Ghost X Soap Oneshots (CoD)

Savior - Part 1

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Angst 1445 words
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Trigger/Content Warning: Kidnapping
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Requested by BunnyTrain
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Heat. Unforgiving, terrible heat. The sun beat down on Soap's neck, leaving angry burns that made his skin crawl. Sweat ran down his face, glistening across his skin, getting in his eyes no matter how hard he tried to wipe it away. His gear felt heavy, weighing him down, slowing his steps. It was too hot. Water. He needed water. He needed something. Anything. He had to have something to drink. Hot. Too hot. Thirsty. So damn thirsty.

Soap gazed up at the sun, raised high in the sky. He had been walking for hours, ending up in a deserted town in the middle of nowhere. He had no idea where he was, or really how he had gotten there. MacTavish slowly made his way into what he assumed to be a bar, tossing his M249 down on one of the tables. He took off a good portion of his gear, taking the weight off of his back and shoulders, discarding it on the table with his gun.

John sat down in a chair, removing his gloves and sunglasses, adding them to the pile. Eventually he managed to work everything off, leaving him in just his button-up shirt and worn jeans. He grabbed his radio off his belt, going through every possible channel. He was met with only static. Tossing the radio down, he leaned back in his chair and tried to gather his thoughts.

He had been in Las Almas with the Ghost Team. They had a simple enough mission, everything had gone well and according to plan. But it wasn't. When they reached the Los Vaqueros safe house, they were met with closed gates and armed guards. That was when Graves turned on them. Within two minutes, everything had managed to go wrong. A fight broke out between Alejandro and the Shadows.

Gunfire. Ghost. Screaming. Someone grabbing him by the shoulders, telling him to run. To get out. Where was Ghost? Bullets flew past his head, sinking into the ground around his feet. Images of Las Almas flying by flashed through his mind. What happened to Ghost? By the time the adrenaline had worn off, he was surrounded by nothing but desert and the occasional ghost town. And somehow, he ended up where he was now.

Soap sighed. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know where the rest of his team was. Hell, he didn't even know if they were alive. He didn't know how he was still alive. All he knew was that he was exhausted and in pain. He was pretty sure in all of the chaos he had managed to break a rib or two. His entire body ached. His throat burned from dehydration.

MacTavish forced himself to his feet, making his way over to the bar. The shelves were filled with mostly shattered glass bottles. Their contents had long since evaporated. There were no signs of any water, and the tap didn't seem to be working at all.

He retreated back to the table he had deposited his gear on. He sank down against the wall, opting to sit on the floor instead of a chair. Soap let out a low sigh, wiping the sweat off his brow. He could feel his body giving up, losing what little adrenaline he was still functioning off of. He fought as hard as he could to stay awake. Falling unconscious meant surrendering himself to the reaper. To death. But god was he exhausted. And sleep seemed like such a great option. It didn't take long for his body to win the battle against his mind. He soon fell into a restless sleep.

. . .

Soap awoke to the sound of a car engine, low and distant at first, but quickly getting closer. He sat there against the wall, begging for his body to move. No matter how hard he tried, he was too tired. Too weak. He couldn't get up. Shit he had to get up.

The car stopped, not far from the entrance to the bar. He heard the doors open and close, soon followed by the sound of boots hitting the sandy ground.

Soap slowly got himself moving, managing to pull himself up to the window. Four men stood outside, each with a gun raised and at the ready. They were searching the area, speaking low to one another in Spanish. Soap recognized them almost immediately

Shadows.

"The footprints stop here."

"He can't be far. We're at least 3 hours out from Las Almas. He's holed up here somewhere if he's not already dead."

"Spread out. I want this town torn apart. I want him found."

God, this was bad.

The shadows spread out, beginning to search the area, as well as the surrounding houses and buildings.

Soap cursed under his breath, dropping down away from the window. He was in trouble. And there was no way he could escape. There was a chance he could take them all out, but it'd be extremely difficult. It was four on one, and with the state he was in now, the odds were greatly stacked against him.

He forced himself up onto his knees, using the table as support as he tried desperately to find his M249 under the rest of his gear. His motions quickened, becoming frantic. He started panicking. They were coming. He had to hurry. He had to have his gun. Where the fuck was his gun? Soap's grip slipped off the table, sending him falling back. The table and everything on it came crashing down around him.

Fuck.

He could hear shouting from outside, accompanied by the sound of fast footsteps thundering across the ground. Soap looked around desperately, trying to locate his gun. He pulled himself up onto his feet, shaking but standing. His mind was reeling, the room spinning around him.

He heard the door open. The shouting got louder. Soap was soon surrounded by men, all screaming at him to get down on his knees. He could barely perceive even the idea of the danger he was in. A gun was thrusted into his chest. More shouting. Someone grabbed him by the arms, kicking his knees out from behind him. He hit the ground hard. Pain shot up from his knees throughout his legs. His head was pounding. His arms were twisted behind his back, his wrists bound by a coarse rope.

The man pulled him up onto his feet, dragging him outside. The three remaining shadows followed suit, their guns trained on Soap. He was placed in the back of an army Jeep, two of the four men sitting on either side of them. The other two got into the front and they drove off to lord knows where. Soap closed his eyes, sighing deeply. It wasn't long until he passed out, falling into another fitful sleep.

. . .

Soap was woken up once more, being dragged out of the Jeep by his arm. He found himself in front of a seemingly abandoned warehouse, well hidden by the thick wooded area surrounding it. A strong shove to the back set his feet in motion. He stumbled after the man in front of him, being shoved forward by the man behind him anytime he slowed down.

They entered the warehouse. Large crates filled with what Soap assumed was the Shadow army's arsenal were stacked in the back corner. All of the lights were dimmed and covered except a single light in the center of the warehouse. Illuminated in the pool of light was a wooden chair.

Soap was directed towards the center of the room. One of his assailants shoved him down into the chair while another tied his arms and legs to it. Everything in him screamed to fight back. To not let it happen. But no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't. His body had shut down. Two of the shadows exited the warehouse, leaving Soap tied to the chair with the remaining shadows watching over him.

He sat there for what felt like ages. The shadows didn't move the entire time, like two stone monoliths guarding over him, ready to spring to life if he were to move. It was completely silent aside from Soap's labored breathing. He continued waiting, sitting in the dark room. Eventually, the sound of another car pulling up to the warehouse caught his attention.

He heard the faint sound of talking outside the door. The men outside talked for several minutes before the door creaked open. A lone man stepped inside, slowly making his way towards the center of the room. His two guards stepped aside as the man came into view.

Soap's heart dropped.

Graves.