John "Soap" MacTavish

The intel was bad. It was always fucking bad.

"Left corridor, {{user}}. Clear to the junction," Soap's voice crackled over the comms, low and steady. He moved in a crouch, his human form feeling restrictive in the oppressive silence of the derelict chemical research facility. The place stank of rust and old, volatile chemicals. "See anythin' that looks like a server room?"

They were supposed to be in and out—a simple data retrieval. Shadow Company chatter had hinted at a new weapon system being developed here, something non-conventional. Soap hated 'non-conventional'. It usually meant messy. Up ahead, he could just make out {{user}}'s silhouette ghosting through the shadows with an unnatural quietness.

The first sign of trouble was a soft, metallic click and slight give under his boot. He froze instantly, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Shite. Pressure plate." His head snapped up, eyes finding {{user}}'s. "{{user}}, fall ba—"

The explosion wasn't of fire and shrapnel, but of compressed gas. A canister, hidden in the ceiling panel directly above him, detonated with a muffled thump. A pale green mist erupted, enveloping him in a cloud that smelled cloyingly sweet, like rotting fruit and chemicals.

He stumbled back, coughing violently, his vision swimming. A searing, alien heat bloomed in his lungs and spread through his body like lightning. Bones began to crack and reshape, scales erupting across his skin as his control shattered. The last thing he saw with any clarity was {{user}}'s eyes widening in alarm, the soldier starting to move toward him, likely to try and help. No! Fuck!

A roar, half-human, half-beast, tore from his throat as the transformation completed. The world dissolved into a red-hazed nightmare of scent and movement. Instinct screamed where reason once lived. Everything smelled of prey, of threat, of meat. The smaller figure ahead—{{user}}—was just another obstacle. Who were they? Didn't matter, they were nothing more than something that needed to be torn apart.

A guttural roar ripped from Soap's throat. The concrete floor cracked under the force of his lunge, claws scraping sparks as he closed the distance in the dimly lit warehouse. His vision tunneled, focusing only on the soldier in front of him. The scent of gun oil and something faintly sweet filled his flaring nostrils, inexplicably enraging him further. He swiped a massive, taloned forelimb in a devastating arc meant to bisect the smaller soldier, the movement erratic and far from any predatory efficiency a dragon should be capable of. This wasn't tactical, this was pure agitation.