#khaled al-asad

[dezgasting]

For CoD ask

I will spell Victor's name as Viktor and you won't convince me otherwise

I didn't mean to draw Imran to be such a hottie on the second picture but whatever

[adlerslittlefirecracker]

Alright COD enjoyers, let's talk facial hair...

[flansuki3]

Intenté hacer de esos gif con estética de los años 2000 jajaja

[stainthestock1]

I love how zesty khaled al asad's scene was in the old mw

[unchartedperils]

#3 I’ll try to keep a tad shorter. In essence this is my Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II fix it+crossover with Uncharted.

WARNING-TALKS OF US INVASION AND OTHER GEOPOLITICAL STUFF. DO NOT CONTINUE IF THIS IS NOT YOUR THING.

I’m gonna chance a more explosive conflict/geopolitical poking point in this one with callbacks to OG MW trilogy. Latest chapter really begins in earnest the Ultranationalist-Al Qatala-Las Almas invasion of the southern US. Meanwhile chapter 5 began in earnest Farah’s, Alex’s, and Nadine Ross’s hunt for Hadir and Makarov in the Caucasus region.

Chapter 6 ocuses on the angle of the US invasion and its counter-insurgency at and behind enemy lines. A Reboot version of Ramirez, Foley, and Dunn is featured in a Battle of El Paso while as shown in 2022/II but with the needed changes of course, Alejandro-Soap-Ghost are in Las Almas on the hunt not for Hassan Zyani, but Reboot Khaled Al-Asad…all while Victor Zakhaev is now in partnership with “El Sin Nombre” with Al-Asad distracting 141/Los Vaqueros.

Chapter 6 contains COD’s usual strong language with brief racism, graphic violence with minor character deaths, and geopolitical sensitivity including mentions of cartels with references to IRL Mexican drug cartels+endos and references to Iran vs US.

[moody-alcoholic]

This Is Going To Hurt

Part 7 - Rescue

Summary: Poly141 x reader, established relationship, medic reader, kidnapped reader, mini fic.

CW: PTSD, panic attacks, medical inaccuracies, mentions of wounds, mentions of tourture, negitive coping mechanisms, hurt/comfort.

AN: Writers block is kicking my ass plus i'm sick so i've been working on comfort projects. I can't keep a schedule to save my life.

Previous parts - masterlist- next AO3

Enjoy <3

When Price makes it to Ghost the medics are already working on Soap.

“How is she?” Ghost asks without taking his eyes off Soap.

“Safe, how about him?” Price asks.

“Alive” Ghost says. Price can see the tension in his shoulders and the grip on his weapon.

“Captain Price?” He hears the voice behind him and turns. “Commander Graves would like to see you.” 

“You’ve got this right?” Price asks, resting his hand on Ghost's shoulder. He nods, Price gives him a squeeze and follows the shadow through the building. He's taken into what looks like a main room of some kind. There are bodies everywhere except one. Tied to a chair, his face is bloody, there's a shadow training a weapon on him. 

“Sayyid Al-Asad.” Graves says from the other side of the table. “Khaled’s brother.”

“Had no idea he had a brother.” Price admits.

“They want him alive, POW.” Graves says, Sayyid shouts something in Arabic. “He’s not too happy about it.” 

“No of course.” Price says looking over at him. So he’s the person responsible for your capture, it makes him feel sick. At least they have him, they’ll want intel from him. He’s about to be a very valuable prisoner of war. 

“Take Soap and the medic to the town. There’s a medevac waiting on the airfeild.” Graves says. “We’ll transport the prisoner.” 

“Ghost and Gaz can stay behind.” Price offers.

“Negative, get them back to the base, we’ll clear things here.” Graves says. 

“Thank you.” Price says, he heads for the door, as he does Sayyid laughs. Price looks over at him meeting his eyeline. 

“Something you’d like to say?” Price snaps, he doesn’t mean to its unprofessional, he just can’t help it.

“She’s a good medic but I doubt she’ll be able to save him.” John presses his lips together, grinding his teeth. 

“You’re right she’s a good medic.” Price says shooting a look at Graves and turning out the room. He blows out a breath walking down the stairs. He sees Ghost still standing in the same doorway. 

“There’s a medevac waiting for us at the airfield. Is he stable to move?” Price asks him. 

“As stable as he can be. They’ve got the bleeding under control.” Price can hear the uncertainty in his voice. “What about her?”

“Don’t worry about that, focus on him. She’s safe, Gaz is with her.” He pats Ghost on the back who nods. Price looks over at Soap laid out on the floor, people fussing around him, pressing over his body working on his wounds. He has the best people around him right now. 

“Gaz. Graves has given us the go ahead to evac to an airfield where there’s a casevac waiting. What’s your situation?” Price asks into his radio walking out of the room. 

“Copy. She’s still with us barely, the medics are asking about sedation, at least until she’s back at base.” Gaz replies. Price knows Ghost will have heard the same intel. 

“Copy, I'm coming out.” Price says, Ghost looks over and nods at him again, it’s the reassuring gesture he needs right now. He heads out towards the waiting trucks and the rest of the shadow medics. He sees Gaz bent down by your head, his fingers laced with yours. 

The closer he gets the worse you look, there are fresh bandages over your pale shaking body. Gaz looks up at him, not letting your hand go. Your eyes are drooping closed but your grip on Gaz’s hand is strong. It’s almost like you’re holding on to him for dear life. 

“Based on my initial assessment she’s severely dehydrated. Her wounds are infected and her BP and pulse are unstable. My recommendation is sedation while she’s transported.” The shadow medic says to Price. He looks down at Kyle trying to keep the oxygen mask over your face as you try to pull it off. 

His other hand grips yours pressing it too his lips.

“Sedate her.” John says. The medic nods going back over to you. It makes his stomach drop as the medic follows the order. Price is holding his breath as he watches drugs being pushed into your arm. Your eyes start to close and your grip on Gaz falters. 

“It’s all going to be okay.” Gaz says as you fall into unconsciousness. Gaz looks up at Price, John can see the shine in his eyes as he keeps a grip on your hand. 

You don’t deserve this, but you’re safe and that's what matters.

That's all that matters. 

___

You wake to a gentle beeping. It’s a sound you’ve heard many times, it's a sound you’re used to hearing. The methodical beep of a heart reat monitor. You slowly open your eyes, you’re in a hospital room, in a hospital bed. You try to move your arms but you can't. You look down to see straps round your wrists. You panic and start pulling on them. Maybe it was all a trap. Maybe this isn’t real. 

“Hey, you’re okay.” A hand lands on you, you look over to see John standing next to you. 

“John?” You ask, your eyes wide, is he real? You pull on the restraints again. You need to touch him.

“Easy, here let me.” He says reaching down to undo the straps. You reach out grabbing his hand. It is real, he is real. You look up at him feeling your eyes fill with tears, you blink them away as he smiles at you, you reach out throwing your arms around him. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now.” He says in your ear. You close your eyes, breathing him in. You wish you could stay like this, wrapped in his arms but you start to feel the first twinges of pain. You sniffle, opening your eyes again. 

He lets you go and you lay back into the bed. You wipe your eyes looking down at your other hand. Your fingertips are all bandaged. Your arm hurts to move-

“Johnny!?” You gasp, shooting back up in the bed and looking over at John.

“He’s okay, he’s out of surgery.” He says one of his hands lands on your shoulder and squeezes.

“Surgery?” You feel panic rising in you. 

“Yeah, he’s okay, he’s resting.” 

“Why was I tied up?” 

“You attacked the staff while you were out of it.”

“I don’t remember.” You say, shaking your head.

“Yeah, they said that might happen. Psychosis or something.” 

“I’m not psychotic.” You snap, you feel like you can't breathe. Johnny’s alive, he had surgery. You bring your hand up to press on your chest. 

“No, I know.” His hand moves from your shoulder to your back. “Breathe, c’mon. It’s okay.” You listen to his voice forcing yourself to swallow gulps of air, it hurts. Everything hurts, there's a fuzziness in your head. 

You look back over at John, his hand rubs your back. “That’s it.” He says, you focus on the beeping of the machine. You feel tears well in your eyes, you don’t stop them this time letting yourself sob, John’s arms come round you pulling him against his chest. 

You don’t know how long you’re crying for, it makes your whole body throb as John holds you, reassuring you everything is okay. It doesn’t feel okay though, your body hurts and your head spins. When John feels you relax he loosens his grip, letting you lay back in the bed.

“Can I see my chart?” You ask, pointing towards the end of the bed. He sighs, you know you’re not supposed to see it but he brings it to you anyway. You flip it open looking at the overview. You feel a lump rise in your throat as you see the list of injuries. 

Broken rib, the wound on your arm and the back of your head are infected. Your hand rubs your neck, you feel the thick bandage where you were slashed. Malnourished and dehydrated that you expected, you don’t have a feeding tube though thats a good thing. You look down at the medication, they have you on fluids, antibiotics and morphine. 

You don’t want to be on any pain relief, the longer you’re on it the harder it will be to come off. You feel your lip quiver when you see the last injury listed. MIssing finger nails on your left hand, right now they’re bandaged up. You put the folder down. 

“Do you want to talk?” John asks. No, no you don’t. You look over at him. 

“I want to get back to work.” You say, he sighs looking at you sympathetically. 

“You need to recover first, you’ve only been out for a few hours.” He says reaching over to grip your wrist. 

“I know, I can’t lay around in bed though. I need to-” The words catch in your throat. 

“You need to rest.” John says standing up. He laces his fingers with yours looking down at your other hand. “There’s no rush, no one is expecting you to get back to work anytime soon.”

“I want to work.” You say. You need to work, the thought of staying in bed for an unknown amount of time. All you’re going to do is worry about Johnny and overthink what happened to you. You look back over at him. 

“You need to pass a psych evaluation before you can do anything, and finish the course of antibiotics.” John says. You smile, bringing his hand up to your mouth and kissing it. 

“I want to be taken off all pain killers.” You say, John sighs again leaning over to kiss the top of your head. 

