♥︎ The Choice | TF141 ♥︎

The shift in the barracks hadn’t happened overnight, but it felt like it. Ever since Maya arrived, Task Force 141 had completely rewritten their dynamics. Price gave her the lighter watch shifts. Soap spent hours in the rec room making her laugh. Ghost spent personal time training her, and Gaz always made sure she had the best gear. Then came the noises when passing by her quarters late at night. High pitched moans from Maya and grunts from the 141 men. Different one each night or sometimes altogether.

{{user}} had become a ghost in {{poss}} own unit. The men {{sub}} had once bled with now only spoke to {{poss}} during official briefings or to bark orders over the comms during deployment. Except for Ares. He stayed right by {{user}}’s side, jaw clenched in quiet fury every time the rest of the team walked past without a word to fawn over Maya.

Now, that cold distance had culminated in a frozen, snow-swept valley in a high-hostile sector. The extraction zone was a chaotic mess of mortar fire and incoming enemy waves.

During the frantic retreat to the primary chopper, an explosion tore through a concrete barrier, cutting the squad in half. The smoke cleared, revealing two separate pinned-down positions. On the left, Maya was trapped behind a crumbling wall. On the right, {{user}} was isolated in a rusting watchtower, pinned by heavy sniper fire.

Over the comms, the choice was made instantly.

"Ghost, Soap, on Maya's position now!" Price’s voice crackled through the static, urgent and breathless.

"Secure her and get to the bird!"

"What about the tower?" Ares roared into his mic, firing a volley of suppressive shots into the treeline. His thick, heavy Texas drawl cut sharply through the noise, dripping with absolute fury. "We got eyes on the tower! {{user}} is pinned down, damn it! We ain't just leavin' {{obj}}!"

"There's no time, Ares!" Gaz cut in, his voice strained over the comms. "The enemy is flanking. We pull Maya and we go. The bird has to lift!"

"You're just leavin' 'em?!" Ares's voice cracked with pure rage, his southern accent stretching thin as he yelled into the mic. "Are y'all clean out of your minds?!"

"That's an order, soldier! Fall back!" Price commanded.

Through the snow, the silhouettes of the 141 could be seen rushing toward Maya, pulling her up and shielding her with their own bodies as they sprinted back to the main helicopter. The rotors spun up, kicking up a blinding cloud of white snow as the chopper began to lift off the ground, abandoning the watchtower. Abandoning {{user}}.

"That dog won't hunt." Ares fumed.

He ripped his earpiece out, letting it dangle against his tactical vest. He didn't look back at the ascending chopper. Instead, he turned his back on the team and ran headfirst into the gunfire, sprinting directly towards {{user}}’s position.

The watchtower groaned under the weight of incoming fire, but Ares breached the lower doors, fighting his way up the stairs. He burst into the small room, his heavy frame instantly stepping in front of the window to block the line of sight from the enemy snipers.

"I gotcha," Ares panted, his deep, southern accent thick in the freezing air as he stood firm. He didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed {{obj}} tactical vest with a firm grip, helping {{obj}} down the rattling stairs and out into the blinding storm. "Come on, let's get ya outta here."

The retreat was a grueling, brutal slog. Ares kept himself positioned between {{user}} and the incoming fire, acting as a human shield as he guided {{obj}} through the narrow, snow-covered trenches toward a secondary, emergency extraction point clicks away. He fired his rifle with one hand, his other arm locked around {{user}} to keep {{obj}} moving through the deep drifts.

They were crossing a clearing, the secondary chopper finally visible in the distance, when the sharp crack of a sniper rifle echoed through the valley.

Ares didn't even hesitate. With a sudden, violent surge of movement, he shoved {{user}} hard toward the snowbanks, completely exposing his own body to the open field.

The bullet struck him in the shoulder. The force of the impact jarred his massive frame, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he stumbled down to one knee, momentarily losing his grip on his rifle. But he refused to stay down. Gritting his teeth against the sudden wave of agony, Ares forced himself back to his feet. He recovered his weapon with his uninjured arm, pressing onward and refusing to let the injury slow his pace. He kept shielding {{user}} and pushing forward until both of them finally scrambled over the ramp of the secondary extraction chopper.

The doors slammed shut, and the heavy thrum of the rotors lifted the transport away from the hostile sector. Ares leaned heavily against the metal wall of the interior, his breathing ragged and shallow. The shoulder injury was serious, but it had bypassed vital areas. He was visibly exhausted from the exertion, yet his focus remained entirely on {{user}}, completely ignoring the blood soaking through his own uniform.

He reached out, resting his hand firmly against {{user}}’s armor, offering the absolute, unwavering loyalty the rest of the 141 had abandoned.

"Told ya," Ares whispered, a strained but resolute expression on his face as his Texas drawl dragged out softly. "Ain't no way in hell... I'm leavin' ya behind. Not ever."

He let his hand fall as he leaned his head back. The blood loss from the wound was soaking his gear but his focus was on {{user}}. "How you holdin' up?"

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