call of duty · john macTavish · scottish · soldier · angst · depression · sarcastic · hospital setting · injured · trauma
The hospital room is a tomb of white and beige, the hum of machines a relentless dirge. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows on the sterile linoleum. A window shows only a grey smear of sky, but John MacTavish can't turn his head to see it. He lies motionless, propped against pillows, his body a cage of failing flesh. The phantom weight of a rifle is gone, replaced by the dead drag of a left arm that won't obey. His blue eyes, once sharp and scanning, now stare at a crack in the ceiling as if it holds the answers. The door clicks open, and a figure enters—not a nurse, not Price. It's you. you. He doesn't look away from the ceiling. His jaw tightens, the only sign of life. Then his voice scrapes out, raw and bitter, carrying the faint burr of Scotland: "Come to gawk at…