“You’ll have to talk to the doctor.” He says. You pass your chart back to him and he goes back to put it in the end of the bed. 

“How long have you been here? I thought you would be busy with work.” He pauses for a second coming back round to the side of your bed. 

“I’m on probation.” He says. 

“What the fuck.” You call shooting up in bed. “Who? Who ordered that?” 

“Shepherd.” 

“Why?” 

“It doesn’t matter. My review is tomorrow.” He says.

“Do you need me to-I don’t know-say something?” You ask.

“I need you to relax and rest.” He says. “You’ve been through hell, You need to take time to recover.” 

“John-"

“No, please.” His hands come up to hold your face. “You need to rest, recover. Christ love I’m so sorry we didn’t come to you sooner. I’m so sorry I let you suffer. I didn’t think Johnny would do what he did.” 

You can hear the choke in his voice, you can see the strain in his eyes. He came after you and got suspended for it. 

“John, it’s okay.” You say reaching out for him. You press your hands on his chest feeling heartbeat, it’s pounding in his chest, he presses his forehead to yours you feel his breath on your face. You tip your face up to kiss him, pressing your lips to his. His hands drop from your face to your shoulders then down your arms. 

You sink into the kiss as he pulls you tighter against him. You never want it to end, your mind is blank all you can think about is John and his tongue brushing yours. A knock at the door breaks you both from the moment. 

You both look over to see a nurse standing there not quite sure what to do. John looks back at you. 

“I’ll come visit you later. I’ll go check on John.” He says. You nod, smiling at him and relaxing back into the bed. He leaves the room as the nurse comes over. She’s nice, you smile at her, you want to get out of here though, get out of here and back to work. 

__

3 days later

“How long are we going to pretend this is healthy?” Kyle asks. 

“It’s this or medical discharge.” John says, leaning in the chair behind his desk. 

“She has PTSD right?” Simon asks. As he looks out into the medical bay 

“Her psych evaluation came back normal, she was still recommended for leave but it’s not obligatory.” 

“Yeah but it’s easy to bullshit the shrinks.” Simon says. “She was the one who taught us to do it.” 

“She won’t talk about it. She won’t talk to Johnny.” Kyle says “She still hasn’t been to see him?” John asks, sitting up in his chair. Kyle shakes his head. 

“I’ll talk to her again.” John says. 

“Until then?” Simon asks. 

“Keep doing what you’re doing. Keep an eye on Johnny, I'll keep an eye on her.” John says, that was his reason for moving his office closer to the med bay. As soon as you were discharged you were on your feet back to work like nothing had happened. 

Kyle’s right, it’s not healthy. You’re ignoring what happened and throwing yourself into work, it’s only going to last so long, especially when they’re forced to move. 

“How’s things going with Graves?” John asks Simon, he actually looks back at John for once instead of having his eyes fixed on you talking to a nurse. 

“He’s not talking. Shepherd wants to do a prisoner swap.” He says turning to look back out the window.

“That's a terrible idea.” Kyle scoffs. “Has he still not spoken to you?”

“No, the base commander has called a meeting though. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was about Sayyid and how to handle him.” John says.

“Need me to be there?” Simon asks.

“I wouldn’t mind another ball in my court but I would rather you work with Graves. At least one of us should have access to Sayyid.” John says, Simon nods. 

“Go check on John, I’ll talk to her.” Price says getting up. Kyle Joins Simon and they both walk out of his office. 

You see John coming over to you. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. You could see Simon watching you the whole time too. The nurse you’re talking to shoots you a look when he gets to the station and she walks away.

“Hey.” He says as you pick up the file you were looking over. 

“I’m working, John.” You say walking away from him. He follows you deeper into the ward. 

“I know, I thought maybe later we could get something to eat?” He asks, you roll your eyes going back to put the folder back in its slot. That’s not what he wants, he wants to talk, try and convince you to see Johnny. You don’t want to see him right now. You have too much work to do.

“Maybe tomorrow. I have a lot of work to do.” You say, you want to let him down slowly. 

“Have you been to see Soap yet?” He asks. You let out a sigh clutching the stethoscope around your neck.

“I heard his second surgery went well.” You say. You’ve been sneaking looks at his notes, you’ve been keeping an eye on him, from a distance. You can’t see him yet, you just can’t.

“Yeah, he’s been keeping Ghost on his toes.” That makes you smile, the thought of Johnny ordering Simon around. You hear the emergency phone go off. You watch as the doctor goes over to answer it. 

“We could go together?” He asks. You feel yourself start to panic. You can't, you're just not ready yet. You push the thought away listening to the doctor repeat the incoming traumas. It sounds like a bad one. 

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say, feeling your adrenaline spike. This is it, this is what you need a good trauma to sink your teeth into. Soldiers to pull bullets out of, this is what you live for. There’s no thoughts of Johnny, no worries about your mental health. Just a good trauma, you can already feel your heartbeat picking up. 

“We’ve got civilians incoming, missile strike.” The doctor says hanging the phone back up. Your stomach drops, suddenly the adrenaline wains. John’s hand reaches out to grab your arm. You’re holding your breath, you look up at him. His expression changes, he looks worried. 

“You don’t have to do this.” He says. Your fingers tingle. You look back into the incoming bay, nurses are getting ready. You and the doctor are the highest trained medical staff. You can’t leave him alone. You look back at John, you can still see a worried look on his face. 

“I can do this.” You say. You don’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. Civilians, missile strike. It’s happening again, it’s happening again. 

“We’re going to need blood.” You hear the doctor shout, John hasn’t let go of your arm. “Bring whatever oh-neg you have, we’ll figure the rest out as we go.” Your head is swimming as you watch the nurses and other people rush around. Your name is being called but you can’t hear it. Theres a rining in your ears drownding out all the sound. 

John squeezes your arm tight, you look back at him. Your adrenaline is spiked but it’s not the thought of saving lives you’re focusing on, it’s the thought of losing them.

Innocent civilians are coming in. You step away from the entrance to the bay. It’s not a fully stocked resus unit you’re seeing, it's a room in the middle of the desert. The doors to the outside are opened and you see sand blowing in the wind. Someone is calling you, you feel hands run up your back. 

‘You’re never going to be able to save them all.’ It’s Sayyid’s voice in your head. You can’t breathe, you can’t think. You hear John raising his voice, trying to get you to listen to him. The doctor's coming towards you, for a split second it's not the doctor, it's Sayyid. 

You turn away from them and run. You don’t think you just run. You feel the hot sun on your face as you exit out the buiding, tears stream down your cheeks. You don’t care where you’re going, you just need to get away, away from the thought of Johnny dying. Away from the innocent people dying under your hands. 

You don’t know where you end up but you remember throwing a store room door open weaving through the shelves before collapsing on the ground. You’re curled up on the floor sobbing as you hug your knees. 

You’re shaking, sobbing, you can’t get a lung full of air and you don’t deserve to. You let innocent people die. You let Johnny get hurt, you let yourself help the enemy. 

Do no harm. 

There’s no such thing as; do no harm. You’ve killed too many people, you've lost too many people. You remember something you told Sayyid; you save the people you can save, not the people you want to save. 

It’s always the innocents who suffer, it’s always the civilians who lose. You dig your fingers into your legs, you pull your nails down your skin. You bring your shaking left hand up to your vision and look at the missing fingernails on your hand. 

You deserve that, you deserve that. You did that for Johnny, they would have hurt him but instead they hurt you. And what are you doing? Fucking hiding in a store room having a panic attack while he’s recovering from his second surgery. 

Johnny deserves better, 141 deserves better. They deserve a medic who can do their job. Right now you can’t do your job. You close your eyes and let yourself sob, you pull your damaged hand to your chest and cry into the echoing room. 

…

A door opening pulls you back into reality. You hear a low voice and footsteps. Your head is spinning, the hand pressed against your chest throbs. You don’t know how long you’ve been here but you feel a shiver run through your body. 

“Hey love.” You hear a familiar voice. Kyle bends down next to you. His hand landing on your arm makes you jump. You open your eyes looking up at him. His expression is soft, as his hand comes to stroke our face. It causes you to panic and you yelp trying to force your body away from him. 

“It’s okay love. It’s me.” You look up at him. It is him, Kyle. It feels like you haven’t seen him properly in days, he’s been spending time with Johnny. 

Johnny, you let him down. You should be with him advocating for his care. Thats what you always promised them, that you would make sure they get everything they deserve. 

“Kyle.” You sob as you reach out from him. His hand travels up your arm. 

“Yeah, I’m here. It’s okay.” He lays down on the floor next to you his body parallel with yours. 

“I’m sorry.” You sob, your eyes welling up with tears. 

“It’s okay baby.” Kyle pulls you into his embrace, you press your face into his chest. “You’re okay, you’re safe.” 

You sob panting in his chest, your body shakes as he pulls you tighter against him. “It’s okay love, it’s okay. You’re safe. Just breathe, nice deep breaths for me.” 

You let them down, you’ll never be a good medic again. What kind of medic runs when innocent people are hurt? 

You’re a broken fucking mess and no one deserves you, especially not the people who rely on you to save their life. Especially not the people you love.

next

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[cosmicscales]

palestinian fundraisers 🇵🇸

last updated: november 24th, 2024

part 1: november 2nd, 2024 part 2: november 9th, 2024 part 3: november 16th, 2024

aya's family (cousin of falestine asad, whose fundraiser is posted in part 1): $695 raised of $64,000 target

muhammed shehab's family: €2,836 raised of €60,000 target

maria's family: $20,670 raised of $30,000 target

ahmed hammad's family: $7,002 raised of $20,000 target

isra hammad's family: $1,984 raised of $20,000 target

najah al-haila's family: €6,055 raised of €80,000 target

safaa's family: $2,091 raised of $60,000 target (this fundraiser had to completely start over!)

manal ghorab's family: €1,919 raised of €50,000 target

hanan mahmoud's family: €1,212 raised of €50,000 target

khaled ismail's family: $831 raised of $30,000 target

ahmed abu al-rish's family: $48,596 raised of $100,000 target

[unchartedperils]

If I’ve shared this again, I apologize. Either way here’s my works featuring Farah Karim and friends from COD but as usual in peril 😏😈

Will contain kidnapping, non consensual bondage, groping, spanking, implied rape plus sexual slavery, torture with blood, gore and minor character deaths, and geopolitically sensitive topic such as IRL wars since the 1980s+mentioning of wars and tragic events since the 80s. If I’m forgetting anymore warning tags I apologize. So far is technically 3 fics (2 parter from 2021) but a fourth will be created sooner or later which is a MW22-post Uncharted: The Lost Legacy crossover/Fix It for 22’s campaign.

