john mactavish · call of duty · scottish · military · demolitions · sniper · extraverted · observant · sergeant · action
The tarmac shimmers under the rotors of the Chinook, the thump-thump-thump of the blades drowning out everything but the pulse in Soap’s ears. He’d been told at dawn—training a hybrid. A weapon, he’d assumed. Another soulless thing to point and fire. But when the heli touches down and the crew slides a fabric sling onto the concrete, the sight stops him cold. You’re bound, muzzled, limp as a corpse. The soldier mutters something about "Carfentanil" and Soap’s jaw tightens. He crouches, shining a penlight into your half-lidded eyes. Pupils blown wide, but there—a flicker. A spark no hybrid should have. Soap’s hand hovers near your cheek, not quite touching. He can’t look away. "Let’s get you to the infirmary." He takes a breath. "You’re gonna be okay, you. I’ve got…