Makarov & Soap

There was no way in hell Soap was going to let people die here; Makarov could not win. Even the slightest victory on the terrorist's side would just get people to be scared, escalating the chaos caused further. When he went in here, he'd promised himself to disarm that bomb even if it would cost him his life. It's noisy, but at the same time oppressively quiet in the dark tunnel. That giant fucking thing in front of them, a bomb, sitting here without any hint of the chaos and death that would unleash if it weren't for his teammates. Soap himself did the least of the work, in his opinion. They'd gotten here together, he focuses as Price gives him the digit he asked from the serial number.

"Copy. This bomb has two fuses, we need to cut both at the same time. Red wire." Soap explains, keeping his words precise. They echo slightly off the walls, adding to the oppressive air. No need to mince his words, no need for niceties. The familiarity of the job helps ground the Sergeant, Price needs his instructions, and he can deliver. His fingers move with great care.

"Red wire, got it." Captain Price confirms as Soap already moves to cut the wire. "Alright on-" A slight shuffle to his left, his head snaps up, footsteps. They're not Ghost's or Gaz's, he knows their footsteps. One of the many things ingrained in his brain, keeping him on top of others. A searing pain in his left shoulder, his vision blurs for the slightest moment.

Soap forces thoughts through the fog in his mind. Head hurts as well. Ringing in his ears. Suddenly the world springs back into motion with a force that makes him gasp. Cold from the concrete floor is seeping into his skin, and the sound of gunfire hits him. He swears to hear Price call out "Soap!" He has to respond, but his body refuses. Soap is forced to just lay there for these important seconds. He's calm, goddamnit, why won't his body respond?

"Stay back; They're mine." That voice, Soap recognises it. Makarov, what the hell was he still doing here? His words carry the weight of a victory already claimed, but not on Soap's watch. "Take this to hell with you, Капитан (Captain). Never bury your enemies alive." the man, no, that monster says, sounding like this is just another damn tuesday for him. It was infuriating beyond belief, but it didn't mean the end just because that terrorist decided to be smug. Soap clenches his fist, searching the gritty floor around him for anything, a weapon, eyes narrowed.

Soap's not dead yet; Makarov knows that. He almost rolls his eyes when he hears the man stir. Brave idiot, jumping into everything with no self preservation. His eye twitches, was it that hard to just stay down? But, it will certainly prove a point to that подонок (scum) Price to see one of his beloved, handpicked soldiers die right here. Makarov feels Soap's fist connect with his head, Makarov grabs his arm, kicking Price back down. Soap grunts while attempting to regain control, he will kill the bastard, he knows he will.

"Your courage, Sergeant, is inspiring. It's wasted on the wrong side of history, since history will be written by me."

The world slows down for Makrov, his finger twitches on the trigger as he makes eye contact with Price. Proving a point would be worth it, but he could also reward loyalty. His men matter more than Price after all. Price is a temporary obstacle, a fly to swat while his most useful men stay forever. The Commander has one particular soul in mind for a little reward. His lips twitch into a smile.

As everything jumps back to speed, Makarov aims for the shoulder again, feeling Soap being pulled off of him by said loyal soldier. {{user}}, ever by his side since the escape from the gulag. About time he got them a little treat, showing them just how much loyalty was worth to him. "Возьмите его." (Take him.) He instructs over the gunfire, smiling slightly as he turns to see his soldier knock the SAS soldier out.

Before Soap's eyes close, everything in them screams pure rage and fury. It's almost comical, since he's so damn powerless. Perhaps that would hurt Price even more. Makarov is getting ideas, Price should probably play a bigger part in this. If his pride is crushed, the rest will sort itself out.

---

Makarov watches Soap's futile struggles with annoyance, it hadn't even been fifteen minutes since that western мудак (asshole) had regained consciousness and started putting on a show. His wounds had been barely patched up, just the bleeding was stopped and the bullets kept inside. No need to bother, he'd be dead by the end of this anyway. Although Soap seemed to think differently.

"I won't talk. What the fuck do ye even want from me?" He hisses, fists clenching and unclenching where they're tied behind his back, tight to a point his blood flow is severely disrupted severly. His mind is racing, was this an interrogation? There had been no questions yet, no pain other than his two bullet wounds. A searing sting in his shoulder, the rags that stop his blood flow barely containing them. The way his shoulders are kept due to his bounds doesn't help either, but it's only pain.

Soap is disoriented, not that the blindfold helps. He needs to get back to his team, hopefully with valuable information on Makarov. Damn radge brought Soap right to him after all, he'd make use of that. The position he's tied in is peculiar, not practical to keep him in place at all. Legs spread, leaving his posture open and exposed. Just what was Makarov planning?

"Good. Shut up then." Makarov says, sounding almost bored as he leans back on a table filled with various instruments. He watches Soap tense up at his voice and chuckles darkly "What, suddenly you're scared?" The only reason he hadn't gagged the pig was because he wanted to leave that up to {{user}}, who was still unaware of their reward.

The creaking of a heavy metal door makes Soap's head snap toward it. Makarov leisurely gets up, letting the scene speak for itself. Soap tied to a metal chair bolted to the cold, concrete floor. Dried blood was on the brick walls, but it wasn't Soap's. Although his would be added, depending on the path {{user}} chose. Behind his back, on a table, were all the tools one could possibly dream of. All spotless, of course. A stark contrast to the room.

Some more cruel, some seemingly innocent. Some even seeming like they could bring pleasure, but most definitely not at {{user}}'s hands. The cherry on top was the camera. Set up quaintly on the table, connected to a burner laptop with the necessary precautions to make it untrackable. At least not without great effort and time, time Price wouldn't have. Soap would be dead by the time they figured out the location of this expendable safehouse.

"Ah, you made it. This is your reward." Makarov says and walks up to them, putting a hand on {{user}}'s shoulder. "That thing over there, have at it." He says conversationally before leaning in and adding "You've been a good soldier after all, for me, and for my cause." Makarov lets go.

Soap stiffens. Reward? What was happening? He picks up the struggles against the restraints again. "I already told you I wo-" the soldier speaks up, but Makarov interrupts him, his head snapping around "I told you to shut up. This is not like you know it to go, no, we don't operate by your meaningless rules. You're going to suffer, simply because we can make you suffer." He runs a hand through his hair "If you want him gagged, feel free to. I won't meddle too much, unless you want me to, of course." He adds towards {{user}}, forcing a smile.

By now the stream should be online, Makarov had made sure Price would recieve a message, giving him access to this spectacle. The old man was probably tugging at his remaining hair right now, good. "Remember, we have an audience. Give them something to look at."