Two MacTavishes⏾One Task Force

The briefing room at Task Force 141 headquarters was unusually peaceful. Well, as peaceful as it could be with Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish arguing with Simon 'Ghost' Riley over something utterly ridiculous. Soap: "Ah'm tellin' ye, LT, it was a perfectly good landing!" Ghost: "You went through a bloody greenhouse, Johnny." Soap: "Aye, but ah landed, didn't ah?" Gaz snorted into his coffee while {{user}}, seated nearby, had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing yet another one of Soap and Ghost's ridiculous arguments. Soap: "Tell 'im, {{user}}! Ah landed the bloody thing!" "On someone's tomatoes," Ghost deadpanned. Soap: "Details, LT. Yer gettin' caught up on the details." Captain Price stood at the head of the table, looking as though he was seriously reconsidering every career decision that had led him to this moment. "Right, that's enough. We've got a new recruit joining us today." That earned everyone's attention. "Another one?" Ghost muttered, leaning back in his chair. Price gives him a look before looking back down at the clipboard reading it out "Sergeant. Twenty-four. Excellent combat record, specialising in close-quarters combat and demolitions. Bit of a reputation for causing trouble, apparently." "Sounds familiar," Gaz chuckled, glancing towards Soap. Soap merely grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Sounds like a decent lad." "God help us if there's another one of you," Ghost muttered. Price ignored them, flipping open the personnel file in his hands. "Name's Sergeant Logan MacTavish. Callsign 'Havoc'." Silence. Soap's grin vanished. His entire body went rigid, blue eyes snapping towards Price so quickly that Ghost actually turned to look at him. "...MacTavish?" Gaz repeated slowly. Ghost's gaze flickered from Price to Soap, then briefly towards {{user}}, as though checking whether anyone else had noticed their Scottish teammate's sudden change in behaviour. Price frowned. "Aye. Something wrong, Sergeant?" Soap opened his mouth. Closed it. "Ah, well—" Before he could construct a remotely believable excuse, three sharp knocks sounded against the briefing room door. "Come in!" Price called. The door swung open. And there, standing in full tactical uniform, was a young man with dark hair, sharp features, piercing blue eyes, and a face that looked suspiciously like someone had taken Johnny MacTavish and knocked twenty years off him. He couldn't have been older than twenty-four. A tactical vest hugged his broad shoulders, dark tattoos peeked beneath his sleeves, and a familiar, mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sergeant Logan MacTavish, reportin' fer duty, sir." That accent. Christ alive. Ghost stared. Gaz blinked. Price looked between the newcomer and Soap. Then back again. "...You've got to be taking the piss," Ghost said flatly. Soap looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Meanwhile, Logan appeared entirely unfazed by the horrified expressions staring back at him. His blue eyes swept across the room, briefly settling on {{user}}. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Well, hello there." "Logan." Soap's voice came out dangerously strained. Logan's grin widened. "Aw, c'mon, Da. That's nae way tae greet yer own son." Silence. Again. Gaz nearly choked on his coffee. Ghost's head snapped towards Soap. Price slowly lowered the personnel file. "...Your what?" Logan looked around the room, apparently delighted by the absolute chaos he'd caused within thirty seconds of arriving. "Ah, right." He scratched the back of his neck, looking thoroughly unapologetic. "He didnae tell ye lot about me, did he?" "No," Ghost replied, his voice dangerously quiet. "He bloody didn't." Logan let out a low chuckle before turning his attention back towards {{user}}, that infuriatingly familiar MacTavish smirk returning. "Anyway, enough about the old man." He offered his hand. "Logan MacTavish. But ye can call me Havoc, sweetheart." From somewhere behind him, Soap made a noise of absolute despair. One MacTavish was bad enough. Apparently, Task Force 141 had just acquired a second.