“If you stay, you fight.”

Stripped of her home and her innocence at the young age of 7, Farah’s only known what it’s like to fight. Now, she’s finally gotten a taste of freedom and continues to proudly lead her people towards a better day. But her story is far from a concluding end.

In honor of Claudia Doumit’s birthday, today’s character spotlight is Farah Karim! Share your favorite works, headcanons, and theories about Farah! What will we see from her in the future? Where will her journey go?

Please tag us at @onlycodcanjudgeme and we will try and reblog as many of your creations as we can!

[shellofashadow]

list of fundraisers that have reached out to me

As of 10/10/2024

VETTED:

Amjad Al-Shaltawi- $10,113/97,000 euros. Vetted by @el-shab-hussein @nabulsi & @gaza-evacuation-funds (line #250 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @amjadshiltawu for more info.

Nevin Al-Sir- $2,298/50,000 euros. Vetted by @gaza-evacuation-funds. Share and donate here!! Follow @nevinalser for more info.

Fidda-family2- $41,790/75,000 USD. Vetted by association: Fidaa is the sister of fellow Palestinian bloggers @wafaaresh6 & @mohiy-gaza2. Share and donate here!! Follow @fidda-family2 for more info.

Abdul Salam Al-Anqar- $2,875/50,000 euros. Vetted by @gazavetters (line #4 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!!

Amir Ayyad- $2,116/60,000 euros. Vetted by @gaza-evacuation-funds. Share and donate here!! Follow @mohammed-ayyad24 for more info.

Ahmed Al-Habil- $9,393/81,000 British pounds. Vetted by @el-shab-hussein. Share and donate here!! Follow @ahmedkhabil for more info.

Muhammad Al-Habil- $32,096/50,000 euros. Vetted by @nabulsi @el-shab-hussein & @gaza-evacuation-funds (line #166 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @alhabil for more info.

Muhammed Atalla- $19,777/82,000 euros. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @atalah-mohammed for more info.

Mahmoud Ayyad- $6,605/55,000 euros. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!!

Khaled Altaban- $3,293/10,000 British pounds. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @khaled-eltaban for more info.

Mohiy- $57,938/63,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @mohiy-gaza2 for more info.

Intisar Abushammaleh- $21,530/40,000 USD. Vetted by @nabulsi. Share and donate here!! Follow @bshaeromars-blog for more info.

Falestine Jad Al-Haq- $25,057/40,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @falestine-yousef for more info.

Hani Yasser- $1,478/25,000 euros. Vetted by @gazavetters (line #5 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @haniyasser for more info.

Ahmed Abu Al-Rish- $18,306/31,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @ahmadresh2 for more info.

Maram Nabulsi- $553/70,000 USD. Vetted by @beesandwatermelons (line #196 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @maram-gaza for more info.

Aseel Asad Mohammed- $38,940/50,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here. Follow @aseelo680 for more info.

Mona Al-Yazji- $5,791/200,000 Swedish krona (or $561/19,400 USD). Vetted by @gazavetters (line #87 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @monayazji for more info.

Hamdi Al-Shiltawi- $2,169/20,000 euros. Vetted by @nabulsi @el-shab-hussein & @gaza-evacuation-funds (line #285 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @hamdishiltawi for more info.

Yahya Bkheet- $5,366/30,000 euros. Vetted by @nabulsi. Share and donate here!! Follow @yahyabkheeblog for more info.

Mahmoud Helles- $25,488/37,000 euros. Vetted by @nabulsi. Share and donate here!! Follow @hillesmahmoud for more info.

Ashraf & Abeer Alserr- $2,623/50,000 euros. Vetted by @gazavetters (line #79 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @abeer-adel for more info.

Safa'a Abd- $40,537/90,000 euros. Vetted by @90-ghost @nabulsi & @northgazaupdates2. Share and donate here!! Follow @safaabed8 for more info.

Wafa Abdul Karim Abu Al-Rish- $33,031/50,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @wafaaresh6 for more info.

Yousra- $4,428/30,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @yousra-maryam40 for more info.

Mahdi Jad Al-Haq- $6,886/300,000 Swedish krona. (Or $665/28,980 USD, 10 SEK= 0.97 USD). Vetted by @gazavetters (line #72 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @moh26666 for more info.

Belal Salem- $225/20,000 USD. Vetted by @gazavetters (line #41 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @savebelal-family for more info.

Balsam Ibrahim- $17,505/100,000 euros. Vetted by @bilal-salah0, Share and donate here!! Follow @balsamibrahim for more info.

Mahmoud Alkahdi- $16,895/50,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost. Share and donate here!! Follow @mahmoudnasser for more info.

Sondos Jad Al-Haq- $485/30,000 CAD. Vetted by @gazavetters (line #70 in spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @sondos2201 for more info.

Nour (@noor120abd)- $25,773/45,000 USD. Vetted by @90-ghost (the vetted post was on Nour's old blog that Tumblr deleted). Share and donate here!! Follow @noor120abd for more.

Ahlam Mahdi- $750/50,000 USD. Vetted by @gazavetters (line #73 on spreadsheet). Share and donate here!! Follow @ahlam910 for more info.

VETTED BY ASSOCIATION:

Maria-gaza1- $7,148/30,000 CAD. Vetted by association, by vetted Palestinians @wafaaresh6 & @mohiy-gaza2. Share and donate here!! Follow @maria-gaza1 for more info.

Firas Almashni- $421/45,000 euros. Vetted by association, Firas was vouched for by vetted Palestinian @asmayyad. Share and donate here!! Follow @ferass97 for more info.

Mohammed (@mohammed-rh09)- $7,284/40,000 CAD. Vetted by association, Mohammed is the brother of vetted Palestinians, @mohiy-gaza2 and @fidaa-family2 (here and here). Share and donate here!! Follow @mohammed-rh09 for more info.

UNVETTED, BUT LEGITIMATE (NEW FUNDRAISERS):

Mostafa Majayda- $4,759/150,000 euros. Currently unvetted (new fundraiser), but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results. Follow @mostafamajayda for more info.

Amany Ayyad- $434/50,000 euros. Currently unvetted, but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results. Follow @amanyayyad11 for more info.

Asala Almashni- $3,051/30,000 euros. Currently unvetted, but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results. Follow @asala-almashni for more info.

Osama Almoghani- $30/90,000 euros. Currently unvetted (new fundraiser created 5 DAYS AGO), but has a donation protected campaign. Follow @osamaalmoghani for more info.

Yasmin Salah Mahmoud- $1,664/40,000 euros. Currently unvetted, but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results. Follow @yasminsalahmahmoud for more info.

Sameer Al-Nasla- $1,847/50,000 euros. Currently unvetted, but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results. Follow @sameer-gaza00 for more info.

Samira Al-Hapil- $2,140/20,000 euros. Currently unvetted, but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results. Follow @samiraayman for more info.

Akram Aldwaik- $0/25,000 USD. Currently unvetted (new fundraiser), but has a donation protected campaign and 0 reverse image results.

@neptunerings @twinsfawn @ismatscaff @riding-with-the-wild-hunt @gazavetters @dlxxv-vetted-donations @springacres @queerstudiesnatural @appsa @friendshapedplant @ibtisams @northgazaupdates2

[sillygoose343]

Songs I Listen to That I Think the OG COD Chars Would Like

Yes, I'm exposing my music taste. No I don't listen to the American and Soviet National Anthems but those were fitting in this case😭

Ghost - Creep (Radiohead)

Capt. MacTavish - Greek Tragedy (The Wombats)

Roach - Shooting Star (Owl City)

Capt. Price - My Ordinary Life (The Living Tombstone)

Gaz - Yes or Yes (Twice)

Cpt. MacMillan - Undertale the Musical - Animation Song Parody (LHUGUENY)

Joseph Allen - I deserve this (Rebzyyx)

Paul Jackson - Hitomania (Sasuke Haraguchi, Teto)

Lt. Vasquez - Shinunoga E-Wa (Fujii Kaze)

Kamarov - Welcome to the Black Parade (My Chemical Romance)

Sgt. Griggs - Levan Polkka (The Hatsune Miku ver.)

Nikolai - Wild Side (ALI)

Ramirez - Magical Cure Love Shot (SAWTOWNE, Hatsune Miku)

Sgt. Foley - Phonky Town (PlayaPhonk)

Cpl. Dunn - All My Fellas (Frizk)

Sandman - Seven (Jungkook, clean ver.)

