
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10669149.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, No
      Archive_Warnings_Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Call_of_Duty, Call_of_Duty_Black_Ops_2_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Raul_Menendez/Frank_Woods
  Character:
      Raul_Menendez, Frank_Woods
  Additional Tags:
      Torture, War-Related_Topics, Child_Soldiers, Sex_Slavery, Rape,
      Communism, Blood_and_Gore, Crimes_&_Criminals, Murder, Imprisonment,
      Period_Typical_Attitudes, Period-Typical_Racism, Period-Typical_Sexism,
      Period-Typical_Homophobia, Bigotry_&_Prejudice, Swearing, Hate_Crimes,
      War_Crimes, Red_Scare, Slurs, Sexual_Violence, Submission, Domination,
      Raul_Being_A_Typical_Machista, Chauvinism
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-19 Words: 3790
****** Angels On A Charred Zenith ******
by AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary
     Frank Woods never quite forgot what happened in Angola. Raul Menendez
     never stopped reminding him by simply existing.
                  -”Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible.
 God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man.”-
                              (Fyodor Dostoevsky)
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
                                        
                                     1986.
 
 
 
      Frank prided himself on not being the type to be frightened easily.
  Or impressed easily - on the field of brutality and intimidation all alike.
 Especially not after Russia, Hanoi Hilton and a fuckton of disastrous events.
  Just enough to make someone simply go co crazy in the coconut, as they say.
 And man learns to take it like a man after a while, if that makes any sense.
     He’s seen everything he could have seen at this sorry point in time.
            And the searing Angolan heat - nothing could phase him.
               Not the flies, the insects, the hunger, the dust.
                 Certainly not the perks of guerrilla warfare.
                 Or those pesky ambush parties running about.
               Even though, Savimbi often warned him otherwise.
                                        
                                        
                                        
  This Nicaraguan, this Raul Menendez, Paul Nenedez - whatever he was bloody
   called - all these foreign names started sounding the same to him after a
  while, was exactly the type of would-be captor he’d laugh his ass off over.
He’s been held captive by the Vietnamese, by those damn Soviets, Commies of all
shapes and sizes, Fidel’s handpicked, most elite Cuban privateers, you name it
 - and he had to admit, even to himself - that some of them were far from foes
 he could simply shrug the fuck off and pretend like nothing had happened. It
 was hard to sleep with so many demons on your shoulders, especially when most
of them were Marxist, Che-Guevarian pieces of shit. The Red Scare was no joke.
Those goddamn Ruskies made Bowman, rest his soul, old Mason and himself Russian
 Roulette the piss out of each other. That’s not something a man just forgets.
Not something a man should forget. But, this snot-nosed brat? Holy hell, was he
 not taking him seriously. He was something the guys back home in the military
 would call a pretty-boy. Reminiscent of a singer. A dancer. An actor. What a
joker! Greased-back hair. Tanned. Cocksure. Smug. Polished leather shoes in the
middle of the jungle. A button-up shirt. Indigo blue. What a joker! He wouldn't
   last a day without his armed back-up, no doubt. Mason’s old missus would
 probably fawn over a bastard like this on TV if she was still alive, the poor
  thing. Man looked like a spitting image of Ricky Ricardo. Frank planned on
   giggling over this with his grandchildren one day, one some wooden porch
 somewhere, back in the good, old US of A overlooking a summer garden, or some
sappy shit like that. He dreamed about home as it was. He was getting soft like
                                     that.
                                        
                                        
                                        
            But, things weren’t always what they seemed, were they?
                        He should have remembered that.
                                Fucking idiot.
                                  Hotheaded.
                                 So stubborn.
                              He was a Sergeant.
                             He wasn’t fresh-meat.
                       He didn’t have excuses for this.
                  Even gut-feelings and instinct can deceive.
           Especially out in the wilderness, so far away from home.
     So far away from Savimbi’s foreboding, somewhat cryptic explanations.
                                        
                                        
     -”Woods - the Nicaraguan - he’s a viper. He bites. You die for hours.
Regardless of his vibrant scales. It’s a proverb. From Mogadishu. You’d do well
to keep that in mind. The jungle is dangerous. Merciless. This is Africa. Not a
                                   picnic.”-
                                        
