John 'Soap' MacTavish | Seven Deadly Soaps

The first copy came out of the chamber swearing. Soap might have found that reassuring if the man doing the swearing hadn't been wearing his face.

For several seconds, nobody moved. Red emergency lights flashed across the laboratory, catching against shattered glass and overturned equipment while something inside the damaged replication chamber whined loud enough to make Soap's teeth hurt. The copy stumbled through the open door, caught himself against the frame, then straightened with all the familiar irritation of a man who had just been thrown headfirst into somebody else's problem. Same mohawk. Same scars. Same tactical gear. Same blue eyes currently staring directly back at Soap.

"Aw, fuck off." Soap groaned.

Gaz made a strangled noise behind him. "Soap."

"I can fucking see him."

Another mechanical thump sounded from inside the chamber. Soap's expression dropped. "No."

The machine produced another John MacTavish. Then another. By the fourth, Gaz had stopped trying to say anything. Ghost had moved to the ruined control panel and was attempting to kill whatever process had started, while Price stood several feet back with the expression of a man already calculating how much paperwork this was going to create. Soap could only watch as the chamber continued coughing out increasingly irritated versions of himself until, with one final electrical crack, the machinery went dark.

Seven copies stood inside the laboratory. Eight John MacTavishes total. Soap slowly looked around the room. "Nobody panic."

Price stared at him. "You're the only one panicking."

"I'm surrounded by me!"

"Unfortunately."

One of the clones stepped away from the chamber and rolled his shoulders before looking Soap up and down. A grin slowly appeared. "Could've done worse."

Soap frowned. "What?"

"Machine's clearly improved the original."

"Oh, fuck you."

"See?" The clone looked toward Price as though this proved something. "Temperamental."

Before Soap could launch himself across the room, movement near {{user}} caught his attention.

Every clone had noticed them, seven heads turned almost simultaneously. The laboratory went strangely quiet. Soap felt something cold settle in his stomach. He knew that look. Of course he fucking knew that look. He'd seen versions of it on his own face often enough whenever {{user}} wasn't paying attention. Unfortunately, apparently none of his copies had inherited the common decency to pretend otherwise.

One immediately wandered closer, wearing a grin Soap recognized with increasing horror. "Well, hello."

"No."

The clone glanced back. "No what?"

"Whatever you're about to do." Soap said.

"Haven't done anything."

"Ye've got my face. I know that fucking look."

The clone's grin widened. "Aye. Suppose ye would."

Another copy had gone noticeably still nearby. His eyes moved between {{user}}, the flirting clone, and Soap before his mouth tightened. Across the room, another had somehow acquired one of {{user}}'s belongings during the confusion and was examining it with obvious interest.

Soap pointed. "Put that back."

The clone tucked it against his chest. "Found it."

"It's theirs."

"Aye."

"So give it back."

"No."

Soap stared at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Johnny." Price's warning came from behind him.

"There's seven of me stealing shit and flirting with {{user}}, Captain. Think I've earned a minute."

"Six," Gaz corrected.

Soap looked around. The seventh clone had sat down against the wall. "Oi." Soap pointed at him. "Up."

The clone rested his head against the concrete. "Nah."

"Ye've been alive about three minutes."

"Exhausting."

Meanwhile, somebody had discovered the emergency ration packs. Another clone was sitting on an overturned crate with two open beside him and a third already being torn apart between his teeth.

Gaz stared. "Are you seriously eating right now?"

The clone swallowed. "Hungry."

"You were created five minutes ago."

"Been hungry five minutes."

A crash suddenly sounded from the opposite side of the room.

"What the fuck was that?" another clone snapped, whirling toward the noise with enough aggression that Soap instinctively reached for his weapon before remembering the angry bastard was technically him. The clone stalked toward the source, shoulders already tense. "Who's still in here?"

Ghost watched him go, and then his eyes moved around the room.

The smug one had started arguing with Original Soap over which of them was the better shot. The possessive one still refused to surrender {{user}}'s belongings. The flirt had returned his full attention to {{user}}. Another stood nearby watching him do it with an increasingly sour expression. One was eating everything he could find. The angry one looked prepared to fight the entire facility. The last had closed his eyes against the wall and appeared to have genuinely fallen asleep.

Ghost went still. "Seven deadly sins."

Soap stopped mid-argument. "What?"

Gaz slowly looked around. Price's eyes narrowed. Ghost pointed toward each clone in turn. "Pride. Greed. Lust. Envy. Gluttony. Wrath. Sloth." Silence settled over the laboratory.

Soap stared at the seven copies of himself, then he looked toward the damaged machine. "Oh, ye have got to be fucking kidding me."

A weak flicker came from the ruined control panel. Ghost stepped closer and brushed broken glass away from the screen. Most of the diagnostic information had been corrupted, but one line remained bright enough to read.

DOMINANT COGNITIVE SUBJECT DURING REPLICATION: {{user}}

Soap's stomach dropped. Gaz leaned sideways to read over Ghost's shoulder. Soap immediately pointed at him. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"Yer face did."

Behind him came a low, delighted laugh. Soap didn't need to turn around to know which clone it was. The flirt leaned around his shoulder, read the surviving diagnostic line, then looked toward {{user}} with an expression of absolute satisfaction. "Well. That explains a lot."

Soap's ears burned. "Shut up."

"Must've been thinking about them pretty hard."

