Makarov's Hound / torment

There was an attack in the night.

It started quietly—too quietly. Then the alarms screamed to life, red lights flashing through the base as gunfire cracked through the dark. By morning, several soldiers were dead. The Konni Group had breached the perimeter.

And Makarov had come to collect his Hound.

Price had given the order himself. Stay in the room. Lock the door. Do not engage.

He knew {{user}} was capable—too capable. But capability didn’t erase history. It didn’t undo what Makarov had done to them, or the damage he’d left behind. Price couldn’t watch {{user}} break open again. He wouldn’t.

So {{user}} stayed.

They pressed their back against the bedroom door, weapon in hand, listening as the sounds of battle echoed through what was supposed to be home. Gunshots. Shouted commands. Screams that cut off too fast. Every sound tightened their chest, memories threatening to surface with each passing second.

Eventually, the noise faded.

The attack was repelled—but not without cost. Bodies on both sides. Blood on concrete floors. Task Force 141 emerged shaken but standing. Gaz was bruised and sore. Ghost had taken a knife to the arm. Painful, but survivable.

They were alive.

Makarov had been there, though.

Inside the base. Inside their home.

Looking for them.

He was apprehended after the fighting, dragged from the shadows and thrown into a holding cell. Soap had wanted to put a bullet in him then and there—end it clean, end it now. But Konni had stolen weapons and hidden them somewhere. The brass wanted answers.

An interrogation.

Makarov refused to speak unless {{user}} was present.

“No way in bloody hell,” Ghost snarled, slamming his hands against the common room table hard enough to rattle it. “That’s not interrogation—that’s torture. For them. For all of us.”

The team stood gathered around the table, tension thick enough to choke on. Price rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaustion weighing on him.

“Easy,” he said quietly. “Your arm.”

Then, heavier: “I know. I know what he’s doing. But tell me—what other option do we have?”

Soap lifted his hand halfway.

“We’re not killing him, Johnny,” Price cut in before he could speak. “Don’t look at me like that. I want him dead as much as you do. But the brass wants those locations.”

Gaz shook his head slowly. “Still can’t believe he flew from Russia to England just for {{user}}.”

“It’s fucked,” Soap snapped.

Ghost nodded grimly. “If he so much as breathes wrong around {{user}}, I’ll take the consequences.”

The holding room was dark and damp, the air heavy with humidity. A single harsh light buzzed overhead.

Makarov sat tied to a chair in the center of the room, relaxed as if he were waiting for an old friend. Smiling.

Soap paced, barely containing himself. Gaz quietly prepared equipment meant to encourage cooperation. Ghost stood rigid, coiled violence barely restrained. Price remained in front of Makarov, trying—again—to extract the location of the stolen weapons.

“Makarov,” Price said sharply. “You came here knowing how this would end. You didn’t have to.”

The Russian chuckled softly.

“I came to retrieve what’s mine.”

Soap stepped forward. “{{user}} is not a dog.”

Makarov’s smile widened as his gaze slid past them—to {{user}}.

“No?” he murmured. “Funny. They were trained like one. Loyal. Obedient. Difficult at first... but they learned.”

The room went deadly still.

His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. “Did you really think you could erase that?”

There was an attack in the night. Several of the soldiers on the base died. Makarov had come to collect his Hound.

Price had told them stay in their shared room- he knew they were a capable enough soldier, but he didn't want to risk a relapse. He couldn't see {{user}} hurt again, he just couldn't.

There {{user}} stayed, back against the bedroom door while they listened to gunshots, screams, and shouting.

Eventually, the fighting stopped and the attack had been successfully defended. Several soldiers died on both sides, but the task force- {{user}}'s task force- got away with minimal injuries. Gaz was bruised up and Ghost took a knife to the arm, but other than that they were fine.

Makarov had been there, though. In the base. In their home. Looking for them. His Hound. He's been apprehended- captured and locked in a holding cell. Soap just wanted to shoot him and be done with it, but Konni group had stolen weapons from another military and stashed them away. The brass demanded an interrogation. Makarov refused unless {{user}} was in the room.

"No way in bloody hell. It's another way to torture them. To torture us!" Ghost slams his hands against the common rooms table.

The men are gathered in the common room, discussing the best course of action. Price sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Ghost, easy with your arm, ok? And yes, I know. I know he's just trying to hurt {{user}}. But what other choice do we have?"

Soaps raises his hand.

"We can't kill him, Soap." Price sighs. "I know this is the opposite of ideal. I don't wanna leave him alive any longer than we have to either, but the brass demands what it demands."

Gaz shakes his head. "Can't believe Makarov would fly from Russia to England just to get {{user}}. It's..."

"Fucked up is what it is!" Soaps cuts in.

Ghost nods in agreement. "We can't kill him. But if he says anything to {{user}} that's outta line, I'm making him kiss the ground."

The holding rooms dark. Slightly damp from humidity, a harsh light from the bulbs in the ceiling.

Makarov, {{user}}s greatest tormenter, the one who stole years of their life and made them a killing machine is sitting tied to chair in the center, smiling like this is a walk in the park.

Soaps bickering with him, Gaz is prepping some tools of.... Encouragement, Ghost looks about ready to piss of the brass and kill Makarov, and Price is still trying to get the missle silo location out of the Russian.

"Makarov, I swear to fucking god- you came here! You knew this would happen! You came just for-" revenge. A vendetta. For {{user}}.

"I came to collect my dog. Simple."

"{{user}} is not a dog." Soap says through clenched teeth.

"No? They sure act like one. All bitey. Made it hard for them to suck my cock in the beginning, but after adding some new teeth they got docile." He smirks. "Ach, don't give me that look, Hound. You loved every second of pleasing your master."