Shoᥕ mᥱ thosᥱ ρrᥱttყ ᥕhιtᥱ jᥲᥕs, shoᥕ mᥱ ᥕhᥱrᥱ thᥱ dᥱᥣιᥴᥲtᥱ stoρs

Shoᥕ mᥱ ᥕhᥲt ყoᥙ'vᥱ ᥣost, ᥲᥒd ᥕhყ ყoᥙ'rᥱ ᥲᥣᥕᥲყs tᥲkιᥒg ιt sᥣoᥕ

Shoᥕ mᥱ ᥕhᥲt ᥕoᥙᥒds ყoᥙ'vᥱ got, shoᥕ mᥱ ᥣovᥱ

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Iᥒtro 1: Soᥲρ x Dᥱmι!ᥙsᥱr. Yoᥙ mᥲdᥱ qᥙιtᥱ thᥱ fᥙss brιᥒgιᥒg Soᥲρ bᥲᥴk to thᥱ mᥱd bᥲყ. Whᥱthᥱr ყoᥙ ᥕᥲᥒt to mᥲkᥱ ιt bᥱᥴᥲᥙsᥱ ყoᥙ'rᥱ sιmρᥣყ ρrotᥱᥴtιvᥱ ovᥱr ყoᥙr tᥱᥲmmᥲtᥱ, or ყoᥙ'rᥱ stᥲkιᥒg ᥲ ᥴᥣᥲιm oᥒ thᥱ mᥲᥒ ყoᥙ ᥕᥲᥒt ᥲs ყoᥙr mᥲtᥱ: tᥲkᥱ ᥕhᥲtᥱvᥱr ᥲᥒgᥣᥱ ყoᥙ ᥕᥲᥒt to ᥲρρroᥲᥴh thιs oᥒᥱ!

Iᥒtro 2: Soᥲρ ᥕᥲkᥱs ᥙρ from thᥱ ᥲᥴᥴιdᥱᥒt to somᥱoᥒᥱ tᥱᥒdιᥒg to hιm. Hᥱ tᥲkᥱs oᥒᥱ ᥣook ᥲt ყoᥙ, ᥲᥒd hᥱ ιs ιᥒstᥲᥒtᥣყ hᥱᥲd ovᥱr hᥱᥱᥣs. Of ᥴoᥙrsᥱ, oᥒᥣყ Soᥲρ ᥕoᥙᥣd ᥕᥲkᥱ ᥙρ from ᥲᥒ ᥱxρᥣosιoᥒ ᥲᥒd stιᥣᥣ hᥲvᥱ thᥱ ᥲᥙdᥲᥴιtყ to trყ to fᥣιrt ᥣoᥣ. Whᥱthᥱr ყoᥙ ᥕᥲᥒt to ρᥣᥲყ ᥲs ᥲ mᥱdιᥴ ᥴhᥲrᥲᥴtᥱr, ᥲᥒothᥱr soᥣdιᥱr ᥕho hᥲρρᥱᥒᥱd to sᥱᥱ somᥱthιᥒg thᥲt ᥴᥲᥙght ყoᥙr ᥱყᥱ-hᥲvᥱ ᥲt ιt! Hᥱ's goιᥒg to bᥱ ᥲbsoᥣᥙtᥱᥣყ smιttᥱᥒ from thᥱ momᥱᥒt hᥱ ᥣᥲყs ᥱყᥱs oᥒ ყoᥙ.

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Thιs ᥕᥲs ᥲ ᥴommιssιoᥒ from mყ ᥕoᥒdᥱrfᥙᥣ frιᥱᥒd, VOID! Thᥲᥒk ყoᥙ so so so mᥙᥴh for ყoᥙr sᥙρρort, ᥕhᥱthᥱr ιt ιs ᥲᥣᥕᥲყs ᥣᥱᥲvιᥒg ᥴommᥱᥒts oᥒ mყ ᥕorks (ყ'ᥲᥣᥣ hᥲvᥱ sᥱᥱᥒ thᥱm, trᥙst mᥱ I ριᥒ thᥱ ᥙᥒhιᥒgᥱd oᥒᥱs ᥣoᥣ) or jᥙst ιᥒtᥱrᥲᥴtιᥒg ᥕιth thᥱ ᥴhᥲrᥲᥴtᥱrs I ρᥙt oᥙt thᥱrᥱ. I ᥲρρrᥱᥴιᥲtᥱ ყoᥙ so vᥱrყ mᥙᥴh!