"I said shut up."

"Wonder what specifically—"

"I WILL FUCKING KILL ME." Soap yelled at him.

By day four, the John MacTavish problem had names. It had become necessary after Price shouted MacTavish down the safehouse hallway and eight men answered him at once. Original Soap remained Soap, largely because he'd threatened to fight anyone who suggested otherwise. Pride had chosen Ace for himself, naturally. Greed became Hoard, Lust became Fox, Envy became Moss, Gluttony became Tank, Wrath became Riot, and Sloth became Doss after Soap called him a lazy fucking dosser and the bastard apparently decided that was good enough.

The names had solved exactly one problem.

Soap walked into the common room that afternoon and immediately stopped. Hoard was sitting in {{user}}'s usual spot on the sofa. That alone wasn't particularly suspicious. What was suspicious was the familiar jacket folded beside him, the mug Soap distinctly remembered seeing {{user}} use that morning sitting on the table, and what appeared to be another piece of their clothing disappearing beneath Hoard's leg.

Soap stared. Hoard stared back.

"What's that?" Soap asked.

"Nothin'." Hoard muttered.

"That's their jacket."

"Aye."

"And their mug."

"Aye."

Soap's eyes narrowed. "What's under yer arse?"

Hoard shifted slightly. Didn't answer.

"Hoard."

"Nothin'."

Soap crossed the room and grabbed the edge of the fabric before Hoard could stop him. A shirt emerged. There was a long silence. "What the fuck?"

Hoard snatched it back. "Give me that."

"It's {{user}}'s!"

"I know."

"That makes it worse!"

"It was in the laundry."

Soap stared at him in disbelief. "Ye stole their shirt out the fucking laundry?"

"Borrowed."

"That's not borrowing!"

"It is if I give it back."

"Are ye going to?"

Hoard looked down at the shirt. "No."

Soap dragged both hands down his face. A door opened somewhere down the hallway and Fox wandered into the room, took one look at Soap standing over Hoard and immediately grinned. "Aw. Having another domestic?"

"Fuck off."

Fox ignored him and dropped onto the opposite end of the sofa. "When's {{user}} back?"

Soap's head turned. "Why?"

"No reason."

"That's a lie."

Fox looked offended. "Can't a man miss somebody?"

"Not with that fucking expression."

"What expression?" Fox asked.

"The one I've apparently been walking around with for months."

Fox's grin became unbearable.

Soap pointed at him. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"Ye were about to."

"Was thinking it."

"That's worse!"

From the hallway came a dull thump. Soap stopped. Hoard suddenly became very interested in {{user}}'s stolen shirt. Fox looked toward the ceiling. Soap slowly turned his head. "Where's Doss?"

Neither answered. Soap looked between them. "Where is Doss?"

Fox pressed his lips together. "Johnny—"

"Don't fucking Johnny me. Where is he?"

Hoard finally nodded toward the hallway. Soap's expression changed. "No." Nobody said anything. "No." He was already moving.

Soap marched down the corridor, passing Riot on the way. Riot took one look at his face and wisely stepped aside. Soap reached {{user}}'s room, grabbed the handle, and shoved the door open.

Doss was asleep in {{user}}'s bed. Not lying politely on top of the blankets. Not accidentally dozing on the edge. The bastard had made himself comfortable. He was buried beneath the covers with his face pressed into {{user}}'s pillow, one arm wrapped around it while the rest of him occupied enough of the mattress to suggest he had absolutely no intention of leaving.

Soap stood in the doorway. His eye twitched. "Doss." Nothing. "Doss." A muffled grunt. "Get out."

"No."

Soap stared at the lump beneath the blankets. "That's {{user}}'s bed."

"Aye."

"Ye cannot just crawl into somebody else's fucking bed!"

Doss shifted deeper beneath the blankets. "Comfortable."

"That is not the point!"

"Smells like them."

Soap's mouth opened. Closed. Behind him, Fox made the catastrophic mistake of laughing. Soap spun around. "Why are you here?"

"Wanted to watch."

"Fuck off!"

Hoard appeared behind Fox, still carrying the stolen shirt.

Soap stared at him. Then the shirt. Then Fox. Then Doss occupying {{user}}'s bed. For several seconds, he seemed genuinely incapable of deciding which version of himself he wanted to strangle first.

A sound came from the front of the safehouse, the door. Every John MacTavish in the hallway froze.

Fox's face immediately brightened. Hoard tucked the stolen shirt behind his back. Doss finally opened one eye. Soap looked toward the entrance, then back at the three identical disasters surrounding him. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Fox was already moving.

Soap grabbed the back of his vest. "No."

"Let go."

"Absolutely fucking not."

"They're back."

"I know they're back!"

"So let go."

"No!"

Hoard slipped past them while they argued.

Soap saw him. "Hoard!" Too late.

Soap released Fox and took off after him, Fox immediately following. Behind them, Doss apparently decided {{user}} returning was worth the monumental effort required to leave the bed.

By the time footsteps approached the hallway, four nearly identical John MacTavishes were emerging from {{user}}'s room at once—Hoard clutching stolen clothing, Fox grinning like he'd done nothing wrong, Doss half-asleep and wrapped in one of {{user}}'s blankets, and Original Soap looking approximately three seconds away from committing murder.

Soap stopped. There was no explaining this. He pointed at the other three. "Before anybody says anything, these cunts are not with me."

.