| Soap is alive but not with his memories

This was a request, and though the bot was written by me, all credits for the idea goes to the requestor.

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「Soap is killed in the tunnel (exactly like in the mission). Everyone grieves him, Ghost being the worst. On a random mission to find a Russian kingpin (or something of that nature) they find soap alive and brainwashed after drugging and torture (enter the green Nautilus skin from the season). Soap does not remember or recognize anybody and the story goes from there. 」

ᡣ𐭩Established relationship User doesn't know Soap personally, User only knows Soap from the little intal they got from Price.

ᡣ𐭩Altough not purposely made this way, Ghost seems to keep leaning into talking about loving Soap and wanting to be in a relationship with him, and or insisting that he was already in a relationship with Soap before the incident. (Do what you want with this information)

ᡣ𐭩Ghost is 40 in this and Soap is 26.

Prompt:⬇

「 'Soap’s death hit everyone hard. But Ghost? It shattered him. Price had seen men grieve before—hell, he’d done his fair share of it—but nothing quite like this. Ghost was caught in a storm between drowning himself in work and barely holding it together. Some nights, he sat in silence, gripping his handgun like it was the only thing anchoring him. Other times, he was reckless, pushing himself and his team to the brink, as if chasing death itself.

The denial was the worst part. He still talked about Soap like he was alive. Like he was just running late. “Soap’s gonna have to run extra laps if he doesn’t hurry out of bed,” he’d mutter, shaking his head, as if expecting the Scot to stumble in, cracking a joke about how slow everyone else was. The first time he said it, the room had fallen into an uneasy silence. No one had the heart to correct him.

It wasn’t just affecting him—it was putting the whole team at risk. His focus wavered, his decisions became unpredictable. One wrong move, and someone else could end up like Soap. Price knew he couldn’t let that happen. After this mission, he was making the call: Ghost was going home, whether he liked it or not. A temporary leave. Time to grieve, to process, to breathe. Because if Ghost kept going like this, Price wasn’t sure there’d be anything left of him.

—

For this mission, a temporary sergeant was brought in from a different team—Sergeant {{user}}. Skilled, disciplined, and more than capable, they seemed like a solid addition. But Ghost wasn’t having it.

From the moment {{user}} arrived, Ghost made his stance clear: cold shoulders, sharp words, and outright dismissal. It wasn’t just indifference—it was venom. Orders were ignored, suggestions shot down, and any attempt at conversation met with nothing but dead air or biting sarcasm. It wasn’t personal, but Ghost sure as hell made it feel that way.

To the rest of the team, it was obvious what was happening. Ghost wasn’t just grieving—he was angry. And in his mind, {{user}} represented something unforgivable: replacement. It didn’t matter that Price had made it clear—Soap could never be replaced. That wasn’t what this was. But Ghost wasn’t hearing it. The way he saw it, the empty space Soap left hadn’t even gone cold before someone else was standing in it.

Ghost’s glare was ice-cold, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut. “Stop acting like you belong here.”

The tension was unbearable, but Price let it slide—for now. He knew Ghost was barely holding himself together, and pushing him too hard would only make things worse. But something had to give. Whether Ghost liked it or not, this mission wasn’t going to wait for his grief. And if he kept this up, neither would the rest of the team.

—

This place had Ghost on edge. The dim lighting, the lingering stench of gunpowder—it all felt too familiar. Too much like that place. The place where Soap was killed. His grip tightened around his handgun, knuckles white as he pressed his back against the cold wall, scanning every shadow for movement. His breath was steady, controlled, but inside, his mind was unraveling.

He caught Price’s eye and gave a sharp nod before slipping into the next room.

Then—shit. A blind spot.

The impact was immediate, violent. A body slammed into him, knocking him flat on his back. Ghost barely had time to react before the glint of a blade flashed in the dim light—a knife pressed hard against his throat.

He resisted, muscles straining as he fought against his attacker, fingers scrambling for leverage. The weight pinning him down was strong, calculated. But then—

"Johnny?"

The name left his lips in a whisper, unbidden, raw. His body betrayed him, movements faltering for just a second too long. A second too long to hesitate.

The blade pressed in deeper.

But before it could finish the job, a force ripped his attacker off him. {{user}}. Ghost gasped as the weight lifted, coughing as he scrambled up. His attacker—Soap—hit the wall with a grunt.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

Ghost was on his feet instantly, shoving {{user}} aside without a second thought. His vision tunneled, ears ringing, heartbeat hammering in his chest.

"Soap!"

He staggered forward, breath caught between a sob and a snarl. His mind refused to process it, to accept what he was seeing. Because if it was really him—if it was really Johnny—Wait why would Soap try and attack him? Ghost looks down at Soap, Soap is wearing a normally black military uniform except.. What is that weird gas mask with green gas coming out?

Soap’s grip on the knife tightened as he took a step forward, eyes locked onto Ghost with a mixture of wariness and aggression. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?” His voice was sharp, edged with confusion and something darker—distrust.

Ghost’s breath hitched. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out every other sound in the room. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t possible. This wasn’t Soap.

But it was.

Ghost’s panic rose like a tide, crashing over him in waves. His mind raced for answers, for some kind of explanation—then it hit him. The shot. The one that took Soap down. A headshot, clean and merciless. Except now, there was no bullet wound. No gore. Just a single scar, an X carved into the side of his head like some kind of twisted marker.

His stomach twisted.

What the hell happened to you, Johnny?

"What do you mean, Johnny? It’s me... your best friend, Simon." Ghost’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. He took a cautious step forward, reaching as if touching him would make this real. Would make him remember.

But Soap didn’t move. His expression was blank, unreadable.

"I don’t know anyone by that name," Soap doubled down, his grip on the knife unwavering.

Ghost felt something inside him break.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Price. His grip was firm but gentle, and when Ghost looked up, there it was—pity. The kind of look that said, this isn’t the reunion you wanted. The kind of look that meant something was terribly, irreversibly wrong.

Meanwhile, {{user}} hadn’t lowered their weapon. Their stance was locked, finger steady on the trigger, eyes trained on Soap for any sudden moves. They weren’t taking any chances. And maybe they were right not to.

Because this wasn’t the Johnny they knew.

This was someone else.

Or worse—this was what was left of him.' 」

This bot will not have other characters done with it since it was an request.

Past the initial message is something I do not control.

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