                                        
 Jonas’ sayings came into Woods’ mind far too late, much like a fading, well-
     meaning, fatherly echo. Man had a point. Outside of his loud, jovial,
 superstitious, battle-ready, boastful nature - he really did have a point. He
was a far from a fool, unlike himself. The ominous quietude of the forest floor
  turned into chaos in a matter of seconds one night. Chaos into the lack of
    consciousness. The lack of consciousness into rude, painful awakenings.
 Awakenings into iron. Iron into blood. Screams. Shrieks. They were ambushed.
 Imprisoned. Beaten. Stripped. His entire squadron of men. This Menendez-dude,
 he wasn’t just an upstart kid who was just learning the back-end of his gun,
  surrounded by a battalion of Castro’s lapdog’s and imported child-soldiers
   taken from the back-end of whatever war-torn, third world country. He was
    vicious. Angry. Insane, some would say. Kept asking about the CIA. All
    bloodshot. Impatient. But, still patient enough to keep his composure.
 Information. Information. More information. Like Woods would ever give it to
him. It wasn’t quite that easy. But, then his boys started dying and the truth
 became abundantly clear. He was fucked. He should have been more careful. He
should have taken percussion. His patrol units should have been stronger. More
rigorous. He should have been less of a sass-mouthing, all-knowing asshole out
 on the perimeter. He should have taken Savimbi’s advice. He was fucked. Hanoi
 Hilton all over again. Angola really turned out to be a cruel, hateful bitch.
 What would Mason say? What would Hudson say? Poor Bowman was probably rolling
                     in his grave right about now. Dammit.
                                        
                                        
 -”If it’s me you want, it’s me you keep! My men - they’ve nothing to do with
 this. You hear me!? So, let them go, José! Lets make an agreement! C’mon! You
                                and me! Now!”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
   Frank seethed in anger, naturally not too keen towards the idea of being
suspended to a steel, pitch-black ceiling in what seemed like an iron, military
container, completely closed-off from sound, echo and the light. All there was
that putrid smell. The mumbling for the cell next to his. Reeked of piss, sweat
 and shit. These animals. They must have been beating his men so hard that one
of them soiled himself in fear. Poor sod. This Menendez-person. He clearly came
  prepared. Far too arrogant for his own good. Couldn’t have been older then
someone in his early to mid twenties. A diaper-pooper by the very definition of
  his years. But, the way he trailed his unseated hunting knife, though. That
  spoke of experience. This one - he clearly killed before. He clearly liked
  doing it too. Someone who didn’t wouldn’t have simply given him the kind of
  toothy, cold smile that would make an aquarium of sharks freeze in terror.
 Savimbi told him he was some manner of drug-cartel leader, head-honcho thug,
crime-boss or whatever the kids called it these days. But, Frank never believed
 this kid would have this much bravado. In his experience, criminals were like
rats. They hide and run back into their holes as soon as they’re faced with too
much opposition. This one - he wanted to wipe that self-assured grin of off his
  damnable mug. Repeatedly. Even if the man hit back twice as hard. What else
   could Frank do, though? But distract all the attention to himself through
 sheer, borderline idiotic misbehavior and have enough foolhardy hope that he
 can somehow, anyhow achieve to do what any sane-minded leader would do right
now. Save his men. At least try to. These boys had families back in the States.
                     He didn't. He had to fight for them.
                                        
                                        
                                        
               -”Forgive me. I don’t speak English, Sergeant.”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
     Raul said in English, the clean, flawless type - clearly mocking him.
               Openly taking him for some kind of fucking fool.
                Only the faintest bit of accent in his speech.
              As obviously Latin-American as he could have been.
           Rather proud of it too, by the way he lifted his nose up.
      His own military rank uttered with an exceptional kind of disgust.
Like it was an insult of the worst kind which his captor intended to spit back
                                    at him.
This kid deserved such a beating that he couldn’t stand up straight after such
                                  a comeback.
The Spaniard smiled at him, as if though he guessed his exact train of thoughts
                        then and there - piece of shit.
                                        
                                        
                            -”The hell you don’t!”-
                                        
                                        
Frank added, pissed off, with extra ardor, leaning forward, against his bonds.
     Swearing, that if he could, he would rip this bastard a new asshole.
            Realizing he was at a drastic loss for breath too late.
               That the man’s fist rammed itself into his belly.
                 Fast enough to leave him fairly disoriented.
                     Hardly expecting that much strength.
                          Not exactly out of his guy.
                           But, surprise, surprise.
                                        
                                        
                                        
