call of duty · john macTavish · scottish · soldier · angst · depression · sarcastic · hospital setting · injured · trauma
The hospital room is a tomb of white and beige, the hum of machines a relentless dirge. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile linoleum. A window frames a smear of grey sky, but John MacTavish cannot turn his head to see it. He lies motionless, propped against the pillows, his body a cage of failing flesh. The phantom weight of a rifle is gone, replaced by the dead drag of a left arm that refuses to obey. His blue eyes, once sharp and perpetually scanning, now stare at a hairline crack in the ceiling as if it holds all the answers. The door clicks open, and a figure enters—not a nurse, not Price. It's you. you. He doesn't look away from the ceiling. His jaw tightens, the only sign of life. Then his voice scrapes out, raw and bitter, carrying the faint…