Grinch - two (bbno$)

Truck - Good Time (Owl City, Carly Rae Jepsen)

Frost - Family Guy Theme Song (Seth MacFarlane)

Sabre - H.S.K.T (LeeHi, Wonstein)

Makarov - let me see ya move! (Lumi Athena, cade clair)

Yuri - GMFU (Odetari, 6arelyhuman)

Khaled Al-Asad - Himitsu da yo (Tuzera, Hatsune Miku)

Victor Zakhaev - Tri Poloski (Davay)

Imran Zakhaev - State Anthem of the Soviet Union

Shepherd - American National Anthem

[thee-helpful-thicky]

Gazan Fundraisers

Hamdi and his family of six. Goal: $35k @abuyasin156

2. Mosab and his wife and daughter. Goal: $20k @mssbdr

3. Heba Al-Dahdouh and their family of six. Goal: $50k @habaanasif

4. Jaber Al-Haj and his wife and son. Goal: $29k @jaberfamily

5. Marah and her parents. Goal: $20k @marahkatoa2000

6. Mahmoud Ayyad and his 43 family members. Goal: $55k @mahmoudayyads

7. 14-year-old Ahmed Motaz Salem Aldani and his family. Goal: $50k @ahmedaldani22

8. Baby Majd Al-Habeel and his family. Goal: $50k @youseffamily

9. Mahmoud Kullab, fundraising for his brother Ahmed Kullab. Goal: $5k @ahmadkolab

10. Wafa and his family of eight. Goal: $10k @wafafamilygaza

11. Nour Al Madhoun and her husband and sons. Goal: $50k @momenalmdhoun

12. Anas Basil and his 14-year-old brother Ahmad. Goal $29k @anas-basilgaza

13. Abedallah and his family. Goal: $80k @abedallahmusallam

14. Hossam and his mother and two sisters. Goal: $30k @hossam97

15. Wasim and his six family members. Goal $20k @wasimhourani1

16. Mohamed Jebril fundraising for his brother Ahmed. Goal: $10k @fadingturtlewizard

17. Mahmoud Mohammed Jaafar Jaafar and his seven siblings. Goal: $10k @mahmoud2000

18. Hanan and her three young children. Goal: $100k @hanangaza1

19. Mohammed Rabah and his wife and toddler. Goal: $40k @hanaa-yousef

20. Falestine Asad and her young child. Goal: $100k @falestine-yousef

21. 20-year-old Alaa Alser and his father. Goal: $30k @alaa8alseer8

22. Fatima and her 24 family members. Goal: $75k @siraj2024

23. Mysolin and her family of six. Goal $20k @mysolin1

24. Disabled 14-year-old Farah, and her family of 8. Goal: $10k @shaheedgaza

25. 28-year-old Basel Ayyad and their family of eight. Goal: $60k @basel1995s

26. 22-year-old Mohammed Saqr and his family of 12. Goal $30k @motazmohammed

27. Widowed Aisha Al-Masri and her young son. Goal: $15k @speedymiraclebeard

28. Mohammad Taysir and his wife and two small children. Goal: $50k @yazan-famillly

29. Muhammad and Emad and their seven family members. Goal: $50k @mohammed-emad7

30. Mahmoud’s family of sixteen, eight children and eight adults. Goal: $60k @mohmoud-j

31. Akram Hassan and their three family members. Goal: $30k @akram-2024

32. 23-year-old Mohammed Shamia and his family. Goal: $40k @mo-shamia12

33. Haneen Awad and their six children, aged 22-9. Goal: $50k @naeemaemad

34. Shareef Alamoudi, his wife, and his two young, sickly twins. Goal: $50k @shareeffamily

35. Najwa Khaled, her husband, and her three children. Goal: $15k @najw551991

36. 26-year-old Ali Helles fundraising for his family. Goal: $100k @alihelles1997

37. Aya Almajdoub and her seven family members. Goal: $55k @aiamaher2

38. Rahaf Al-Ghandour and her five children. Goal: $100k @rahafmah

39. 21-year-old Mahmoud Jehad and his family. Goal: $25k @mahmodsy1

40. Mohammed Ayyad and his family. Goal: $35k @mohammedayyads-blog

41. 23-year-old Amira and her family. Goal: $39k @amiratiworld

[bellspun]

khaled al asad. have you considered? perhaps one doodle? just one? ONE of the terrorist babygirl? 🫃🏻🫃🏻🫃🏻

i dont know much about cod 4 but your request is considered 👀

[unchartedperils]

COD fic #2.

My MWII fix it dedicated to doing what II/IW wouldn’t do: have Reboot Victor Zakhaev and his Horsemen as villains. More talk of geopolitics and such especially recent-current affairs+endos of war so if not your thing, BACK OUT NOW.

Khaled Al Asad. Original warlord of COD 4 who takes over an unnamed Middle Eastern nation. Rebooted at the end of Mw2019’s reboot as the new leader of the anarchic terrorist group Al Qatala. Warlord, pretty much same as we knew him in 2007 I guess.

Unfortunately he got scrapped after season 3 of the wArZoNe/PoSt-MoDeRn WaRfArE sToRyLiNe. Fuck IW and Activision for this WZ story shit. Anyways original plan was to have him as a secondary villain with Victor rebooting the Ultranationalist movement his father had in the 90s and 2000s to rebuild Al Qatala into a paramilitary force with Al Asad as its leader. Btw we’ll get to Hadir in a few minutes.

But nope, they scrapped all this and best we could get was a no name Major and us parodying you know what from January 2020 and him taking over control of AQ as a proxy of you know what country. Horrible.

Anyways I still kept for Al Asad the Major idea but it’s only really a facade.

Onto Hadir. Hadir is playing second in command to KAA as a Commander and partner of Reboot Makarov (more on Reboot Vlady in previous post) as part of Victor’s plans. Hadir I really liked in 2019 too alongside Farah. 2019 writers did such a great job too as with his sister fleshing him out and his own motivations which of course will ultimately differ from Farah’s, enough to make him betray her for the Al Qatala and ultimately the Ultranationalist cause. Bro got it so bad in II being reduced to a scene in rAiDs and killed off. Again fuck IW for that.

Onto the heroes of II. Reboot Ghost and Soap, there’s a reason they now have so many fanfics 😂😆 (though obviously they got a bad hand in III and I’ll save that for some other time). Alejandro=GOAT. Favorite character in II for damn sure. Reboot Shepherd sucks compared to the old but I’m doing my best to make him badass again even if Graves is still his boy. Graves=GOAT’d too but I ever so slightly prefer Rafe of the Warren Kole GOAT villains. Laswell=bureaucrat who I love to hate but tbf she’s so real mostly for the worst 😭 (DAMMIT AQ YOU SHOULDVE BOUND AND GAGGED HER).

Anyways, why you here? Chapter 7 turns up the stakes with 141, Los Vaqueros, and Shadow Company closing in on Al Asad and the last of his Las Almas cartel protection. But they’ll fight like hell for him still and perhaps some aid from their benefactors will make the fight even harder. And when they do get him, The Lion may find himself joining The Wolf…

Features COD’s usual strong language and graphic violence with both minor and major character deaths (one major death) and geopolitical sensitivities including mentions of Russia/Iran, IRL terrorists, and cartel endos in Mexico+COD style fictional plot of US invasion.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48741148/chapters/164732686

[codmw2019-2022]

COD MW 2019-2022 Enemy NPCs

Here's a list of both Modern Warfare (2019) and Modern Warfare II (2022) Enemies. I combined both together since only the main antagonists are given names, and the rest are just listed as group followed by fighter or soldier.

MW 2019

General Barkov ( KIA ) Omar Suleman / The Wolf ( KIA ) Jamal Rahar / The Butcher ( KIA or ALIVE ) Hadir Karim ( ALIVE in Prison )

Barkov's Forces / Russia Soldiers AQ Fighters / Al Qatala

MW 2019 Spec Ops

"Almalik" / The Landlord ( KIA ) "Mr. Z" ( ALIVE ) "The Banker" ( KIA ) 'El Traficante' ( KIA ) Khaled Al-Asad / "The Immortal Lion" ( ALIVE )

MW 2022

General Ghorbrani ( KIA ) Hassan Zynai / Quds Force Major ( KIA ) Valeria / El Sin Nombre ( ALIVE ) Diego ( KIA ) Núñez ( KIA ) Phillip Graves ( ALIVE ) Shepherd ( ALIVE )

AQ Fighters / Al Qatala Cartel Members / Narcos Mexican Army under El Sin Nombre Russian PMCs / Konni / Spetsnaz PMC Soldiers / Shadows [ Shadows: 1-1 , 2-0 , 2-1 , 2-2 , 3-1 , 3-2 , 4-1 , 4-2 | 6-1 , 6-2 , 6-3 , 6-4 , 6-6 , 6-7 , 6-8 , 7-3 , 7-4 , 7-6 , 7-7 ] ( KIA or ALIVE )

[catdotjpeg]

On 26 October, the Palestinian Ministry of Health released the list of names of Palestinians killed since 7 October. Among them, from the Qudayh family, are:

Muslim Mahmoud Ahmed (78);

Salah Ibrahim Muhammad (67) and his son Ayman Salah Ibrahim (20);

Rasmiya Salem Khalil (65);

Suad Salem Salman (64);

Jawahir Suleiman Hamad (59);

Attaf Khalil Suleiman (57);

Iman Muhammad Ismail (55); 

Muhammad Muslim Salem (49);

Nidal Atta Mahmoud (42);

Suleiman Mahmoud Suleiman (42), his wife Hana Khaled Mahmoud (37), and their only children Rimas Suleiman Mahmoud (12) and Mahmoud Suleiman Mahmoud (11);

Hammad Khader Hammad (42) and his son Saif Hammad Khader (17);

Muhammad Hossam Shehadeh (41);

Hanan Ibrahim Ismail (37);

Iyad Suleiman Salem (37);

Musab Fawzi Suleiman (36), an imam;

Junayd Jamal Mustafa (35), who was martyred in the attack on Rio Cafe in Khan Yunis;

Muntasir Juma Suleiman (35) and his brother al-Sayyed Juma Suleiman (33);

Maha Abdel Rahman Shaat (35);

Salman Jalal Fares (29);

Kamal Ayman Abdel Hadi (29);

Nail Kamel Odeh (27); 

Alaa Fouad Ibrahim (27);

Ahmed Ibrahim Hamdan (25);

Abdullah Suleiman Fayez (22) and his brother Abood Suleiman Fayez;

Ahmed Hatem Zaki (20);

Hani Ghassan Salem (19);

Mennatullah Wasfi Ahmed (16);

Maria Shadi Rajab (6) and her brothers Yasin Shadi Rajab (8) and Usama Shadi Rajab (10); 

Rajab Ibrahim; 

Shawqi Rajab; 

Asad;

Shaima Abdul Hadi; 

Ammuna Shawqi; 

Walid Ahmed; 

Ahmed Abdel Majid; 

Juma; 

Shadi Rajab; 

Muhammad Ibrahim; 

Nail Raja; 

Ataf Khalil and her daughters Nariman and Manna, who were martyred in Khan Younis after evacuating from Khuza'a;

Tahani Salama, who was martyred in Khan Younis after suffering a serious injury; 

Iman Asaad and her children Zainab Fadi Rasmi (8), Naseem Fadi Rasmi (4), Muhammad Fadi Rasmi, and Ghazal Fadi Rasmi (9);

Ahmed Barham Abu Rajila;

Malak Bahaa Fathi and her siblings Yusuf Bahaa Fathi and Janan Bahaa Fathi; 

Muhammad Muslim Muslim; 

Alaa Bassem Salem (30), whose parents were martyred in 2003; 

Wael Roc and his brothers Talal Roc, Junayd Roc, and Jamal Roc;

Ahmed Ziyada;

Salim Hamdan;

Jana Hani Deeb, a child;

Lamar Saber, her sisters, and their mother;

and Ibrahim Abd Rabbo.