  -”Out here, you don’t make the rules! I make the rules! Only me! You’re not
quite in the position of demanding anything! But, that’s so like you Americans!
  Thinking you control everything! Everyone! Even when you’re trapped! Pushed
  againts the wall like a bunch of filthy ratas! But, don’t worry. I’ll will
leave you for last. So you can watch. Do you like fire, incidentally? Because,
                          I have some for you. Sí?”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
Menendez inquired almost softly, quietly, his voice a warm whisper against his
ear - leaving Frank with but a brief, agonizing moment to regain his composure,
  catch his breath and realize what was being asked of him, for a mere second
   confused and left dazed by the tenderness of his jailer's tone only to be
harshly, unexpectedly snapped back to reality by a sudden, crimson flash of the
   match between the Nicaraguan’s fingers followed by a click. He flinched,
  admittedly. If nothing else, from surprise. The uncomfortable, dumbfounding
  kind. What kind of man - no, what kind of idiot jumps from behaving like a
 rash, amateur, newly-bred torturer who blows his cool and cover through mere
 punches to the gut and then replace that with full-on fire-tactics? This guy
  over here. And again, it would have been downright hilarious. It would have
 been inappropriately humorous. It would have the golden crown of comedy if he
 didn’t come to the conclusion far too late as ever. The fire wasn’t intended
  for him. It was intended for his men. This fucker. He intended to have him
witness it too. Like some sort of spectacle. Brushing a single hand through the
slick-back of his jet black hair like he had not a single care in the world as
   he near nonchalantly trailed the live match down the flesh of his own his
grunts. Could have used a torch-light. Electrical shocks. But, this dude wanted
 to make it as slow as humanly possible. As slow as he possibly could. As slow
and as crude. Some full-on Kravchenko bullcrap! His everlasting, honeyed smile
was indicator of that. Hell, no. And women probably think a fucktard like this
  is attractive. Jesus fuck! He was disgusted with him. With himself as well.
    Sure as hell wanted to give Kravchenko a whooping for getting into this
                hellhole in the first place. Russian cockroach!
                                        
                                        
                                        
              -”You unholy, twisted piece of shit! I swear, I -”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
                Frank stuttered, half-loathing, half-desperate.
                    Fingers attempting to fight the chains.
                         He never begged for himself.
                             Not even in Vietnam.
                                 Not anywhere.
                         It was simply the way he was.
                 Hudson and Mason would say he was too proud.
        But, his men - his men were a different ordeal altogether now.
  Being an asshole was one thing - someone else paying for your assholery was
                                   another.
He didn’t need widows, embittered families and orphaned brats on his conscience
                                     too.
So, he went for the only option he had - a listless kick towards the emptiness
                                    of air.
 An futile attempt which bore neither fruit nor a payoff, leaving him searing.
             And they just kept burning - one by one, one by one.
                    Until fire wasn’t fun for him anymore.
                        Until it wasn’t painful enough.
                                        
                                        
              Despite of this Menendez guy’s obvious fascination.
 Weeks passed - and that’s what he spotted about him - Raul loved and loathed
                                 the element.
 An inexplicable glint in his eye whenever he lit a match - the Comrade was a
                                    nutjob.
         Of course Kravchenko would be on the sidelines with a nutjob.
                 Never really met a Russian who wasn’t shady.
                    Especially not one selling Soviet arms.
                         Behind his superior’s backs.
                               To some mobster.
                                     God.
                                        
                                        
                                        
 -”You know, a long time ago I learned that physical pain, at it’s core, means
 nothing. You can cut a man, he will heal. You can beat him, he will recover.
You can shoot him, he will pull through. You can even burn him and chances are
he will survive that too. But, the pain of the heart? That doesn’t heal. Ever.
                                   Nunca.”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
Raul mused, his hand over his chest to put special emphasis on what part of the
 human body he was referring to exactly - the melodramatic asshole - circling
   around him - he went from being suspended from the ceiling, strapped to a
  table, tied to a chair, forced to crawl on all four across the grimy, cold,
 slippery, vomit-covered iron floor like some kind of dog in front the simple,
 commonplace chair of his captor sitting crossed legged, cross-armed, far too
amused and far too jovial as he idly toyed around with his bloodied, sharpened
      hunting knife - the Spaniard lost his temper often and well and his
   frustrations came to light in sudden changes within his makeshift little
 torture organization - and God, did he talk. He talked a lot. Frank, despite
   his pain, anguish, hunger and thirst wasn’t entirely certain if at times
  Menendez spoke to him or to someone else entirely. Perhaps to himself? Some
 imaginary demon? Or perhaps he was just insane? Coked out of his mind? All of
   these Latin, would-be drug-lords rising in the shadow of good, old uncle
Escobar usually were. Yet, somehow, it felt like a private vendetta. Woods knew
 Kravchenko. He knew him like one of those annoying rashes impossible to reach
 and scratch. And he’s heard about the man he’s been secretly dealing arms to.
 From Savimbi as well. The Nicaraguan. Never has he believed it, though. That
some randy talking smack and narrating endlessly would fill him with a sense of
familiarity. Boy clearly hated Americans to the grave and beyond. What else was
 new? Frank was almost convinced he might have popped someone’s aunt or auntie
    by accident and that the mistake was out to haunt him in the form of an
  embittered family member. But, no. Raul’s loathing was like liquid fire. It
infected him. It was contagious. Addictive. Saccharine. Leaving Woods with the
  impression that being hated by Menendez alone was akin to being hated by a
                           thousand men all at once.
                                        