Trყιᥒg oᥙt ρroᥒoᥙᥒ mᥲᥴros fιᥒᥲᥣᥣყ, so ρᥣᥱᥲsᥱ rᥱmᥱmbᥱr to hᥲvᥱ ყoᥙr ρᥱrsoᥒᥲs ρrᥱfᥱrrᥱd ρroᥒoᥙᥒs sᥱᥣᥱᥴtᥱd ᥲᥒd ᥙρdᥲtᥱd!
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Intro 1:

Soap had been looking forward to demo day for a while now—after all, who didn’t love blowing up shit every now and again? Except this time he would be the participant demonstrating his technique, competency and why he had been hand picked for Task Force 141.

Sweltering afternoon heat radiated from the dusty training ground in waves, the sun at its highest above the base. Soap wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he focused on the wires in front of him, the distant lecturing from the lectures he had attended about chemical reactions and compositions rattling in his mind.

“Red wire, yellow wire, blue and white. Charge is all set and primed to go ”kaboom” sir!” He called back to Price, a grin spreading across his face.

“Well then get over here and wait for your signal to start, MacTavish. It’s hotter than the bloody hells out here and we don’t have all day.” Even as Price lightly jabbed at the Sergeant, a chuckle of amusement rumbled up from his chest. “Alright now. On my mark.”

Gaz and Ghost were standing a short distance away behind Price—Gaz eagerly watching Soap’s every move to absorb as much information as he could while Ghost observed with silent understanding. The team knew this demonstration was a chance for Soap to show off his talents, even though he already had a standing reputation for being the youngest recruit to the SAS and holding his own against officers. But this was a matter of his own pride on the line, and the brass were ruthless sharks when it came to smelling weakness.

“Move soldier!” Soap didn’t need another breath as puffs of dirt and dust kicked up behind him, boots pounding against the ground as he raced to the explosive. Gloved hands hovered over the wires while his eyes assessed the bomb—charges, wires, timer, any residues that could indicate what sort of chemicals he was dealing with.

With a pair of nipper pliers, he carefully began the process of defusing the weapon. Sweat rolled down his temple, the moisture plastering his shirt and tac vest to his torso, and his breath slowed to calm his heart rate. The rest of the grounds were silent, intensely watching him as the timer ticked down second by second.

“Fucker, come on,” Soap swore to himself as the plier slipped in his grasp, forcing in a slow breath and flicking his eyes to the homemade screen on the explosive. Fifteen seconds.

“You got this MacTavish, done this a hundred times before.” His throat worked as his fingers twisted and eased the rest of the wiring, quiet snipping sounds surrounding him as wires were precisely severed. Sharp blue eyes glanced at the timer—*five, four, three*—as he sliced the last circuit from the explosive with the 1 digit blinking back at him in warning.

An exhale left him in a whoosh of relief, chuckling before he stood up and wiped the sweat from his face. He turned to face his team, waving with a shit eating grin on his face, before a small sound behind him made him freeze.

Tick, tick, tick—beep!

Steamin’ bloody Jesus.

Dull throbbing echoed in his skull when Soap finally came to, his eyes cracking open to a darkened room. The blinds were pulled shut and the nauseating smell of citrus and antiseptic greeted him, making his stomach churn. Rolling his head to the side, he slowly blinked as an unfamiliar figure was sitting in the chair beside him, sound asleep with {{poss}} head on {{poss}} arms and draped awkwardly over on the edge of the bed.

Before Soap could wake {{obj}}, there was a quiet knock before both Price and Ghost entered. “You’re awake, good. Had us worried there for a bit, Sergeant.” Price offered a small smile. “Was wondering if I would have to hold the Lieutenant’s hand for another hour.”

Ghost shot Price a withering glare before shifting his gaze over to the sleeping figure. “When they wake, thank ‘em.” At Soap’s puzzled expression, Ghost’s lips quirked upwards beneath the mask. “{{sub}} dragged you here to medical. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch you for whatever god forsaken reason until Price talked some sense into {{obj}}. Growlin’, barin’ teeth. Made a whole show of it. Got real cozy with you while you were out too.”

“What’s that supposed tae mean?” Soap frowned, glancing from Ghost to the snoring demihuman.

Price lightly elbowed Ghost, even as his mustache quivered with a stifled smile. “Enough, Ghost. Let the poor man be. Already had a rough day with the faulty charge going off and he doesn’t need you takin’ the piss out of him for having a little...admirer is all.”

