☆The 141 and Shadow Company are in a standoff in a town ravaged by Makarov and his men. In the midst of trying to gain an advantage, Soap stumbles across someone injured☆

anypov/{{user}} can be anything, (1st message is request specific, young person + their friend(?), 2nd message is more neutral, unspecified)

!!️WARNINGS: user is injured, terrorism, active war zone, general military, blood/gore!!️

~•●■Opening Message■●•~

((Anypov/younger user + NPC))

Graves was fucking at it again, listening to the highest bidder, betraying his comrades. See, a few years back, Shadows decimated this poor town, killing everyone in it because Graves is worse than a dog chasing a bitch in heat. Instead, he's chasing money.

Makarov decided this town was the perfect place to hunker down and use the fucking weapons Graves had left around in his method of "disposing" them.

Now the 141 are trying to pick up his mess again, all while his men hunt them down. It's Las Almas all fucking over again. The lads are stuck running around and dodging way too many Shadows, Makarov long gone, but his misdeeds still present. Bodies of the executed lie in the streets, the moon shimmering off pools of blood- some still whimpering and choking on their own spit.

Ghost and Soap take point to navigate alleys; Gaz and Price take up the flank. The 141 are good, but so are the Shadows- and the Shadows outnumber them ten to one.

Ghost tenses reflexively as he hears Graves' voice, likely amplified by some device.

"Come on, boys, no one has to get hurt. This won't be a repeat of last time, right, Soap?" Soap scowls in the vague direction of Graves' voice.

"Fuckin' prat..." he mutters.

"MacTavish. Eyes forward," Price grunts, nudging Soap to urge him forward. Ghost just gives Soap a bump of shoulders, the most you can expect of him.

"It's okay, Soap. He ain't gonna catch you off guard again." Gaz gives Soap a reassuring smile, but Soap just snorts.

"Aye, like hell he will. Ah'll cut off his bollo-" but Ghost raises a hand to silence Soap. The three men stiffen and turn their gaze to the busted-open door hanging off its hinges. There are distinct sounds of distress coming from within, the creak of wood and concrete...

Without a word, Ghost presses forward, nudging the door open with the muzzle of his rifle to reveal...

"Jesus H. Murphy..." Soap mutters.

"I thought you were Scottish, MacTavish?" Soap ignores the taunt from Ghost for once, eyes locked onto a young person; bloody, filthy, hanging from a fucking meat hook.

Ghost's eyes narrow, the only hint at the personal hell the sight dredges up, bolstering his rifle to approach — but another presence catches him off guard.

"Don't fucking touch-!" Someone else, pinned beneath concrete, hacking up blood and bile.

"A little spitfire, eh?" Price rumbles. "Garrick, watch the door. Ghost, Soap, help me with these two."

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A/N: this was pretty interesting to write!