                                        
                                        
     -”What? Plan on breaking my heart, champ!? Aww, you don't have to!”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
  With his last ounce of cockiness, Frank teased - humor laced with outright
                       violence and animal-like roaring.
  As desperate and as unhinged as he was maddened - his men almost all dead.
            Those who were left alive were to suffer even further.
              He’s heard something about being left to rot here.
                         On the Tobango river, was it?
                                   Tubango?
                                   Whatever!
                             On a barge, or other?
        Might as well piss his captor enough to just snap and kill him.
                His amigo here had a short fuse to begin with.
                                        
                                        
                              -”Te voy a tirar.”-
                                        
                                        
  Kid spoke in Spanish, or hissed, as it were, riddled with rage, disgust and
venom - but, that wasn’t what took Frank off guard. He expected a blow. Another
 punch. Another cut. Another burn. Another blast of electrical shocks. Any and
 every manifestation of physical and corporal punishment one might have gotten
used to after Vietnam. Hell, he even expected death, partially. Looked forward
   to it almost, like some kind of coward looking for a quick, easy way out,
     following in the footsteps of his men. Someone needed to wait for Lev
Kravchenko at the gates of hell, after all. But, no. Being straddled by another
man, hip against hip and chest against chest wasn’t quite what he had in mind,
trying to re-assure himself even though Raul made certain to tie his legs wide
apart beforehand, as if though planning this. Sure - fuck if those sods back in
   the Soviet states didn’t have the off chance of forcing themselves on the
 women. The unarmed civilians. The children. Enemy soldiers. They said it was
   merely the part of the province of war. The spoils of battle. Sex-slaves.
Human-trafficking. All that jazz. All across the world. From Asia, all the way
down to the Middle East and beyond. Frank believed it was depravity. Savagery.
  Needless barbarism. And by no means did he consider himself a mild-mannered
   gentleman, mind you. As soon as a broad got caught wind of his habits and
 personality, she’d scram - the poor thing.  Maybe that's why he never really
got married. He was a soldier after all, and a damn good one at that. But, hell
- he was no animal either. Apparently, though - Raul Menendez was. The low hum
in the man’s chest there to prove that he was aware of the fact too. And Woods
knew enough Spanish by now to know what he previously said. Teeth gritted. His
own turmoil boiling like a fiery kettle. This wasn’t how he intended to go. No.
He’d rather be roasted. Eaten alive. Vivisected piece by piece. Buried alive up
 his neck in the sand. Something to leave him a shred of dignity, manhood and
               ire in whatever shape, way or form, fucking hell!
                                        
                                        
                                        
-”I once read that a man’s greatest internal fear is to be treated like a woman
 within the confines of warfare and life itself. Do you read, Sergeant Woods?
  No? Pues, ni modo. I myself have read enough to know that the most lasting
 forms of torture begin with deshumanización. Y el acondicionamiento. Lets see
                        how true that really is, sí?”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
Raul whispered huskily, lips parted, his hips bucking toward, in dry heaves as
   his hands slid up Woods’ torso - and shit - of course the bastard the was
  right. If he shot him here and now alongside the corpses sprawn out on the
floor, riddled with maggots, worms and flies, if he tortured him, starved him,
 twisted him, drowned him - at least he wouldn’t go out like a bitch. At least
  he wouldn’t feel like a bitch. At least his surviving crew members wouldn’t
view him like a bitch. With pity, sadness and remorse. If Frank Woods couldn’t
stand something then it was precisely pity, sadness and remorse! He’d rather be
 minced slowly. He’d rather be anything then an object of pity. Their glassy,
   half-disoriented lids started at him even now, like ghostly needless. The
  Nicaraguan fucktard made sure they stayed in the same cell as them for the
  occasion. The iron container. Half-alive. Half-dead. Bloodied, torn, weak.
 Unable to speak. Unable to move. Unable to help him or each other. Purely so
  their last moments on earth could be connected to witnessing their Sargeant
   used like some kind of cheap, painted party girl down in Saigon-alley. He
thought of Mason. He thought of Hudson. He thought of young David too, more or
less a curious-eyed toddler now. Pride and shame mixing. Part of him wanting to
survive out of his spite, get of out here and give this bastard hell one way or
another and then rip Kravchenko’s heart out his chest barehanded for doing this
  to him and his boys in the firs place. Another part of him wanted to die so
    they’d never, ever catch wind of this. Ever. Being on the KIA list was
  preferable to being a victim of - just a victim. Of this. Of this bullshit!
                Struggling was in vain. It only made it worse.
                                        
