Chapter 33

"Disbelief"

Day 7 – 16:59:23

Pfc. Mckinley 'Queen' Front

Task Force 141

Georgian-Russian Border

There's gotta be some sort of mistake…

Mckinley blinked her eyes once. Then twice. Then three times. She pinched her forearm lightly, and nothing happened. She pinched it harder, and still, nothing happened. Groaning, Mckinley rested her arm across her eyes to bring back total darkness as she reconsidered what she'd just seen. Truthfully, her brain could focus much better if her eyes were closed and everything was dark.

Am I dead? For real this time?

What she'd seen moments ago had been scary. No, horrifying. Much more horrifying than having to defend the DSM from sweaty Russian men, but not as bad as approaching Shepherd: the man supposedly destined to kill her and Ghost.

Was it even real?

To double-check before she really began to freak out, Mckinley opened one eye and glanced about her surroundings for any piece of evidence that she was hallucinating.

But before she could really take anything in, she shut both eyes even tighter than before.

She wasn't imagining things.

She was inside Makarov's estate.

Turning off every one of her five senses, Mckinley tried to remain calm as her brain used the information it had acquired from her brief glances to evaluate the current situation. She knew that if she took everything slowly and patiently, her mind wouldn't rip everything out of proportions before she got the complete story. Like she'd done when she'd first wound up inside Modern Warfare 2: analyze everything and don't freak out.

The room was one of the bedrooms of the estate.

She was lying down on something soft.

The air smelled of blood, antibiotics, and fresh bandages.

The areas from her chest down ached and stung madly, probably from freshly opened cuts and wounds.

There was a bit of shuffling downstairs, followed by the occasional muffled conversation and squeak of boots on the wood floor.

What was she doing there? How many days had she been knocked out? Had the Russians taken her captive? If so, where was the rest of Task Force 141?

Cautiously, Mckinley relaxed the muscles in her body and opened her eyes just enough for streams of light to slide through. From where she lay, she could see that the ceiling was scarred with old cigarette ashes and smoke, probably from when the Russians were using most of the rooms as sleeping quarters. She rotated her head to the right slightly and saw a heap of medical equipment sitting in the nearest corner, stacked in a lazy disarray. Next to the equipment, another door was hanging wide, revealing a full bathroom. The other side of the room was completely bare, except for a small pile of dirty, bloody towels collected near the door.

To her surprise, it didn't seem like anyone was keeping watch on her to make sure she didn't try to escape. She rolled her wrists and ankles around and didn't detect any ropes or anything. Was she really being held hostage? Or was there something else behind all of this?

Mckinley shivered, but then winced at the pain that came with movement. Now that her senses came back, she could feel the pain steadily growing in every fiber of her body. What was to happen to her? Something wasn't right with what she was seeing. After Shepherd had pulled the trigger… Mckinley racked her brain for any recall of the events, but nothing came up, as if she'd lost consciousness the second he'd tried to kill Ghost. But how could that be possible? The world wasn't that messed up… was it?

She bit her lower lip and was instantly surprised when the repulsive taste of her own blood slipped into her mouth. Confused, Mckinley feebly lifted her right hand to her mouth and wiped at the freshly extracted redness brimming on her lip. Why had one small nibble at her lip drawn so much blood?

Why were so many things confusing her?

Why was she acting so stupid?

She let her index finger explore the skin along her lip line, feeling for pockmarks and cuts. More blood seeped from the chapped skin where she'd bitten, but the trickle was beginning to slow. Her finger dragged to her cheekbones, then around to her eyes, to the tip of her nose, and then to her forehead. Nothing else was out of order.

Another sigh. This is stupid. I'm so disoriented; I can't even seem to figure out why I'm so flipping weak!

Her random thoughts ceased when something abnormal broke into the mix of things. Mckinley heard the door to her room slowly creak open, and a pair of muddy combat boots stumbled into the room seconds later. Her breath hitched in her throat, fearing the worst, and she pressed her lips together into a thin line to smother any noises of fear that tried to escape. The blood flow from her chapped lips halted.

"Queen? You awake, lass?"

Mckinley gasped.

"'Tavish?" Her voice croaked horridly, though the Scot seemed to disregard how awful she sounded. "What're you… what're we doing here? In Makarov's estate?" She attempted to sit up, but MacTavish leaned down and grabbed her shoulder, gently pushing her back down on the sleeping bag she was laying on.

"Don't sit up, love. You're still too injured to move."

Mckinley glanced up at him. MacTavish looked nothing like he usually did. His face was caked with cuts, bruises, scars, and dried blood. His left eye was almost invisible behind a wall of blue and black skin that reached from the crest of his cheekbone all the way up to the underside of his eyebrow. Mckinley brought her eyes downward some, and saw the extensive amount of bandages and wrappings swathing his chest. Faint traces of blood peaked from the pure white cloth, and remnants of dark bloodstains and dirt tipped the hems of his clothes. She gasped again.