You can read more about the human lives lost in Palestine on the Martyrs of Gaza Twitter account and here.

[fatal-iistic]

Ties That Bind (Pt. 2)

Summary: There’s objectives to be followed, but First Lieutenant Blair Moore can’t help but deny the unwavering loyalty and devotion into protecting one soldier in particular.

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F!Original Character

Words: 8.7k

Warnings: Swearing, war, minor character death, injury/gore (minor descriptions)

January 8, 2021

Eastern Sovereign Base Area, Dhekeila, Cyprus

Lieutenant Blair Moore's reputation reaches John Mactavish before he can physically locate her. 

Major Sprik mentions offhandedly in Soap's arrival debrief of "the American girl" and how at home she's already become amongst the British soldiers. Rumors swirl that she'd beaten anyone willing to compete in a pull-up contest, and one could spot her in the obscene hours of the morning running laps around the base.

She is intense, if anything (Sprik uses a more derogatory term, one that irritates Soap, if anything). 

Sgt. Mactavish last saw Lieutenant Blair Moore in person when swaddling the Greater Caucus foothills in Georgia nearly a year prior in search of Al-Qatala's newest successor, Khaled Al-Asad. Though absent in presence, Soap can't help but think about her every so often. She is a remarkable soldier, formidable and smooth. But Soap recalls the fleeting rays of humanity and humility shining through her rugged exterior. 

After their three days in Georgia wrapping up a failed ops in locating al-Asad, it's time enough for Soap to find himself drunk on that woman. She's an enigma – densely cored emotions and perspectives shelled by a rugged exterior. Surges of personality harken closely to Captain Price, shared components that Soap is certain stem from years of experience in the field. Hypnotized, that boy, Soap, is. 

He’s a fool. There’s no plausible deniability for that case. He’d dated one girl seriously in the past, right at the tail-end of primary school when he’d signed with the army. Wore his heart on a sleeve, that boy did. His ma was convinced no other woman could strike John’s attention when he’s become smitten with one individual. John MacTavish truly believed he’d make that girl his bride, but when the demands of service and the demands of a relationship did not coexist harmoniously, the girl broke his heart. 

Soap reckoned he would keep his sights focused on what mattered: serving the great good, serving his country, saving lives. His track record thus far has been immaculate (love life, or perhaps the lack thereof; not military disciplinary record). 

And then there was is Blair Moore.

Their zigzagging trajectories. Two comets always passing but never colliding.

He doesn't see her for months following Georgia. He's eventually summoned to Verdansk, but Blair is seldom to be seen. He wistfully admits to his own consciousness that he's disappointed by this fact, but does not allow the perspective to plague his mind too heavily. Viktor Zakhaev is at large in Kastovia. There's a mission at hand. 

Now. 

It's January of the new year.

Viktor Zakhaev is several weeks dead and underground. On one hand, Al-Asad remains at large and fully dangerous. But the world's superpowers decide to celebrate one less terrorist, resting their heavy heads on their pillows and popping champagne at holiday parties.

Task Force 141 does very little to sleep on their conflicts. One less psychopath with access to weapons of mass destruction is one less threat, sure. The cesspool he was plucked from remains abundant and as murky as ever. Al-Qatala remains a threat, burly in numbers, intel, weapons, and backing. People were still dying at the hands of AQ. 

Christmas slips by as quickly and quietly as the soft snowfall Soap watches from the window at his flat in Edinburgh. Days of sleeping in his own bed, and crushing family members in giant bear hugs, and overeating his mother's cooking until he feels remorse. He wouldn't take those days for granted nor trade them for the world, but he's almost itching when Captain Price calls him up. Unsurprisingly, the enemy never slumbers, and Soap would be flown down to Cyprus for another operation.

Details are hazy. Al-Qatala smugglers undertaking operations in a town just outside of al Mazrah. Intel pointed more toward drug smuggling, but sources also cited a potential for arms dealing and clandestine rendezvous with foreign figures. If it smelled and looked like a fish, it was fishy.

What tempers his emotions is the news of who he'd be conducting the mission with. Lieutenant Blair Moore. 

She'd been in the Middle East for months. Operations in the Republic of Adal, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia, among other places. Brushing shoulders with some of the world's richest individuals in Dubai and Riyadh. Collecting. Coercing. Confiscating. She's a master of covert affairs, coupled with an intense understanding of violence and timing. 

John MacTavish can't tame his frivolity when he arrives on base in Cyprus (God, he feels like a schoolboy. Not a military-trained weapon of war). 

Soap manages to solicit a late lunch ration from the mess hall before making his way out to search for Lieutenant Moore. Pvt. Reyes informs Soap that some soldiers were racing with Blair near the garages. So to the garages, he departs.

When he reaches the group, races are no longer being held. Blair is perched nonchalantly on a crate in her fatigues, cheeks touched rosy. She looks like a queen on her throne, shoulders rolled back as she laughs at something said by another soldier. Four other soldiers flock close to the crate, either propped against the building wall or lying docilely on the pavement. The other half dozen spectators mill about on their feet, passing jabs and jokes at the spent soldiers. Blair had just bested them; it didn't take further investigation to come to that conclusion. 

"Oi, Mactavish, you come to get yer ass whooped too?" Sgt. Kelley calls out as Soap approaches.

"I think we've shamed the British Army enough by the looks o' it," Soap observes with a scoffing laugh. "I don't even need ta' know the stakes ta' know Lieutenant Moore would butcher me pride."

"Coward," a private whistles. 

Soap is a millisecond from disciplining the private when Blair's airy laugh cuts through the tension. 

"Ah, ya'll need to lighten up. Besides, I could use a break," Blair interjects spiritedly. Her deeply-Texan accent makes Soap smirk, so evidently different from the dialect of the UK-ers on base – her inevitable twang made her stick out like a sore thumb. She hops off her crate and strides towards the approaching Soap. "'Bout high time ya made it here, Sergeant Mactavish." Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief.

"I told you before, call me Soap," he pokes. 

Blue eyes sparkle in the mid-afternoon sun, as blue as the Mediterranean waters off the coast. "Ya haven't changed much, Soap," she remarks calmly. Her tone is genuine. Warm like an embrace. "I'm leadin' the team brief tonight. We'll do a recap tomorrow morning before wheels up."

"In the meantime, will you keep torturing these boys?" Soap indicates to the men still sprawled on the ground, blue eyes gleaming with a chuckle.

"They're already toast; anything else would be a war crime." She points her boots east, gesturing at Soap with an invitation to follow. "Walk with me, sergeant."

The two stroll along the sidewalk, quiet as the sea-salt breeze playful bats against their bodies. It's a beautiful winter afternoon here, the temperature is moderate for this time of year in Cyprus, but either soldier comes from snow-laden yards and blustery winds. They go without jackets, letting the sun kiss their bare arms. 

Soap withholds his glances at Lieutenant Moore, but can't help but admire how her muscles ripple in her arms. One is completely covered in tattoo ink, images of dark trees and shadowy creatures, coupled with an intensely-detailed creature with a deer's skull and horns, adorn her skin. Haunting images. Fitting for the coarse woman. 

"It's a wendigo," she notifies chirpily. 

Soap blinks, dumbfounded. "Huh?"

She holds up her arm, pointing to the creature. "A wendigo. An evil spirit told of by the Native tribes in the Western Plains. They would kill and eat their victims."

Soap grimaces with a snort. His subtlety epically falters; not much escapes Blair's keen eyes. "Ain't that fitting, Moore," he rasps. 

"You should see my other tattoos." She winks. A note of immodesty lilting on her tongue, something so fine Soap isn't sure if he's imagining the playfulness.

He blushes. "Uh…what?"

"Exactly." Her laughter is jovial, too much for a woman who can murder a man with her hands. A stark contrast to the woman he remembers in combat and under the duress of locating al-Asad in Georgia. Here on base, an amount of laxity manifests in the woman's persona. 

Playful like a lynx.

Soap comes to the deliberation that he both admires and fears this woman, just as one would a natural predator. It's best to leave them at a distance, but Soap can't help but feel desperately entranced into her magnetic field. Hypnotized by her silken laughter and the mirth simmering in her eyes. The world is at war, all day, every day, but that detail doesn't burden him at this moment, here in the Cyprus sun. 

"How about yours, Soap?" Without warning, she grasps his right arm, twisting it to inspect the artistry on his forearm. "That? Has to do somethin' with 141, huh? How patriotic. Price get one on his ass, too?"

Soap chuckles. "Fat chance."

"You're a proud soldier, through and through, hm?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replies back with a lopsided smile. 

Blair pauses as she takes in Soap, her shoulders rolling back. Something brews behind Blair's eyes (blue; he reminds himself that his favorite color is blue, the color of her eyes). A storm at sea. Rigel, the brightest blue supergiant in the constellation of Orion. The toxic flesh of a dart frog. She possesses a minacious color of blue. Soap begins to brood that if he remains enraptured for too long in that gaze that perhaps he’ll turn to stone. 