                                        
 He must have dissociated at one point - a common tool of the trade within the
                                   military.
  Or maybe he’s lost consciousness as Raul forcibly tried to keep him awake.
         To feel everything, to sense everything - every bit of agony.
                      And the fucktard could keep going.
                                  And going.
                          Riding him into the chair.
                        Choking him, biting, spitting.
                 He wasn’t sure where the strength came from.
   He would have been a corny cuntbag if he claimed it was his anger alone.
  Then again - perhaps it was - Frank himself survived most things within his
                         career of brash rage itself.
If people lived out of resentment, logic demanded they could fuck others out of
                                  resentment.
     Another of critical, severe, damaging, nearly fatal underestimation.
             Raul Menendez was more then a comically amiable face.
                     He was megalomaniacal piece of shit.
                            Woods wanted him dead.
                                  Simple as.
                                        
                                        
                                        
 And then it ended, temporarily, Frank understood, after being edged on and on
   for hours only to be denied, teased, restrained and left aching - wanting
  release out of need and out of the purest form of indignation. No pleasure
  behind it. Solely the very act of dishonor. Humbling. Abasement. Why put a
bullet between someone’s eyes when you can disgrace them instead, eh? In front
 of his own regiment. In front of Menendez’s leering, mocking mercenaries. Why
not! Why the fuck not! Fuck! He found that he started hating Cubans and Latin-
  Americans even more then he hated the Russians. But, hey? After all, Frank
hated everyone in equal measure. The Nicaraguan wouldn’t just leave it at that.
   Because of course he wouldn’t. He already proved to be enough of a human
 shitstain to take this all the way through. He’d keep coming back. He’d keep
coming back to check on the craters, rashes and charred holes he’s left on his
skin. Dots. Lines. Bars. Mentioned how it reminded him of someone very close to
   him. All the black, chalky powder melting into various spots on his arms.
Cigarette marks. Extinguished matches. Whatever the fuck that meant. Savimbi’s
    warnings seeing mild in comparison, even at their worst. The jungle was
dangerous. Angola was dangerous. Africa was dangerous. Not because of the civil
unrest. The wildlife. The flora and the fauna for all he cared. Because of the
tanned, black-haired prick that sauntered out of the iron container like it was
 nobodies business. Smiling over his shoulder - the Cubans there to escort him
 out, the fucktard. Return he did, though. Time and again. Time and again. He
endearingly referred to him as “His prisoner” during all of these messes to add
insult to injury. Told him to lay back, enjoy it and dream of America. Fuck, if
Frank would give him the satisfaction of triumph, his old stubbornness kicking
 into him after a fair share of whipping, forced down on all four, taking the
man’s sour, salty taste into his mouth. He’s bitten Raul before. Hard enough to
 stun anyone sane and sound. But, did it that phase Raul? Not one bit. Man was
                                 hardly human.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                            -”You can’t kill me.”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
Was all Frank could promise Menendez, outloud - as full of bravado and vows as
                                     ever.
  As full of vengeance, poison and retribution as a person could possibly be.
 He’d rip this bastard into so many piece of all God’s angels wouldn’t be able
                            to piece him together.
And then leave him charred out on the darkening zenith of the wild for all his
                                  men to see.
  Learning from the very, very best - From Kravchenko, his time at the Hanoi
                                    Hilton.
He wasn’t going to die in a swamp, and he sure wasn’t going to die in a jungle.
             If anything - Woods was hardly human himself anymore.
                That much, he and Raul Menendez had in common.
                          At least that fucking much.
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