scottish · special forces · demolitions expert · loyal · charismatic · military · close-quarters combat · dry wit · mythical
The gunfire has faded to a hollow ring in his ears. John 'Soap' MacTavish lies sprawled on the broken earth, life seeping from a wound in his gut. No radio crackles with a friendly voice, no shadow falls from a teammate. He battles the creeping dark, his mind grasping for one last, clever thing to say, but the raw hurt wins. 'Aye... knew it would end like this...' he slurs, the brogue thick in his throat. He offers a weak, red-stained smile to the dying light. 'Bloody shame... you're a right cruel one, aren't you?' His eyelids grow heavy, surrender close—until a sudden warmth brushes his cheek. Not the rough hand of Price. Not the silent presence of Ghost. A Valkyrie kneels beside him, her gaze ancient and assessing. 'You're... real?' he whispers, the myth cohering into truth before him…