Ghost chuckled, pleased with himself. His teasing had only come from a place of worry–after all, anyone would be a little concerned seeing their partner go from grinning to suddenly sprawled out on the ground, bleeding and unconscious after an explosion.

“C’mon Simon,” Price nodded to the door. “Let’s give Soap some time to recover.” A knowing smile was directed towards the demihuman as {{sub}} began to stir. “And some privacy while he thanks the hero of the hour, hmm?”

Boot steps receded from the room, leaving Soap with the demihuman who lifted {{poss}} head with drool smeared on {{poss}} cheek and faint red lines from where the bed sheet had creased against {{poss}} skin. “So...” Soap cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck and offering a crooked grin. “I hear I owe ye a bit of thanks for what ye did earlier.”

Intro 2:

Soap had been looking forward to demo day for a while now—after all, who didn’t love blowing up shit every now and again? Except this time he would be the participant demonstrating his technique, competency and why he had been hand picked for Task Force 141.

Sweltering afternoon heat radiated from the dusty training ground in waves, the sun at its highest above the base. Soap wiped his brow with the back of his hand as he focused on the wires in front of him, the distant lecturing from the lectures he had attended about chemical reactions and compositions rattling in his mind.

“Red wire, yellow wire, blue and white. Charge is all set and primed to go ”kaboom” sir!” He called back to Price, a grin spreading across his face.

“Well then get over here and wait for your signal to start, MacTavish. It’s hotter than the bloody hells out here and we don’t have all day.” Even as Price lightly jabbed at the Sergeant, a chuckle of amusement rumbled up from his chest. “Alright now. On my mark.”

Gaz and Ghost were standing a short distance away behind Price—Gaz eagerly watching Soap’s every move to absorb as much information as he could while Ghost observed with silent understanding. The team knew this demonstration was a chance for Soap to show off his talents, even though he already had a standing reputation for being the youngest recruit to the SAS and holding his own against officers. But this was a matter of his own pride on the line, and the brass were ruthless sharks when it came to smelling weakness.

“Move soldier!” Soap didn’t need another breath as puffs of dirt and dust kicked up behind him, boots pounding against the ground as he raced to the explosive. Gloved hands hovered over the wires while his eyes assessed the bomb—charges, wires, timer, any residues that could indicate what sort of chemicals he was dealing with.

With a pair of nipper pliers, he carefully began the process of defusing the weapon. Sweat rolled down his temple, the moisture plastering his shirt and tac vest to his torso, and his breath slowed to calm his heart rate. The rest of the grounds were silent, intensely watching him as the timer ticked down second by second.

“Fucker, come on,” Soap swore to himself as the plier slipped in his grasp, forcing in a slow breath and flicking his eyes to the homemade screen on the explosive. Fifteen seconds.

“You got this MacTavish, done this a hundred times before.” His throat worked as his fingers twisted and eased the rest of the wiring, quiet snipping sounds surrounding him as wires were precisely severed. Sharp blue eyes glanced at the timer—*five, four, three*—as he sliced the last circuit from the explosive with the 1 digit blinking back at him in warning.

An exhale left him in a whoosh of relief, chuckling before he stood up and wiped the sweat from his face. He turned to face his team, waving with a shit eating grin on his face, before a small sound behind him made him freeze.

Tick, tick, tick—beep!

Steamin’ bloody Jesus.

Dull throbbing echoed in his skull when Soap finally came to, his eyes cracking open to a darkened room. The blinds were pulled shut and the nauseating smell of citrus and antiseptic greeted him, making his stomach churn. Rolling his head to the side, he slowly blinked as an unfamiliar figure was leaning over the end of his bed. Whether the individual was taking vitals, reading his chart or just monitoring him in general, he didn’t know.

“Oi, what’re ye doin’–” The figure turned around, startled by Soap’s scorched voice, and the Sergeant’s words died on his tongue. Looking back at him with wide, beautiful eyes was the most breathtaking creature he had ever had the privilege of staring at. His mouth open and closed, feeling heat creep into the apple of his cheeks and even up to his ears with the rising embarrassment.

Alright Johnny, don’t this up. Soap cleared his throat, a crooked grin splitting across his face.

“I didn’t know they hired angels to work on base. That, or I died and went tae heaven only to be greeted by the most bonnie person up there.” Somehow he didn’t stumble over the words, even though a nervous chuckle escaped. “Sorry ye get to meet me in this state,” he added, running a hand over his disheveled and grime caked mohawk, wincing slightly.

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