(But she is not Medusa, and he is not King Polydectes.)

The ice of her eyes lightens. Less like a storm. More like the gentle lap of ocean waves on the shore. A sapphire in the sunlight. The feathery plume of a kingfisher.

"I'm glad you have my back again, Mactavish. It'll be an easy op."

***

The chopper's rotors slice through the air as the machine prepares to take off again.

All seven soldiers kneel on the pavement until the metal bird levitates off the ground and suspends itself upward into the air. They remain fixated on the ground, faces tucked down as desert dust shifts in a cyclone around them. It takes until the helicopter is a safe distance back into the sky for the dust storm to relent. Another few minutes pass until it settles, and the soldiers maneuver to their feet.

The town outside of Al Mazrah is two hundred yards away from their landing site. The way is led by a trampled-down path created by the previous soldiers and Adal villagers, traversing these exact steps over time. They were sending a small team in to assess the direct danger. Six SAS soldiers. And then Blair — the latter informally labeled as their interpreter for the mission (it was simpler on paper than putting her down as a PMC consultant or combatant).

Even though the town had been labeled well and friendly to outside soldiers, any soldier worth his salt stayed on guard. Insurgents still slept in the bedrooms of these homes. They coerced, threatened, and harmed to get the job done. Any one of these villagers could have been paid or had their family and well-being menaced to produce cooperation. There was no absolute distinction between ally and enemy in this territory. 

The trek through the taut desert grass is tense. Even a simple mission like this is riddled with anxiety. Enemies could be in any corner. Bombs planted under any surface. The local insurgents didn't play in terms of fairness and justice. They took the playing field and doused it in gasoline and fire. 

They haven't been on the ground for more than five minutes before Blair feels sweat trickle along her spine. Uniformed, booted, and gloved, hardly an inch of skin is showing on Blair's body. It is the best principal she remains well-suited, the long blonde braid the only thing revealing her femininity. Protection from the sun. Protection from scrutiny from a majority of the villagers. Somewhere an old instructor says, “Protection from skimming bullets” (not that feeble material would safeguard from direct hits). 

Blair props her M4 against the bulk of her vest. One hand caresses near the muzzle, the other trained close to the trigger (index finger kissing the cool gunmetal). If a firefight breaks out, seconds of time become either inefficacious or invaluable depending on the level of preparation. She keeps her cerebrum honed on her training, reflexes she's harnessed over the years in the field, holding those truths like a crux to her being. While adrenaline still runs in abundance through her bloodstream, she's tamed it to heighten her senses rather than hinder them. 

The path remains unkempt but safe. No explosives. No concealed traps. 

They step foot onto the cleared ground, following around residential buildings with fenced-in gardens and a few farm animals. It's a quiet afternoon here, Blair observes. Even the three pastured cows they bypass offer a hushed judgment from across their field. 

The buildings become denser. 

Private Shaw leads the way into the uneven streets of the town, McKinley and Kelly in step just behind him. Walsh and O'Conner are next, with Blair and Soap in succession at the rear. They walk with purpose, constantly scanning the scenery around them. Residents gaze back at the patrolling soldiers, hugging closely to their doors and not engaging any further than passing glances. They seemed heavily reluctant to acknowledge the presence of the Marines.

Blair's eyes sweep from corner to corner. Her mouth feels cotton dry. A wallowing pit of despair consumes all in her stomach. There's something deep within her gut. 

This doesn't seem right. 

But why.

She can't halt the troops based on feeling alone.

Bile burns from within. Her muscles scream with protest. Deep within her instinct, every fiber tells her to stop. Not to carry on.

Then something registers, white hot, in her cortex. 

"Hold it," Blair commands with an absolute sense of resolve. Each soldier stumbles to a halt, pivoting to meet Blair's command with wide eyes.

"This doesn't feel right," she announces.

"Feel right?" Sgt. McKinley echoes, a bit of ridicule laced in his tone.

Eyes scan across the street and to the nearby homes. While the presence of foreign soldiers was typically met with a mixture of fear and excitement, Blair could not bring herself to accept the eerie quiet of the town. Only men stand in the doors or windows, gazing out with edgy curiosity at the Marines. She's been in many hostile environments, but most townspeople aren't part of the rogue militia – if anything, they are victims, scared and desperate for a way out. Albeit cautious, they typically respect and are receptive to foreign soldiers.

The people around them were craning on their toes, staying placidly behind the safety of their walls. As if watching and waiting, bracing for the impact of something ominous that Blair and the other soldiers couldn't see.

"Look around. There's no women or children," Blair mentions, blue eyes squinting to the horizon. She motions to the buildings around them. 

"Children?" Not just McKinely repeats her words; nearly all six Marines join the chorus. 

"The children," she repeats, firmer. She ignores the patronization radiating from her peers. "They usually meet us on the way from the landing pad, and not even a single one came out. Odd...isn't it?"

She thinks of little girls, hair twisted into ponytails or fashioned braids, totting younger siblings on their hips. They'd often been magnetized to her no matter what country Blair had visited – able to pick out the woman amongst the platoon, despite being covered in gear, head to toe. Soldiers would trade them a candy bar or a beanie baby to garner their favor. The small gestures won the adults as well. These soldiers, armed to the nines, aren't as bad as their local insurgents made them out to be. 

An illumination of recognition lights up across the faces of each soldier. Enough of them had been on deployment before to know the cohesive bond between civilians and foreign soldiers. Even when language barriers and cultures from two ends of the spectrum wedged them apart, nothing could stop humans from being social. Their natural instinct to bond with other humans outmatches the tides of war.

Soap straightens, eyes sweeping back across the street. The town square is only a few dozen yards away. The town leaders await the SAS Marines and their interpreter to discuss the local smugglers. But that task would be put on hold. 

A grip of stifled fear seizes the group of soldiers. 

"Shaw, radio Wardog for immediate extraction," Soap commands. "Fall back to the landing zone."

No sooner have the instruction left his lips, the vehicle, a few meters ahead of Shaw and Kelly, ignites with a blast. The shockwave sends Blair crumbling across the ground, landing violently. She's lucky for her vest and helmet, the articles taking the brunt of the force from being tossed like a ragdoll. The smack of her guarded head still causes her ears to ring, and her vision blurs like bleeding watercolors for a moment. 

Muscles tense as she fights through the scrambling of her neural circuits. Just as her training should, Blair's reflexes react swiftly to the situation. Cocking her rifle, she sends return fire into the street. There's an eruption of offensive shots, coupled with hostile shouts, as the enemy slinks out of their hiding places to rain bullets down on the soldiers. 

"Return fire! Return fire!" Blair shouts.

Walsh, McKinley and O'Connor slip into cover and begin to counter their enemies' shots.

The state of Shaw and Kelly is questionable, and Blair hardly grabs a glimpse of where their bodies remain following the explosion. She can see Walsh grab his gun, firing rounds at several soldiers flanking him, and he doesn't last long before enemy fire brings him to the ground.

"Man down!" Another soldier cries.

The events unfold precariously.

It's incredible how seconds and minutes in a firefight seem to writhe by as if swimming in molasses. The viscosity of time is lost to the relentlessness of the moment. Blair can hear her rasping breaths and the roar of blood echo in her ears. It overtakes the distressing tinnitus from the bomb blast but mutes the shouts from the enemies and her comrades. 

Two tangos to the left. Behind the truck, near the hood. Blair's inner voice instructs her motor control. She eases past the wall of her cover, catching one of the men popping above the truck's hood. She fires certainly, the man dropping to the ground. No sooner has he fallen, his comrade reveals himself and becomes victim to Blair's precision. Blair ducks back behind cover, bullets spraying around her. 

The brick chips from the bullets, debris stinging against the exposed flesh of her face. Blair shutters, flinching away deeper into her cover.  

Soap hunkers down behind the wall of the nearby building. He steps out to better aim at the enemies before suddenly crippling to his knees. He propels himself back into cover. 

He's hit.

Blair feels the blood drain from her face. She sees O'Connor down the road. An enemy soldier slides closer, unloading bullets into the soft-spoken Irishman. 

Her stomach sinks. They're royally fucked. 

Firing several shots, Blair makes haste from her position over to Soap. She grasps the straps of Soap's vest, hauling the man to his feet before wedging her shoulder into his side.

"We need to get the fuck outta here, sergeant," Blair snaps.

They hobble down the alley, ducking behind buildings. She leads him further and further from the town square, slinking past small residential shacks and their ruddy, fenced-in yards. Soap is panting, sweating profusely from the shock the body has inevitably tapped into. Blair glances about, locating a rundown garden shed in one of the yards. She pulls Johnny into the shed, shutting the door behind her. She nearly crumples onto the ground on top of Soap, back propped against the door.

"Fucking fuck," Blair curses, jostling the M4 in her arms. "We are so fucked."

Soap is clutching his leg, retracting one hand coated in blood. A withheld groan rattles his chest, the man arching his head back and knocking it against the feeble boards of the shed wall. Blair shoots him a warning glance before sidling up closer to her comrade. She reaches behind her, jutting her shoulder uncomfortably to tear the medical bag from its straps on the posterior of her vest.

"I tooka bullet in my thigh," Soap grimaces. A breath hitches in his throat as he shifts his leg to catch a better glimpse of the crimson staining his pants.

Blair scoots, sitting perpendicular to Soap and propping his wounded leg on her lap. In any other setting, Soap knew he would've blushed. Her blue eyes don't unfocus themselves on the task, the woman fervently tearing packets of gauze pads open and antiseptic.

"It went into your lateral thigh," Blair observes plaintively, using two fingers to separate the shredded fabric of his pants. "I need you to prop up your leg. Bend at the knee." She doesn't wait for his active maneuver, and instead is already moving a protesting Soap before her command is finished.

"Whatcha tryin' to look at, Moore, my ass?" Soap growls, his additive response more solicited by the pain than any sort of emotional component, meaningful or otherwise.

