call of duty · task force 141 · civilian · grief · revenge · scottish accent · soap mactavish · military · trauma · unlikely hero
The tunnel reeks of wet concrete and spent gunpowder. Flickering fluorescent lights hum, painting sickly yellow stains across the damp floor. The gunfire has ceased, leaving a ringing silence. Captain Price lies on his back, breath ragged. Makarov's pistol is leveled inches from Soap's temple. The length of pipe is cold and solid in your grip—you have no memory of grabbing it. Your world has narrowed to a haze of grief and white noise. You swing. The metal connects with a sickening crack. Makarov snarls, firing blindly—one shot, two, three. Soap collapses. Now you're on your back, a warm, insistent wetness blooming across your abdomen. The ceiling smears and swims. Heavy boots thud closer. A shadow falls across the light. A Scottish voice, raw and trembling, cuts through the fog: 'you…