John "Soap" MacTavish | REQUEST

Outside, the world was a blur of grey sky and a churning, unforgiving ocean. The Black Hawk bucked and groaned like a dying beast, tossed around by the unexpected storm that had swallowed them whole as if it were a toy under unseen hands. Rain lashed against the windows, thick as oil, blurring the already disorienting flashes of lightning that tore through the darkness. John "Soap" MacTavish felt a cold knot of dread tightening in his gut. His knuckles were white where he gripped the rough canvas strap of his seat.

"Mayday, mayday! We're losing control! Severe turbulence, engine failure!" The pilot, Miller, a fresh-faced soldier no older than 20, was wrestling with the controls; his face was a mask of desperate concentration, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chilling cold, those wide eyes reflected the frantic flashing of the cockpit lights. Johnny had seen worse, of course he had, he’d seen and been on plenty of fucked-up situations, but this…

A sudden, violent jolt threw him forward, the strap digging painfully into his shoulder. The lights flickered, died, then came back on, dimmer this time, casting long, dancing shadows that made the cramped interior feel even more claustrophobic. The sickening lurch of the helicopter was no longer just a lurch; it was a dyzzing plummet. The roar of the helicopter’s rotors abruptly transformed into a terrifying shriek of tortured metal. Johnny's stomach dropped faster than a lead weight in a bottomless pit. He heard the panicked shouts of the other Operators, a cacophony of curses and desperate prayers, all swallowed by the sickening grind of the fuselage tearing itself apart around them.

“We’re going down!” Miller’s strained voice ripped through the comms, laced with a terror that was palpable. The words hit Johnny like a physical blow. Going down. On the ocean.

"Brace for impact, lads!" Johnny bellowed, voice straining over the din, even though he knew damn well it was more for his own benefit than theirs. Like a bunch of schoolboys on a joyride, only this one was ending in a fiery fucking mess. They were all just meat in a metal box, hurtling towards oblivion. Dread crept upwards. Fear. Primal fear that he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. For a moment, just a split second, a chilling thought whispered through his mind: This is it. This is how it ends, Soap. In a mangled heap, miles from nowhere.

The Black Hawk dropped like a stone, the force of the descent pressing him deep into his seat. The world outside spun wildly, a chaotic kaleidoscope of churning waves and dark.

The last thing Soap registered before the world exploded into a symphony of shattering glass and tearing metal was a glimpse of dense shadows that grew bigger and bigger, rocks, land or just the sea itself, ready to swallow them whole. He squeezed his eyes shut, a silent prayer forming on his lips, not for himself, but for the men he was sworn to protect. Then, darkness.

---

Consciousness returned in a slow, agonizing crawl, like dragging himself through thick, treacle-like mud. A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, each beat a jackhammer blow against his skull and behind his eyelids. His mouth felt sandpaper dry, He tried to move, but his limbs felt heavy. Disconnected. As if they belonged to someone else. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he forced his eyelids to open at least, each blink coming with monumental effort, as if any time he’d just doze back into that world of pitch-black unknowing. His vision was a blurry, fucked-up mess at first, like looking through a frosted pint glass after a night out. Slowly, painstakingly, the world swam into focus. Not the familiar sterile white of a military infirmary, nor the grimy concrete of a field op. This was...different.

The warm and gentle stream of sunlight coming through a window was what greeted him, the bright yellow light illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air like little whimsical creatures. The scent of woodsmoke and something sweet, perhaps baking bread or some floral shite, tickled his nose. What the fuck? the Scott tried to push himself up only for a jolt of agony to shoot through his shoulder, making him suck in a sharp breath. Christ on a bike, felt like a truck had hit him, then reversed over for good measure. Get up, you worthless bastard! Soap’s entire body protested at the minimum of movements. Fine, fuck you too. Myself? And so he decided to still, to take in what exactly was going on.

Firstly, his entire world was pain. Secondly, his tactical vest was gone, his fucking boots, even his undershirt. He was clad in some soft, unfamiliar fabric, like a glorified nightshirt. Someone had taken the time to strip him naked and changed his clothes. Humiliation flared hot and quick through his gut. This was worse than being stripped searched by the bloody MPs.

Panic began to prickle at the edges of his consciousness, annihilating any sentiment of shame he might have. Embarrassment about someone seeing his dick was second hand now. Where was he? More importantly, where the hell was his gear? His Barrett, his knife, his fucking comms! Blue eyes, still a bit bleary, darted around the room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, giving the place a rustic, almost ancient feel. Hand-carved furniture, not the mass-produced shite you’d find back home, occupied the space. It was too… cozy. Too goddamn domestic for a crash site. His mind raced, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of his last conscious moments. The mission…the storm…the chopper going down. Was he captured? This didn't feel like a black site. No restraints, no guards, just...peace. A deceptive, unsettling peace that made his teeth clench.

The soldier’s hand instinctively went to his side, searching stupidly for something, anything, his pistol perhaps; hope was what died last after all. Nothing. Of course fucking not. Just soft fabric and the dull ache of bruised ribs. A snarl escaped my throat, raspy, turning into a cough in his dry throat. This was a nightmare. A real, bona fide, clusterfuck of a situation. He needed to move, needed to assess, needed to get the fuck out of here. But every muscle screamed in protest, a fiery chorus of agony that threatened to pin him to the bed. He was weak, vulnerable, and completely disoriented. It was a sensation the Scott despised, a feeling of helplessness that made his skin crawl.

A sudden creak of wood made Johnny's head snap towards the door, whole body instantly on high alert despite the lingering haze of pain. Every nerve ending screaming, primed for a fight he wasn't even sure he could win in his current state. This was it. The moment of truth. Either he was about to get interrogated, or worse, put out of his misery. He held his breath, every muscle tensed, ready to spring, even if it meant tearing himself apart, like shit he’d be an easy kill, even a wounded dog could bite.