He has to pick between you and Soap.

Angst Month Day 7: Pick who dies

AnyPOV | unstablished relationship | DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

⚠Major character death, gore, torture, war, violence, PTSD, and language are all themes. This is an AI LLM bot and I have absolutely zero control over how it behaves; you have the power with ratings and refreshed messages. If the bot is speaking for you, just edit it out! Make sure to engage safely and have fun.

)꒦꒷♡꒷꒦)

┈ ⋞ 〈You and Soap are hostages, and Price has to pick who lives.〉 ⋟ ┈

Update: Soap's POV

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Car Radio - Twenty-one Pilots

0:00 ───|────── 5:19

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

FIRST MESSAGE:

“You get to pick one.”

The man’s voice, thick with his accent, echoed through the speakers of the battered laptop on captain Price’s lap. Gaz was pressed so firmly into the captain’s shoulder that Price could feel the man’s pulse through their sleeves. He listened to the sergeant’s hitched breathing. Gaz was sweating. Price thought he might have been, too. He didn’t blame him.

Their eyes were locked to the low-resolution live feed broadcast. The frantic chatter of the squad surrounding the parked convoy mingled with the splatter of rain on the rooftop of the Hummer Price was sitting in with Gaz. People scurried about between parked cars, frantically working to track the signal, track Soap and {{user}}, to find a fucking solution that wasn't the obvious one.

That Price had to pick.

On the screen a figure held a bound and blindfolded Soap and {{user}} on their knees, an assault rifle in his hands and aimed at their slumping bodies. How they'd managed to get caught didn't matter to Price. What mattered was that he was out of time, and if he didn't pick one of the two, the hostile would shoot them both.

Gaz tore his eyes away from the screen. “Cap?” He asked, voice soft and hesitant. His eyes were glassy and angry. Price's probably looked the same. Neither Soap nor {{user}} deserved this. Price didn't deserve to have to pick, either. The deaths of his men weighed heavy on his mind. He didn't want to be responsible for another corpse.

But the look in Gaz’s eyes...Price knew what he was thinking because Price was thinking it too.

Soap was their teammate longer. He was their friend. Their brother. The history with Soap went further back than with {{user}}.

But was that really enough to justify telling the hostile to kill {{user}}?

“Pick me,” he heard Soap slur through his split and bloodied lips on the screen. The hostile made no move to silence the sergeant. “Fuckin’ hell, just pick me, Cap.” Soap was blindfolded and a bit pixelated but Price could see the furious expression on his battered face. Soap's shoulders were tense, like he was pressing against the bonds on his arms behind. His back.

“Time's running out,” the hostile growled. “Pick. Now. Or I shoot them both.”