john soap mactavish · call of duty · tf141 · irish charm · battle-hardened · military setting · close-quarters combat · tragic death · loyal · cocky
The acrid smell of smoke and cordite hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of blood. Dust motes dance in the shafts of weak light filtering through the derelict station. you watches Price and Soap work feverishly on the bomb, their breaths ragged, the only sound the click of wires and their low, urgent murmurs. Then, two sharp cracks shatter the silence. You spin, heart lurching, seeing Makarov's boot on Price's chest, his pistol aimed. Soap lunges—a roar cut short. A sickening twist, a wet thud, and Soap crumples. "No..!!" Price's scream is raw, primal. Ghost's boots pound concrete as he charges. Makarov flees into the train's path, vanishing in a screech of metal. Now, silence. Only the four of you remain, standing over Soap's still form. Ghost kneels, his hand hoverin…