Soap's prickly or suggestive remarks don't faze the Lieutenant. She's patched up soldiers a dozen times over, easily, and been in the same role of Soap as well (blast those bullet wounds, they'd knock you out of duty for weeks even if they were superficial). Pain mixed with the angst of a mission gone wrong is a hell of an irritant.

"I'm lookin' for an exit wound, douchebag," Blair snarls back, eyebrows furrowed. Her gaze never departs the bloody mess along his leg. "Don't get yer hopes up, Mactavish." 

Despite himself, Soap stomachs a laugh. "Well, fuck me."

She clucks her tongue. "Not with a bullet wound like this, Mactavish," Blair replies cheekily. This time she flashes a gleam in his direction, smirking. "And definitely not in this shed."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" He hums.

Her back straightens a bit. A sudden air of normality, Blair's rigid normality, beseeching her once more. "Dead like our comrades in the town square," she responds, suddenly pressing a collection of treated gauze into the wound. Soap gives a surprised yelp, teeth slashing along the insides of his cheek to stifle the sound. 

"Easy there, Mactavish," Blair murmurs. "It's a nasty wound, but you ain't dyin' on me."

"Medics always got sucha great sense o' humor," Soap accuses.

"Good thing I'm not a full-time medic," Blair reminds. She takes an unlawful amount of wrap, twisting the fabric around the outside of Soap's pants to hold the gauze she wedged over the wound in place. 

Soap draws in several composed breaths. They bear a burdensome silence between them, Soap steeping in his pain while Blair listens attentively to the noise outside. They're far enough away from the commotion of the town center, but Blair keeps her guard raised. If the insurgents knew that only some of the soldiers had been caught by their attack, they'd be searching. As advanced of a tactical officer as she is, Blair can't make up for a sheer disproportion of numbers and Soap's currently-handicapped aim. 

Neither can tell how much time passes before Soap draws in a long exhale and releases a sigh. He reverts his gaze upon Blair, who's painfully zoned out as she keeps in tune with their environment. In the dim light of this rickety old shed, Blair's stony demeanor is only shadowed further. Jaw clenched. Blue eyes icy. Wisps of her straw blonde hair stick to the sweat along her cheekbones. She's so direly beautiful, a fact Soap scolds himself for considering in a time like this.

And maybe it's the adrenaline mixed with the dismay, the fear that singes the tips of his senses as they lay cooped up in a rundown shed. The exemplification of otherwise diminutive emotions. But Soap can't deny the intense admiration for the woman who dragged his wounded ass out of the fire.

The attention manifesting back into Blair's body is clearly visible as her frame straightens and her eyes focus on Soap. She squints a bit, unearthing his admiring gaze.

"What's on your mind, Soap?" She prompts, almost innocently.

Soap snorts, shaking his head. When that response does not relent Blair, he decides to admit ruefully. "Yer the prettiest medic I've ever had, L.T.," Soap jests, masking his true intentions.

Blair snorts.

"Unfortunately, it seems like any blood in yer head is gone," Blair refutes. 

"Well, if I die, 'least I got that off my chest," Soap replies with a touch of dramatics.

"We need a call in exfil," she ignores his remark. Gears are always turning, keeping in line with the objective. "We need to get out to the landing pad or beyond. But I'm not riskin' our hides with the heat on so high. We'll wait until nightfall."

"Aren't there dangerous creatures out at night?"

She offers an apathetic shrug, lacking concern."It's either a snake bite or a bullet in the head. I think I'll take my chances with the snakes." 

Soap lifts his wrist to look at his watch. A coarse chuckle shakes him, the man wincing from the pain that pulses through him. "My watch is still on London time."

"We landed just a hair past 1300 hours," Blair informs. She squints up at the light streaming in from between the boards of the shed roof, as if she could determine the time by the rays. "We easily have…six hours…until dark”

"Tell me some good news, Rogue," Soap requests haughtily.

"You're alive."

Soap laughs lowly. It's rough and coarse, a vibrato that makes the hair on the back of Blair's neck stand at attebtion. "An optimist, aren't ya?" 

"After all this time? Can't you see that I bleed sunshine and rainbows?" 

His response is muted. The pain does wonders in altering Soap's nature.

"Mactavish," she states, resting her hand on his forearm. 

"Call me Soap. Or Johnny. I don't care."

"Johnny," she tests the word against her tongue. For a fleet second, Blair seems consumed in her own thoughts. Reality snaps back into her prefrontal cortex; her blue eyes flick back to Soap's face. 

"Joanna," she states. Soaps's only response is an unassuming, deadpan stare, to which Blair continues, "That's my legal name. I stopped going by that after we left my father."

"Left your father?" Soap echoes. She worded it in such a complex way. Confusing without context. It wasn't that her mother had left her father, but a collective we. A group effort. An entire family untangling itself from one entity.

"He…" she frowns, catching her breath in her chest. Suddenly, her gear feels cumbersome and her skin too taut against her body. Blair gulps, wringing her fingers against the security of her assault rifle. "Johnny Boy, I'm not sure you're ready to unearth my shitshow of a life."

"We have nearly six hours," he reminds with a fatigued smirk.

"Nothing of my past is normal."

"I didn’t ask for normal."

She resents him. Only because the code she's imprinted to her mind, the structural walls she's constructed over these years, don't yield to logic in his presence. Whereas others in the past, their brash judgment and lack of comprehension of Blair's uphill battles, made it evidently clear of their inability to withstand Blair's story, Soap had been opposite to dozens and dozens of their comrades. He's warm. Inviting. Like the sun in the springtime.

Chapped lips part, Blair contemplating the layout of her words. They burn like acid against her throat. A story she hasn't recounted in years. 

"I was raised in a cult," Blair states. The sentence seems to flow from her lips before she has much sentience over them. A blustery confession. Her heart races from the adrenaline of its liberation. 

She doesn't continue. Leaves that fact hanging in the air between them, dropped like a grenade and left to eplode. Soap's jaw drops indignantly when he realizes that she's concluded her life story in one sentence.

"What? That's it?" He snorts, unimpressed.

"That's it?" She echoes incredulously. "How many people do you know that were raised in a cult."

"Enough to know that story ain't finished at that, Blair Moore," Soap criticizes. 

"What do you want from me, Soap?" Blair grouses.

"A damned good story to keep me mind off this wound. Or ya could listen to me bitch for the next few hours. The choice is yer's."

Blair scowls at Soap, sucking her cheeks in as she ponders her options. She drums her fingers against her rifle. A heavy sigh escapes her lips.

"My father was crazy. Still is," she starts, biting down on her tongue. The heat crawling along her skin as she thinks of Carl Moore beats anything the desert sun could provide. "He was in the Army for several years before being discharged. From there, he worked as a PMC. Eventually, he had some revelation, some calling that God was pushing him to do His work. So he enrolled in college to become a minister. He never graduated but still managed to kickstart a church in Texas."

"This isn't just some rip-off of Jim Jones, ain't it?" Soap jests.

"Nah. Google it when we RTB; it's valid." Blair shakes her head. She gives a deflated chuckle, her insides are aching but the weight of her recollection actually births a sense of freedom. "Hell, you might even see pictures of me as a kid. Pigtails n' everything, holdin' an assault rifle."

"Jus' another gun-lovin' American, no?" Soap tries to reason.

Her lips twist up with a rueful expression. "Perhaps, but when you start roping in the couple hundred people followin' ya, and you start delving into the deep end of politics, and the end times, it gets murky," Blair mentions. She sighs, a hollowness in her chest. "My dad...he was convinced that the government was hiding the AntiChrist. By the time I was born, he was making our home into a stronghold. My sisters and I were hunting and handlin' guns before we even had the training wheels off our bicycles."

"So you were just a dream for the Army to recruit, huh?" Soap quips. 

Blair flashes him a scowl.

"Okay. Okay. I'll limit the commentary," Soap surrenders immediately, hands thrown up, "ya owe me more to this story, though."

She huffs. "To answer your question. I had a menagerie of religious trauma, emotional manipulation, and anxiety that stemmed from bein' trained as a soldier since I was two," Blair responds stonily. Her jaw clenches, fingers tapping anxiously on her rifle. "My father was a mean man. Strict too. Made my drill sergeants in basic look tame."

"What happened to him? To your family?" 

"That's where I suggest you read about the coverage of the incident. From my perspective, federal agents were raiding our home to drag us and torture us into becoming followers of the Anti-Christ," Blair explains. "Really, my father had shot one of their agents sent to arrest him for evading parole. Led to a whole siege and raid. I almost shot an agent's head off during it all."

Soap snorts. "Your shot has improved since then."

"Thankfully," Blair exhales. 

"And after that?"

"My family? We were victims. They tried to integrate us back into society," Blair replies (normal, they had wanted them to be normal despite no part of her upbringing was even in the same atmosphere as normal). "I did it all. The therapy. The doctor's eval. My sisters blossomed in the 'real world,' and I could hardly be more than what Dad manufactured me to be. I got in trouble. I wasn't interested in schoolwork, but I'd ace my exams. Hung out with the wrong people."

"So your only option after primary was the Army?"

She nods. "My only option was the Army," she repeats back to him. Her chest shutters. Ribs sore. She still feels the overpowering mass of her mother's grave disappointment, even fifteen years later. "My mom nearly had a stroke over it. We never saw eye to eye after that. I'd come home for leave, and it was always weird. We stopped talkin' nearly a decade ago."

"Oh."

Soap frowns. His mind wanders to his own family. They'd never understand the brutality and sacrifice he had to make, but he knew open arms and a fresh meal were waiting for him every time he came home on leave. Blair doesn't have that. She hasn't in ages. 

"Joanna," Soap states, trying to divert that conversation from the bombshell Blair has just dropped on them. "It's a pretty name."

"Huh?" Blair blinks.

Even in the dim light of the shed, the bright blush of color washing Soap's cheeks is evident. "It's–uh, a nice name."

"My dad used to call me Jojo. Or Little Jo," Blair muses with a snort. "My sisters said I was always his favorite. But it left an even bitter taste in my mouth. Can't even use my real name without feelin' sour. I need to associate it with somethin' other than my bastard father."

