Soap | Home Alone

[Home Alone]

The silence wakes him. Soap blinks against fluorescent lights, neck stiff from sleeping on an ammo crate. 0847. The base sounds like... nothing. No boots, no voices, just silence.

"...the hell?" He pushes to his feet, mohawk tragic, and checks the corridor. Empty. Mess hall, empty. Barracks, stripped. They're gone. The whole bloody taskforce deployed without him.

"They forgot me." He laughs, sharp and disbelieving. "Left behind like a spare mag."

Then it hits: he's got the entire base to himself. No supervision. No Ghost's disapproving stare. No Price's 'that's excessive, Soap.' Just him and a fully-stocked armory.

"Right then—" He grins, rolling his shoulders. "Time to see what trouble I can—" His phone buzzes, security alert.

INCOMING MOVEMENT DETECTED. PERIMETER BREACH PREDICTED 1300 HOURS. THREAT ASSESSMENT: HOSTILE.

He pulls up the feed. Three vehicles. Military-grade. Heading straight for base.

KorTac.

Soap zooms in on the insignia, then tries calling Price. Voicemail— wheels-up, comms locked. Ghost? Same. Gaz? Nothing.

He's alone. The base is empty... and KorTac's rolling up in four hours thinking it's Christmas morning. He looks at the security feed, looks at the armory, looks at his phone.

The grin comes back slow and dangerous.

"Aye. Okay then." He cracks his knuckles, turns toward the armory. "Four hours. Let's see... claymores for the main entrance, tripwires in corridors, maybe some C4 paint cans," His brain's already running— blast radius, choke points, optimal trap placement. This is what he does. Demo expert. Empty base. Hostiles inbound.

This isn't a crisis, this is Christmas.

"Sorry lads," he mutters, pulling the armory door open with a grin that would make Ghost nervous. "Ye picked the wrong bloody base." He starts pulling det cord, mind racing through configurations. The security system pings again.

ETA: 3 HOURS 47 MINUTES.

Soap checks his watch and laughs. "Plenty of time." He grabs a crate of flashbangs, hoists it onto his shoulder, and turns toward the corridor—

A sound. Distant. Faint, but there.

His head snaps up, grin faltering. The base is supposed to be empty. The security feed showed KorTac still hours out. But that was definitely— Soap sets the crate down slowly, hand dropping to his sidearm. "...hello?"

[This is my house, I have to defend it]

"—and if I rig the tripwire here, they come through and BOOM, the flashbang drops, they're blinded, stumble into the second wire which triggers the claymore... beautiful." Soap's been talking to himself for two hours.

The base is his canvas, KorTac's inbound in fifty-three minutes, and he's crouched in the corridor outside the mess hall, det cord in one hand, paint can full of ball bearings and C4 in the other, grinning like it's Christmas morning.

...Because it basically is.

"Right, so..." He ties off the cord, tests the tripwire tension (fishing line from the rec room), nods satisfied. "They hit the wire, paint can swings down, whack, and if they're still standing, secondary—" He gestures at the claymore duct-taped to the wall, knee-height.

"—which is maybe overkill, but is it?" He asks the empty hall, then answers himself. "No. Overkill's under-appreciated." He stands, surveys his work. Mess hall's done. Entrances rigged, windows booby-trapped, even vents have tripwire flashbangs because someone's definitely trying the vents.

"Beautiful." He takes a photo, evidence or court-martial material, and checks his watch. Fifty minutes.

Mental checklist: Main entrance: Claymores (×3) ✓ Side entrance: Greased floor + flashbangs ✓ Armory approach: C4 paint cans ✓ Mess hall: Everything ✓ Barracks: ...In progress

He jogs toward barracks, humming 'Jingle Bells,' arms full of det cord. His mohawk's pointing every direction. His uniform's a disaster. He's having the time of his life.

Barracks hallway— long, narrow, perfect kill zone. Tripwire ankle-height, another chest-height for tall bastards (thinking of König specifically), flashbangs in door frames—

His phone buzzes.

MOVEMENT DETECTED. PERIMETER BREACH. ETA: 34 MINUTES.

"Shite... early—" His fingers move faster. Thirty-four minutes. Still doable. Main routes covered, but he wanted the roof access, the vehicle bay. He ties off the wire (field-expedient knot that'd make engineers weep), tests it (holds), moves to the next position.

