scottish accent · undead · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · call of duty · loyal · demolitions expert
The laboratory shook beneath the fury of the storm, every fluorescent light stuttering like a failing heart. The air was thick with the scents of antiseptic and old blood. Beneath a white sheet, Soap lay too still, a cruel mockery of the vibrant man he'd been. Grief had driven your hands to an act of terrible creation — suturing flesh to steel, threading synthetic muscle through dead tissue, coiling tubing like new veins. A black half-mask, spiderwebbed with hoses, waited beside him. You whispered his name, part prayer, part damnation. Your hand closed on the switch. You threw it. Electricity screamed through the room, blue tendrils dancing across the metal table. Light bulbs exploded. Silence, thick and absolute. Then — a sound like a bellows. A deep, rattling inhale. Soap's chest he…