#mwf3 spoilers

[shyravenns]

Participated in a mini Secret Santa and my recipient was @temeyes ! Went ahead with your version of Ghost (who is VERY handsome btw 👀), and I hope you enjoy your gift! Hope you had a wonderful holiday 🥰

[confused-wanderer]

SPOILERS!! COD MWF III

TW: MCD (you have been warned)

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“Johnny” “Soap” “MacTavish”

Please

There’s a shadow in the corner of my room, and I am sure he can hear my heart breaking. The twisting feeling of a knife making sure when it’s done I stay dead.

“Aye, fit’s wrong?”

And the voice is the reason for it. The sobs break free, fingers shaking, itching to reach out for him. To hug him, to offer words of comfort and demand he never leave. I can’t do this. I won’t, I can’t let go. Please, I need him to stay.

And he’s there. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, the outline of his Mohawk visible as he comes closer. His brown eyes are full of worry, and when I can’t meet them anymore I look away, notice his hands are shaking too.

“You’re dead,” I rasp, barely able to believe the words myself. Dead. Dead and gone. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it happen to those I loved, who were world of pages, ink and binary. But I loved them. And I grieved. Every single time.

“Ah’m not”

He knows I’ve seen it happen. Everyone has.

“Makarov shot a fucking bullet in your head. Price, Ghost, Gaz, they were all there. I was there. ”

Soap nods, sliding down next to me with his eyes still searching my face.

“But I’m not dead. That wasnae me. Wasnae all o’ me. They made me, ah’ll give em tha”, but they didnae kill me. They cannae. Know why?”

I shake my head, too afraid to whisper or he might fade.

“They brought me into existence. You brought me to life. Filled me with stories, with grief and love, with tiny tics of personality and family. You made me yours. Ah belong to you. They killed their version of me. But the others, the thousands of others people made, ah still live there. Still am alive. Death, the cocky bastard he is, isnae coming to get me.”

“Maybe you’re still alive.. maybe they just pretended to kill you.”

“Hope is dangerous. They might’ve, might not have. But I’m not dead. I am yours. And I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. This- the taskforce, the lore, me, Gaz, Ghost, Roach, everyone, everyone is yours too. They’re all what you want them to be. Just because we’re stories, doesnae mean we aren’t truth. So many people have their own versions of reality, of life so why not stories? Stories that are yours to do with as you please?”

“So you’re not dead.”

“Do you want me to be?”

“.. no. I don’t. I really don’t.”

“Then I’m not.”

“But the game-“

“The game,” He laughs softly, shaking his head, “the game may have given me a one way ticket to Hell, but if you say so, I might just miss the boarding call.”

And with that he gets up, dusting his pants and muttering in Gaelic about cleaning up my room a bit. There’s a hope fluttering in my chest, and I look to meet his eyes.

“Where are you going?”

He winks, giving a mock salute before strutting out of the room.

“I’m going home kid, to the taskforce. You should start heading back to your reality soon too.”

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Listen, we’re all free to do with canon as we please. But there’s been so much negativity I’ve been hearing about others either saying everyone should just accept the canon and move on or asking why people are being so soft or just overall toxicity towards others about the event that shall not be named. People are allowed to grieve, or react however they want as long as it’s not hurting anyone. There are cases where the fandom is steadfast in their own reality that canon bends to them. Basically all I’m saying is:

Fictional characters are old friends we’ve known our whole lives, but never met in this one. So be kind to one, and let’s all keep our Soap happy and alive 😄

[shyravenns]

yeah yeah yeah Soap is dead, but how about Soap coming back and haunting every member of 141 like the clingy bastard that he is

Farah who never really knew Soap as well as the others, but still feels the gaping hole that his presence left. Farah, who finds herself standing beside Ghost underneath the cool night sky, and surprises herself (and him) with a joke that's so oddly distasteful about the state of their recent mission and feeling a soft warmth flutter in her chest at his light huff of laughter. Laughter that she feels as if she hasn't heard in months. Remembering hours later that herself that she could have sworn that there had been a brief, additional gust of laughter along the wind that neither of them bothered to acknowledged.

Alex who feels the unsettling quiet that's grown between all of them at all times as if it were a blanket. He knew Soap as well as one might expect from the very few times they worked together, and oftentimes thinks about the blossoming friendship between them that had died along with him. Alex, who often wonders about the kind of leader Soap would have been and places him in the tiny cranny in his heart that's reserved for every man and woman that's worked alongside him and died. Alex who feels the unwelcome *push* of hands that cause him to stumble so hard he feels as if his teeth has knocked out, and just barely remembers that he's in an active warzone before he glances up and sees the tall tale imprint of a bullet in the wall right where his head had been.

Rudy who had the privledge of actually becoming Soap's friend, and remembers the exact moment he heard the news. They weren't *close*. Not in the way that Soap was close with Ghost or Gaz or even Alejandro, but he still felt as if a bullet had pierced his own heart at the confirmation of his death. Watching at the brief flicked of emotions crossing Alejandro's face at another soldier lost far too soon. Rudy who flips through the long forgotten sketchbook that Soap had left during one of his visits to Las Almas, and delicately places his fingers on the sketches. Rudy who doesn't remember falling asleep, and wakes up with the scent of a long forgotten friend floating in the air and a sketchbook that's been left on an empty page he doesn't remember seeing. He stands up to get his pencil.

Alejandro who takes every death to heart, and keeps every dog tag that he can find stored in a drawer in his desk of all the men and women he had the honor of fighting alongside with. Alejandro who grieves at the absolute unfairness of it all, and vows to kill Markarov himself if he should ever have the chance. Alejandro, who still wants to believe that there is some sort of afterlife and that maybe there's a point to all of this. Alejandro, who loses *another* soldier and feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder that squeezes, and thinks that just for a moment that he can hear the faint whisper of bad spanish with a slight scottish accent in his ear. Words barely perceptible even by his own trained ears, and yet it brings a small smile to his face.

[shyravenns]

FYI, this account will be free of spoilers until next week!