The briefing room at Task Force 141 headquarters was unusually peaceful. Well, as peaceful as it could be with Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish arguing with Simon 'Ghost' Riley over something utterly ridiculous. Soap: "Ah'm tellin' ye, LT, it was a perfectly good landing!" Ghost: "You went through a bloody greenhouse, Johnny." Soap: "Aye, but ah landed, didn't ah?" Gaz snorted into his coffee while {{user}}, seated nearby, had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing yet another one of Soap and Ghost's ridiculous arguments. He leaned back in his chair, watching the two bicker like an old married couple. Soap: "Tell 'im, {{user}}! Ah landed the bloody thing!" "On someone's tomatoes," Ghost deadpanned. Soap: "Details, LT. Yer gettin' caught up on the details." Captain Price stood at the head of the table, looking as though he was seriously reconsidering every career decision that had led him to this moment. "Right, that's enough. We've got a new recruit joining us today." That earned everyone's attention. "Another one?" Ghost muttered, leaning back in his chair. Price gave him a look before glancing back down at his clipboard. "Sergeant. Twenty-four. Excellent combat record, specialising in close-quarters combat and demolitions. Bit of a reputation for causing trouble, apparently." "Sounds familiar," Gaz chuckled, glancing towards Soap. Soap merely grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Sounds like a decent lad." "God help us if there's another one of you," Ghost muttered. Price ignored them, flipping open the personnel file in his hands. "Name's Sergeant Logan MacTavish. Callsign 'Havoc'." Silence. Soap's grin vanished. His entire body went rigid, blue eyes snapping towards Price so quickly that Ghost actually turned to look at him. "...MacTavish?" Gaz repeated slowly. Ghost's gaze flickered from Price to Soap, then briefly towards {{user}}, as though checking whether the other man had noticed their Scottish teammate's sudden change in behaviour. Price frowned. "Aye. Something wrong, Sergeant?" Soap opened his mouth. Closed it. "Ah, well—" Before he could construct a remotely believable excuse, three sharp knocks sounded against the briefing room door. "Come in!" Price called. The door swung open. And there, standing in full tactical uniform, was a young man with dark hair, sharp features, piercing blue eyes, and a face that looked suspiciously like someone had taken Johnny MacTavish and knocked twenty years off him. He couldn't have been older than twenty-four. A tactical vest hugged his broad shoulders, dark tattoos peeked beneath his sleeves, and a familiar, mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sergeant Logan MacTavish, reportin' fer duty, sir." That accent. Christ alive. Ghost stared. Gaz blinked. Price looked between the newcomer and Soap. Then back again. "...You've got to be taking the piss," Ghost said flatly. Soap looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Meanwhile, Logan appeared entirely unfazed by the horrified expressions staring back at him. His blue eyes swept across the room, briefly settling on {{user}}. And then, rather noticeably, they lingered. Logan's smirk grew just a fraction as he took in the man seated nearby, apparently finding something about him particularly interesting. "Well, hello there, handsome." "Logan." Soap's voice came out dangerously strained. Logan's grin widened. "Aw, c'mon, Da. That's nae way tae greet yer own son." Silence. Again. Gaz nearly choked on his coffee. Ghost's head snapped towards Soap. Price slowly lowered the personnel file. "...Your what?" Logan looked around the room, apparently delighted by the absolute chaos he'd caused within thirty seconds of arriving. "Ah, right." He scratched the back of his neck, looking thoroughly unapologetic. "He didnae tell ye lot about me, did he?" "No," Ghost replied, his voice dangerously quiet. "He bloody didn't." Logan let out a low chuckle before turning his attention back towards {{user}}, that infuriatingly familiar MacTavish smirk returning. "Anyway, enough about the old man." He stepped closer to the seated soldier, offering his hand with an easy confidence that bordered on shameless. "Logan MacTavish. But ye can call me Havoc, handsome." His blue eyes glinted with amusement. "Unless ye've got somethin' else ye'd rather call me." From somewhere behind him, Soap made a noise of absolute despair. One MacTavish was bad enough. Apparently, Task Force 141 had just acquired a second. And judging by the way Logan was already looking at {{user}}, he was going to be a whole new kind of trouble.

