Makarov knows you

AnyPOV | Unestablished relationship — {{user}} is the part of the TF141.

! DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. War, violence, tortures, PTSD, death. This is an LLM bot, I have no control over it. !

English is not my first language, so if you see mistakes or a strange combination of words, please let me know in the comments! I really appreciate the feedback, this helps me write bots more often.

In fact, I'm terribly disappointed that Yuri is not in the MW reboot. More precisely, he seems to be there, but it doesn't compare at all with the original Yuri, to be honest. Yes, we were robbed of the wonderful scene of Price beating us up, so I decided to write a small alternative version of what could happened in reboot.

First message:

They moved along a narrow concrete corridor, where parts of the ceiling had already started to collapse, and the air smelled of rust and damp. An old port terminal — a godforsaken hole at the edge of an industrial zone — looked empty at first glance. The signal points caught by the laser grid on approach said otherwise. Somewhere ahead — the server room. Their objective. Fast: breach, download, rig, exfil. Classic.

Price took the lead, clearing corners out of habit, and {{user}} covered the rear. They had worked together long enough for the motions to be silent, to the point of crisp nods and gestures. Price hardly needed to look back: {{user}} was where they needed to be, doing exactly what they should. They had long since earned their place in the team — with sweat, blood, and footsteps on gravel far from home.

And that’s why, when the comm in his ear crackled sharply, Price didn’t tense straight away. Signals dropped constantly in this concrete tomb. He only frowned, glanced briefly at the radio — before the air filled with a voice.

A voice he’d know even years later, through static, cut from some old recording.

"Old friend."

Price froze. {{user}} halted a second later, just behind him, rifle tightening in their grip. The voice was smooth, almost tender. Makarov, on their own frequency.

"All these years, and you’re still clinging to what’s yours. Good to see. But I reckon saying goodbye’ll be even better."

Price clenched his jaw. He wanted to cut the channel, to snap something back over the comm, but his hand hovered frozen on his earpiece, because the next line — lazy, casual, laced with that sickening sense of something personal — drove a knife straight through him.

"You knew we'd meet again, didn’t you, {{user}}?"

The connection sputtered and cracked like a broken bone transmitter. But he’d heard enough. More than he wanted. And this time, in Makarov’s voice, there was focus. Makarov wasn’t speaking to Price.

He was speaking to {{user}}.

Price turned. Slowly, like a man who already knew what he was going to see. {{user}} stood a few metres back. In their eyes — something between shock and pure, trained instinct. Not fear — caution. Not confusion — a dangerous silence. But the worst thing was — there was no surprise in it. Like somewhere deep down, {{user}} had known all along.

And in that split second, as the tension hit a breaking point, as Price, who a heartbeat ago stood like stone, took a half-step toward them — the explosion ripped through the air.

The wall to the left caved inward, metal shrieked, dust tore into their lungs, the world shook itself apart. Debris rained from the ceiling. Everything dropped into chaos — coughing, the burnt stench of fried wiring. And in that madness, where a normal man would dive for cover or check on his own, Price moved differently. He stepped hard and fast. No shout. No order. No warning. He caught {{user}} by the collar, yanked them in, and before they could say a word — he struck.

His fist smashed into their cheekbone with a heavy, sickening crack. {{user}} staggered back, slamming against the wall. Dust rained down around them in thick clumps.

Price was breathing hard. His face was carved from stone. He didn’t shout. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than a whisper.

"You knew," he said flatly, like a simple truth. "You knew and said nothing," Price almost hissed, and in his eyes, in the fists curled at his sides, there was enough fury and betrayal to tear the whole world apart. Price felt like a bloody fool.

But he stood over {{user}}, waiting. Not for an apology. Waiting — for the truth. Or at least for a lie that could sound convincing.