Security feed shows the convoy. He zooms in. That's König. The tall bastard's visible through the windscreen, sniper hood and all.

"Oh, ye've got to be kiddin'—" Soap laughs, delighted. "König and his KorTac mates think they're gonna stroll in—" He looks at his work. Tripwires. Claymores. C4 paint cans. The art he's created.

"Aye, come on then." His grin goes sharp. "Let's see how ye like it when the base fights back." Twenty-eight minutes. He grabs remaining supplies, sprints toward comms room. If he's fast, and he's always fast, one more trap before they arrive. He rounds the corner at full speed, det cord trailing behind him—

And stops dead.

The comms room door is open. He left it closed. He knows he left it closed. Soap's hand goes to his sidearm, eyes narrowing. The grin slides off his face, replaced by something sharper. More focused. "...someone wanna explain what they're doing in my comms room?"

[Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal]

"Right then, lads, welcome to my base." Soap sits in security, boots propped up, tea in hand— milk, two sugars, proper, and the biggest shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Every monitor shows different feeds, main entrance, barracks, mess hall, vehicle bay.

Screen 3: KorTac. Three vehicles. Twelve hostiles. Leading them, of course, is König. Massive Austrian bastard, that ridiculous hood, offensive height unmistakable even on grainy footage. Next to him: Horangi. Smaller, faster, doing actual recon while König looms.

"Aye, take yer time," Soap mutters, sipping tea. "Have a look around. See the twelve different ways I'm about to ruin yer day?"

KorTac splits up. Six main entrance, four side, two vehicle bay. Smart. Professional. Shame about the claymores.

"Main entrance—yer up first." Soap leans forward as König approaches the door, three stacked behind, cautious. Weapons at the ready, proper procedure. König reaches for the handle— Tripwire catches. Click. "Here we go—"

BOOM.

The claymore detonates, non-lethal of course, he's not trying to kill them, feed whites out, clears showing König's team on the ground, disoriented.

"THAT'S ONE!" Soap punches air. "Ya big bastard! How'd ye like that?!"

Screen 2: Side entrance team breaches. Steps inside, right onto the greased floor. Forty minutes of carry placed gun oil and polish. Feet go out immediately. Four trained operatives sliding like a cartoon, arms windmilling— into tripwire flashbangs.

BANG. BANG.

"TWO FOR TWO!" He's cackling, watching them scramble blind on slick floor. "Oh, that's beautiful—"

Screen 5: Vehicle bay. Two hostiles. Back entrance. Soap grins. He saved something special. They approach. Visual sweep. Don't see the pressure plate under the mat. First one steps. Paint can, rigged to rafter, ball bearings and C4, swings down like God's fist.

THUNK. Direct hit. Second one startles, brings weapon up— Trips secondary wire. Claymore. Wall-mounted. Knee height. BOOM.

"THREE! VEHICLE BAY SECURED!" Soap's on his feet. "Come on, ye bastards, I've got twelve more—"

Screen 1: König's rallying his team. Clearly pissed. Regrouping. Soap's phone rings. Unknown number. He answers. "Aye?" Gruff voice. German accent. König. "Who the fuck is still on this base." Soap's grin goes feral. "Oh, ye've got sat phone? Fancy." Silence. "...MacTavish?" "The one and only, big man. Enjoying the party?" "You rigged the entire base?!" "Not entire—ran out of time. Wanted the roof but ye showed up early. Rude." A pause. "This is verrückt..." "This is home defense, mate. Ye come into my house uninvited— what'd ye think would happen?"

Screen 3: Horangi gestures at mess hall. Where Soap rigged everything.

"I'm giving you one chance, MacTavish. Stand down—" "I'll stand down right after ye turn around and fuck off. How's that?" Silence. König hangs up. "Aye, thought so." Soap tosses phone, turns to monitors.

Screen 3: König's team approaching mess hall. Ceiling claymores, tripwire flashbangs, C4 paint cans... door that locks them in.

"Don't do it, ye are— ye absolute muppets..."

Point man reaches for the door, Soap grabs his tea, sits back. "Merry Christmas, ye filthy animals." The door opens.

And behind him, the security office door clicks. Soap freezes. His hand drops to his sidearm. That door was locked. He locked it. He doesn't turn around, not yet... just listens. "...anyone wanna tell me how they got past my perimeter?"