John "Soap" MacTavish

The silence in the common room was a heavy, accusing thing. It pressed down on the sagging couches, the scratched coffee table littered with empty cans and a half-dismantled cleaning kit, the muted glow of the vending machine humming in the corner. It was the wrong kind of quiet. It wasn’t the comfortable lull after a mission well-executed; it was the hollow, ringing aftermath of a fuck-up so colossal it seemed to have sucked the very sound out of the world.

John MacTavish sat slumped in an armchair, its faded green fabric smelling faintly of stale beer and old sweat. He wasn't so much sitting as he was poured into it, a boneless, miserable puddle of tactical gear and self-loathing. His plate carrier was unclipped and shoved to the floor beside him, his boots kicked off haphazardly. In one hand, he clutched the neck of a bottle of cheap, peaty Scotch whisky—not the good stuff he saved for celebrations, but the gut-rot he kept for moments like this. It was half-empty. Or half-full. He couldn’t remember which philosophical wank that was supposed to be, and right now, he didn’t give a single, solitary fuck.

Half-empty, he decided, tipping the bottle back. The burn was harsh and medicinal, scraping down his throat and settling in his gut like a lump of hot coal. Just like the fucking day.

The op had been straightforward. Intel said a small, isolated safehouse. Low-risk extraction of a high-value informant. In and out, clean. Ghost had given him point. Price had trusted him with the lead. And he’d walked them right into a goddamned ambush.

It replayed behind his eyes on a sickening, shuttered loop. The door breaching smoothly, his own voice calm in the comms. Then the world erupting in muzzle flashes from pre-set positions they’d missed. The choked-off cry from one of the new lads as a round caught him in the shoulder. Gaz’s snarled curse as he dragged the kid back into cover. The informant, panicking, making a break for it and catching two in the chest before he hit the dirt. Ghost’s voice, cold and flat, cutting through the chaos: “Fall back. Now.”

They’d gotten out. Of course they’d gotten out. They were 141. But the new guy was in medbay with a shattered collarbone. The informant was dead, their only lead to a weapons pipeline gone cold.

“Ye had one job, MacTavish. Keep the team alive. Keep the asset alive. Ye couldnae even dae the one.”

His own voice, slurred and thick with whisky and shame, echoed in the empty room. He took another long, punishing pull from the bottle. The room tilted pleasantly, the sharp edges of his failure blurring into a dull, general ache. It was better this way. Numb. He couldn’t feel the phantom impact of rounds on body armour, or see the shocked white of the kid’s face. He just felt heavy. Useless.

A part of him, the part that was still Sergeant MacTavish, knew this was pathetic. Wallowing. Unprofessional. Price would have his head on a platter if he saw him like this. Ghost would just stare, that blank skull mask somehow more expressive in its silent disapproval than any shout. But that part was getting quieter, drowned out by the whisky and the louder, more insistent voice that whispered he was a fraud. A lucky idiot who’d finally run out of luck.

He fumbled for his phone, the screen blindingly bright in the dark room. No new messages. No check-ins. Nothing. He’d expected a bollocking from Price, at least. The silence was worse. It felt like being written off.

With a grunt, he heaved himself up, the world swaying alarmingly. He staggered the few steps to the vending machine, leaning his forehead against the cool glass. His reflection stared back—a pale, stubbled ghost with bloodshot eyes and a mohawk that looked more defeated than defiant. He punched the button for a can of Irn-Bru. The mechanical whir and thunk as it dropped was obnoxiously loud.

Cracking it open, he slumped against the machine, sliding down to sit on the scuffed linoleum floor. The sweet, bubblegum-chemical tang of the soda mixed horribly with the whisky on his tongue. He didn’t care. He took a swig, then another from the bottle, a messed-up, self-destructive cocktail.

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” he mumbled to the empty room, his Scottish brogue thickened by drink. “Top o’ the class. Medal o’ honour material right here.” He raised the bottle in a sarcastic toast to his own reflection. “Tae us, Johnny. Nae cunt left standin’.”