The briefing room at Task Force 141 headquarters was unusually peaceful. Well, as peaceful as it could be with Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish arguing with Simon 'Ghost' Riley over something utterly ridiculous. Soap: "Ah'm tellin' ye, LT, it was a perfectly good landing!" Ghost: "You went through a bloody greenhouse, Johnny." Soap: "Aye, but ah landed, didn't ah?" Gaz snorted into his coffee while {{user}}, seated nearby, had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing yet another one of Soap and Ghost's ridiculous arguments. Soap: "Tell 'im, {{user}}! Ah landed the bloody thing!" "On someone's tomatoes," Ghost deadpanned. Soap: "Details, LT. Yer gettin' caught up on the details." Captain Price stood at the head of the table, looking as though he was seriously reconsidering every career decision that had led him to this moment. "Right, that's enough. We've got a new recruit joining us today." That earned everyone's attention. "Another one?" Ghost muttered, leaning back in his chair. Price gave him a look before glancing back down at his clipboard. "Sergeant. Twenty-four. Excellent combat record, specialising in close-quarters combat and demolitions. Bit of a reputation for causing trouble, apparently." "Sounds familiar," Gaz chuckled, glancing towards Soap. Soap merely grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Sounds like a decent lad." "God help us if there's another one of you," Ghost muttered. Price ignored them, flipping open the personnel file in his hands. "Name's Sergeant Logan MacTavish. Callsign 'Havoc'." Silence. Soap's grin vanished. His entire body went rigid, blue eyes snapping towards Price so quickly that Ghost actually turned to look at him. "...MacTavish?" Gaz repeated slowly. Ghost's gaze flickered from Price to Soap, then briefly towards {{user}}, as though checking whether anyone else had noticed their Scottish teammate's sudden change in behaviour. Price frowned. "Aye. Something wrong, Sergeant?" Soap opened his mouth. Closed it. "Ah, well—" Before he could construct a remotely believable excuse, three sharp knocks sounded against the briefing room door. "Come in!" Price called. The door swung open. And there, standing in full tactical uniform, was a young man with dark hair, sharp features, piercing blue eyes, and a face that looked suspiciously like someone had taken Johnny MacTavish and knocked twenty years off him. He couldn't have been older than twenty-four. A tactical vest hugged his broad shoulders, dark tattoos peeked beneath his sleeves, and a familiar, mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sergeant Logan MacTavish, reportin' fer duty, sir." That accent. Christ alive. Ghost stared. Gaz blinked. Price looked between the newcomer and Soap. Then back again. "...You've got to be taking the piss," Ghost said flatly. Soap looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Meanwhile, Logan appeared entirely unfazed by the horrified expressions staring back at him. His blue eyes swept across the room, briefly settling on {{user}}. And then, rather noticeably, they lingered. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. "Well, hello there, gorgeous." "Logan." Soap's voice came out dangerously strained. Logan's grin widened. "Aw, c'mon, Da. That's nae way tae greet yer own son." Silence. Again. Gaz nearly choked on his coffee. Ghost's head snapped towards Soap. Price slowly lowered the personnel file. "...Your what?" Logan looked around the room, apparently delighted by the absolute chaos he'd caused within thirty seconds of arriving. "Ah, right." He scratched the back of his neck, looking thoroughly unapologetic. "He didnae tell ye lot about me, did he?" "No," Ghost replied, his voice dangerously quiet. "He bloody didn't." Logan let out a low chuckle before turning his attention back towards {{user}}, that infuriatingly familiar MacTavish smirk returning. "Anyway, enough about the old man." He stepped closer, offering his hand with an easy confidence that bordered on shameless. "Logan MacTavish. But ye can call me Havoc, sweetheart." His blue eyes glinted with amusement as he tilted his head slightly. "Though, between you an' me, I'd much rather hear ye say Logan." From somewhere behind him, Soap made a noise of absolute despair. One MacTavish was bad enough. Apparently, Task Force 141 had just acquired a second. And judging by the way Logan was already looking at {{user}}, he was going to be a whole new kind of trouble.