That must be where Shepherd stabbed him.

"You wanna know why we're here?" he chuckled, not noticing her eyes continuing to stray back to his maimed chest. "It's a long story." He seemed to be having trouble blinking the eye that was doused in blue skin, for his attempts were erratic and spastic. Mckinley frowned at his pain.

"At least tell me how your mission with Price went," she requested, almost pleadingly. "How did you end up here?" Mckinley pretended to finally recognize his mutilated chest injury. "And how in the hell are you still alive from that?" Of course, she already knew all of that information, but acting like she had no clue was her best bet for the moment. She lay down like he'd asked, but kept her eyes wide and locked on the captain, anxious for a stimulating explanation to fulfill her curiosity.

MacTavish smirked and sat down on the floor next to her. He crossed his legs, rested his elbows on his knees, and contemplated on a good place to begin to his tale.

"I might as well start from the very beginning," he said finally.

~O~

SHORTLY BEFORE... (DOWNSTAIRS IN MAKAROV'S SAFEHOUSE)

Day 7 – 16:58:31

Lt. Simon 'Ghost' Riley

Task Force 141

Georgian-Russian Border

As he walked through the foyer, heading for the front door, Ghost was startled to notice a mirror hanging on the wall. He passed it, and was suddenly overcome with shame, seeing his upsetting reflection. He was still hiding behind that ghastly balaclava. Even after dancing on the brink of death and barely escaping with his life, he was still a coward. He could not show his face to anyone.

Glancing to make sure no one was watching, Ghost took a step closer to the mirror, removed his sunglasses, and then slipped the skull-adorned balaclava away from his features. His heart began to ache. It was as if he had just peeled the skin and muscle from his bones, revealing the empty, godforsaken core that seemed to play no part in his survival. His face was pitted with similarities to his father's face (the curve of his cheekbones, his firm chin, his long nose), but his eyes belonged to his mother. For a moment, he wondered what his mother would say if she saw his face now. Would she recognize the hollow frame of her son?

He heard footsteps. Quickly, Ghost returned his face to its usual appearance and turned away from the mirror. Mentally, he swore he'd never look into a mirror again without his mask on.

"You alright, mate?" MacTavish's voice intruded on the oath Ghost was silently taking. Ghost blinked his eyes and exhaled, facing his captain, who was now also standing in the foyer of the estate.

"I'm fine, 'Tavish," he lied. "Jus' thinking." Ghost winced as his gaze unintentionally swept over the Scot's mangled physique, becoming very much aware of how much more painful MacTavish's mission must have been compared to his.

MacTavish nodded. "Well, I'm just lettin' you know that I'm headin' upstairs to check on Queenie. If she's awake, do you want me to tell you?"

The blood pulsing steadily through his bloodstream became scorching hot at the mention of the woman who'd singlehandedly saved his life. He had been stopping by her room each day since they'd found shelter in Makarov's safehouse, hoping she would awaken.

"Yes, sir," Ghost replied. "I'd appreciate it." He lowered his chin solemnly. "'Tavish… you're completely sure she's gonna wake up… right?"

The thought that she wouldn't killed him.

MacTavish managed a smirk. He patted Ghost's shoulder. "Of course, Ghost. Both Doc and Chemo checked her over. Her wounds aren't fatal, remember?" His lips tightened together. "Though she has a helluva lot of injuries."

Ghost weakly smiled. "I tried, sir. But you know her. Stubborn as a mule. That woman would not run when I told her to. She was all for hangin' around and cleanin' up the tangos by herself."

Ghost's smile reflected instantly on the captain's scraggly face. "We sure got lucky with the lass, mate. We coulda' had some bloody trollop to deal with, instead of our red-haired angel."

"Too right, mate." Ghost massaged the back of his neck and glanced at the front door. "'Tavish, I'm gonna be out in the front on the deck if you need me. I need…" he hesitated briefly before continuing, "I need a bit of alone time. Some time to collect my bearings."

"All right." MacTavish started for the staircase. "I'll call you if she wakes up. Oh, and Ghost." He locked his gaze on Ghost's sunglasses because he was unable to see the man's eyes. "Do realize that I'm here for ya', mate. You can tell me anythin', and I promise I'll listen. You understand?"

Ghost sighed, trusting MacTavish's words, but not being able to fully trust the man any longer. He could put his faith in no one.

"I understand, 'Tavish," he said half-heartedly, leaving the man's solid gaze and casting his eyes downward. "Completely."

"Good."