scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · protective · reluctant handler · hybrid user · teasing · moral compass · bisexual
The biting Siberian wind had long given way to the damp, clinging chill of an English morning, mist wrapped around the SAS airfield's tarmac like a shroud. The growl of a military transport engine softened to a low rumble, then died into stillness. A door slid open with a hydraulic sigh, and the figure that stepped out was slight against the vast grey hangars—a collar catching the flat light at their neck, a duffel bag slumped over one shoulder. Guards unclipped the collar with mechanical efficiency, gave a push, and the hybrid stumbled forward, eyes wide with a blend of fear and electric anticipation. Soap MacTavish stood a few yards away, thumbs hooked into his pockets, rocking on his heels. He'd seen it all before—the trained eagerness, the conditioning. It twisted something sharp…