't risk everything to capture him just to kill him in a drugs test."

"I won't give him enough for that. But he will suffer…and he won't be able to hide it."

"And you've done this before?" The older Captain was still not convinced, watching the medic carefully.

"No."

"Then how can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm a doctor…" Artem shrugged confidently. "I keep people alive…whether they want to be or not."

His heart was about to burst through his ribcage.

His pulse was a frantic tapping in his wrists, his temples, even his groin. It felt as though it was mounting, increasing, his veins suddenly feeling so exposed underneath such thin sheets of skin. He couldn't focus; the world was spinning around him although he was sat still, ever restricted in his every movement. The bright lights above him burned, twisting into different shapes and moving across his vision like phantoms, causing him to blink furiously, a doomed attempt to try and correct his vision, hot tears stinging underneath his eyelids. Even with his eyes clamped shut, the light was still there, intense and fiery as it scorched at his delicate retinas, shooting pains stabbing all through his skull. His entire body felt to be engulfed by fire, but a cool sheen of sweat on his bare torso made him tremor, every hair on his skin standing on end.

"I'm burning…" Makarov managed to mutter, his hands struggling in their restraints, his mind willing them to break free and tear at his skin, anything to make the crawling, tingling hot sensation leave him. His hearing was muffled, almost as if he was about to faint and he was unsure of whether or not he was speaking out loud, his words almost echoing around him. "Water…please…anything…" He lurched forwards in his chair, hanging his head as a desperate attempt to stay out of the light. "You're burning me!"

"Be quiet." A deep, driving voice suddenly sounded around him, but Makarov didn't look up. He couldn't. "Stop being weak."

"I can't…"

"You're an embarrassment. Look up at me." The voice commanded, but Makarov refused to comply. All was quiet for a few moments until the voice tried again, louder and more forceful this time. "Look up!"

Makarov jumped in his skin, the heavy noise ricocheting through his mind. His eyes snapped open, his breath suddenly hitching in his throat as Imran Zakhaev moved forwards, forcing a tight hand around his neck, the grip relentless and unforgiving.

"Zakhaev…?"

"You've embarrassed me." Zakhaev spat. "Look at you…weak, pathetic. Begging like a dog." He let go out of disgust. "This is not how I planned you to be."

"I followed you…"

"You followed yourself. Your own agendas, your own petty crimes." Imran let out a dark laugh. "Did we not think of something greater, Vladimir?"

"We were prostituted to the West…you said so yourself!" Makarov yelled loudly, his voice grating in his throat. "This war was to punish the west…To make them fight and die on their own soil…"

"This war was for your own petty revenge, don't try and deny it!" Zakhaev snarled. "Even that fool Vorshevsky knew better than you…"

"You know nothing…"

"I know more than you credit me for. Do not forget who it was who elevated you…who gave you strength." The older Russian rolled his eyes. "You were nothing until I gave you a position alongside me, and this is how you repay me?"

"I avenged you…" Makarov shook his head, agony stinging behind his eyes. "I still plan to avenge you…"

"The war is finished…"

"It is not over…I planned for this…"

"You let yourself be captured…You were a coward…"

"I did what I needed to…To survive." Makarov gasped, his hands still wrestling with his restraints frantically. "I wanted to see it to the end…"

"See what?"

"Yakov…" Makarov laughed suddenly, the action catching even himself off guard and his body jerked painfully. "My lieutenant…has infiltrated the base in the Altay mountains…the silo where you failed. The longer I am here, the more impatient he will get." A satisfied smirk danced across his features. "The missiles will launch…the Americans will suffer…and our war will be renewed. Vorshevsky will have no choice…"

"You're insane…"

"I am justified…I will have my war. Not just for me, but for you…"

He'd heard every word.

The hallucinations hadn't taken long and Artem had stood there for the duration, not hiding his enjoyment as Makarov twisted and yelled, writhing like a snake caught within a fire. He'd listened to him plead; to his one sided conversation, meaningless words flying out from his mouth like justifications. Not for a moment had the medic feel a single twinge of pity within his body.

"I am justified…I will have my war. Not just for me, but for you…"

The words had changed everything. For they'd been stupid enough to think that with Makarov's capture, the battle would be won and the worst would be over. But they'd been wrong. Vladimir Makarov had been much cleverer than that, engineering a final battle that did not even require him to be centre stage.

In some ways, the worst was just about to begin…

Ok so I know this is dark, but I really wanted to explore some of the consequences of 'No Russian'. And before anyone pouts…come on, this is me, of course there has to be an attempt at a cliffhanger… :P But in the mean time, I apologise again for this being a bit depressing. NSD is coming to a climax…and as a result things are getting a little more grown up (at least I hope so). On that note, if you're still enjoying this ride that we seem to be on, then I would love to read your reviews. They motivate me more than I can say, and they make me feel really special!

Thanks for the support!

-x-S-x-