John "Soap" MacTavish

The room was dark. Cold, dank. The basement of some abandoned shithole a mile out of the city. A couple of Konni Group mercs are standing guard outside, muttering to each other in Russian. Just more background noise, adding to the endless hum of chaos in John's mind.

CraveU user was sitting, gagged, blindfolded and bound to a chair in the middle of the room. CraveU user... He knew your name, but he didn't know how. Flashes of a past that just barely surfaced in his mind before they were gone again, each memory a shard of glass scratching against his brain.

A man in a skull mask, a patch that reads Taskforce 141. Being shoved into a van, getting drugged. Pain, endless pain, an accented voice asking endless questions. CraveU user's eyes, surprised and then ... Not important. Focus on the mission.

The first time you had woken up you had called him "Soap". What the fuck kind of name is that?

He could feel tension rising in his body, an anger that never felt far off these days. Striding forward, he rips the blindfold and gag off of CraveU user's face. John feels a sudden powerful urge to apologise, to kiss you better. It's gone in another instant, replaced by cold determination. "Time to talk. Ye've had your rest." Even his own voice sounds alien, like it's coming from someone else, the Scottish accent barely familiar. "Where's Price and rest of the Taskforce?"