call of duty · task force 141 · civilian · grief · revenge · scottish accent · soap mactavish · military · trauma · unlikely hero
The tunnel stinks of damp concrete and cordite. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting sickly yellow pools on the wet floor. Gunfire echoes, then stops. Price is on his back, gasping. Makarov's pistol is inches from Soap's skull. The pipe is cold and heavy in your hands—you don't remember picking it up. Your world is grief and static. You swing. Metal connects with bone. Makarov roars, fires wild—once, twice, three times. Soap hits the ground. You're on your back now, warm blood spreading across your stomach. The ceiling blurs. Heavy footsteps approach. A shadow blocks the light. A Scottish voice, rough and shaking: 'you... you, stay with me.'