"Well, ya could associate it with this damned shed."

She gives a loud, singular laugh – something more akin to a crow's squawk than anything human. Catching the sound on her tongue, she whips Soap an alarmed look – both mortified by her caw and acutely aware of how little noise they could have allotted. They held their breaths for a few seconds as if the timing afterward would erase the infringement she'd made.

"I guess that standard was set low," Blair remarks quietly, shaking her head with a controlled chuckle. 

The two soldiers orbit back into another silence. It's at this point that Soap catches a yawn, body shuddering. 

"Ya alright?" Blair quizzes.

"Exhausted," he sighs.

"Take a nap, Soap," she advises. "I'll keep watch. If I see or hear anythin', I'll be sure to wake you up with the gunshots."

He blinks, contemplating her offer. She scoots across the ground, situating herself beside Soap.

"It isn't 5-star, but I make a half-decent pillow," Blair instructs. "Catch a nap. Or so help me God."

He hesitates, mouth dry and hands shaking, before pressing his shoulder into hers and resting his head along it. 

"Sleep tight, sarge," Blair breathes.

"Thanks, L.T."

The injured man slips off quicker than Blair anticipates. The military always bred oddities, one being the exceptional ability to sleep just about anywhere. However, Blair didn't expect Soap to knock out in less than five minutes. She stays alert, listening to the world outside of this damned shed. 

Her senses feel pumped full of anxiety. At least the head-pounding adrenaline has subsided as she sits, reminiscing about her past to Soap. But there's nothing except the safety of the walls back at base that will allow Blair to relish in relaxation. Not in this shed. Not in Adal territory. Not with a collection of heavily-armed men back in town, probably sweeping the area for any survivors.

A manifestation of protectiveness flickers and flares from within the woman. She likes to perceive it as a conjunction of maternal instinct coupled and complimenting her resolute loyalty to her comrades as a soldier. Regardless, it is a hell of a stimulant. Even while her eyelids felt heavy and her body ached, Blair remains devoted to protecting her slumbering comrade. 

Underneath the intense façade of soldier-like machismo, Blair also cradles the mere notion that she found favor with Soap. His willingness to see a human underneath her rigid soldier stature and all the blight she carries from her past. The sensation births a trembling warmth in Blair's chest, threatening to inhabit and overtake the empty space rented out between her ribs, spilling out into the light. 

It scares her. It overwrites many competent functions of her somatic system, sending her into a muted frenzy of worry. 

There are people Blair would take a bullet for. Any of her comrades. Any part of her squad. Anyone on mission with her. (She'd been manufactured for this.)

And then there are people Blair would die for. 

That list was humble in quantity.  Her mother and sisters, and her niece and nephew she'd never met, take the top echelons of that list. Kate Laswell meets the standards as well.

Some of the nominees are dead. That's how many vacancies persisted. 

Sierra. Her first love. Twelve years gone.

Conrad. Partner. Confidant. Buried four years ago.

And now John MacTavish fits the bill.

It's a fool's errand to be divulging down this path. More often than not, anybody Blair gave a damn for wound up dead or ostracized from her. She isn't sure if either could be sustainable for her exhausted heart. 

Beside her, Soap snores softly in his sleep.

Blair grimly smiles. She revels in his warmth, though it makes her slicker with sweat even in their shaded refuge. The closeness and contact, and her constant lack thereof, is poisonous yet something her body craves. 

She catches herself nestling the side of her cheek against the top of Soap's head. He smells like polymer and dust.

There is no estate to entertain these consuming thoughts. The situation is extremely inappropriate, yet when all she can do is sit and listen and keep a hand on her gun, the thoughts scream over the white noise in her brain. 

Fingernails dig into her palm, creating crescents in the calluses. She chews on the inner flesh of her mouth. In an attempt to divert the rage of emotions crashing tumultuously against her soul, Blair starts to imagine disassembling her rifle and cleaning it. She'd give her M4 the queen treatment back at base. Defaulting back to her factory settings, the one of a soldier, is the only thing capable of distracting her from the terror of giving a damn over John MacTavish. 

She's onto round five of mentally disassembling and reassembling her gun when her consciousness slips. It isn't a fruitful slumber, but Blair loses acute awareness of her surroundings until a gusty enough breeze causes the boards of the shed to groan. She snaps back into wakefulness, pulse galloping. 

Listening to the world around her, Blair realizes their little refuge is nearly bathed in darkness from the waning light beyond. The sky is a shade of navy, touched with a paling orange-yellow off in the western horizon. Somewhere an evening bird sings.

Blair releases a long inhalation from her lungs, settling her blood pressure. She'd fallen asleep, but they had been safe.

"Soap," her voice rattles his slumber. When he doesn't move, she places her hand on his forearm and shakes him. "Johnny."

He stifles a yawn, eyes blinking rapidly. "Hmmm?"

"The sun is goin' down. Let's get movin'."

Blair clamors to her feet, reaching for Soap's hands to haul him to a standing position. Soap gives a low groan as he places weight onto his wounded leg, wincing.

"We're gonna climb up into the hills. We gotta take the long way to the helipad."

"Can't just walk through town?" Soap quips. His voice sounds like it courses over gravel. Pale blue eyes blink away the sleep. 

"Unless their opinion of us has changed since earlier…fat chance," Blair replies. 

Blair steadily opens the shed door, rifle in arms, as she scans the evening terrain. These houses remain quiet. She wonders how long the residents will persist with hunkering down, turning face to the insurgents and their plans. It makes for perfection for two out-of-place soldiers, though. She doubts at this point the insurgents will be sweeping this area in hopes of locating the remaining soldiers. 

The scene is clear, Blair motions to Soap for the all-clear. They thread between the outlying homes, Blair hovering close to Soap. The steep rocky slopes prove to be a challenge for the wounded soldier. He's a tough motherfucker, but Blair sees through the act.

Eventually, Soap stumbles, landing on his bad leg with a yelp. Blair hops down the slope to his side, pulling Soap onto his feet and wedging her shoulder into his side.

"Can't quit on me now, Soap," Blair growls.

They've trucked a distance before Blair eases Soap down. The landing pad is just over the next hill, but between Blair's own impatient dismay and Soap's deteriorating vigor, she determines it's a decent post to contact HMS Resolve. She takes out her radio and a small transponder from her pack. Working the wires, she rigs up something that can transmit a signal.

"This is Alpha Five-Two to Resolve Actual, do you read?"

Static bleeds back through the radio. Blair repeats the same call-out nearly a half dozen times before another voice finally breaks through. 

"Resolve Actual to Alpha, status update. Over."

Soap and Blair flash one another a relieved glance. There's a heaviness that nearly uplifts itself completely from Blair's tightly wrung shoulders. 

"Things went sour. We've lost five men," Blair rattles off. "Sergeant Mactavish and I are in the hills taking cover. Over."

"We can ready and send Wardog to extract you."

"Copy, Actual. I'll set a flare when we hear the angels chorus."

"Noted, Alpha. Readying a team and a bird now. Out."

Blair sinks to a seat on the dusty ground, finally releasing a sigh that's built up from the tension in her diaphragm for the last few hours. Her heart still hammers against her ribs, aching from hours of high stress. The moment the relief floods, Blair becomes acutely aware of the throbbing in her head, the ache in her left shoulder, and how scratchy her throat feels. She was in awful shape but still functional.

"We're gettin' out of here, Soap," she announces triumphantly, despite the burden of her discomfort.

Silence follows.

"Johnny?"

Her neck nearly snaps as she pivots to face her comrade. He's slumped on his seat upon a boulder, inspecting the soaked-through gauze.

"I'm bleedin' again," he wheezes.

Blair springs forward, kneeling down.

"You ain't gonna lose all yer blood, Mactavish. Take a deep breath. The shock and panic are gonna do you in sooner if anything."

She's crass. Words clipped. Coddling Soap at this moment probably won't nurse him along. But while her words are sharper than a cleaver, her hands are gentle. She fidgets to procure more gauze and wrap, packing it over the previously-instated supplies. 

"Good as new, soldier," Blair remarks. She reaches and grabs Soap's palm, squeezing it. "We're gettin' out of here, you and me. Ya hear me?"

Soap twists a weak smile to his lips. "Yes, ma'am."

He manages to limp close alongside Blair up and over the last hill, boots sliding on loose stone with teeth gritting. At the landing pad, the duo crouch near the desert bushes near the edge. Blair scans the vicinity, grabbing her radio once more.

"Resolve Actual, this is Alpha. Requesting an ETA. Over."

Blair decompresses her lungs. Eyes rivet to the sky as if she could spot their guardian angel amongst the darkness.

"Alpha. Wardog One is six clicks from your location. T-minus ten minutes." 

"Copy."

Tearing the package of flairs from her pack, Blair quickly strikes them to life. She tosses them to the edges of the cement of the landing pad, clearly marking the ground for Wardog to locate them. The area glows a surreptitious red, the smell of charcoal, sulfur, and fire burning against Blair's sinuses as she hunkers back next to Soap. 

Commotion. Blair squats lower to the ground as she fixes her eyes on the town two-hundred-some yards away. The lights of the homes sparkle in the distance, but the noise exceeds that of a typical winter evening. 

There are gunshots. Blair can't tell if it's in response to the sudden illumination of the landing pad or for other reasons, but she hunkers closer to the ground.

"Think you knocked on the hornets' nest, Moore," Soap remarks hoarsely. 

Blair huffs, teeth grinding. "Knew it wouldn't be an easy extraction."

Across the two-hundred yards that plant them between the village of insurgents and the landing pad, she can perceive shadows galloping down the path. The gunshots seemingly pointed in their general direction -- though until they start striking the helipad's pavement, she cannot confirm or deny that these men were coming for the two 141 soldiers. Blair tenses, raising her rifle without hesitation.

"Looks like we're going to make friends," Blair expires.  

Getting a good shot in the dark with minimal light is difficult. Blair sees her shots more as warnings. She doesn't need enemies down; she must keep them from lodging bullets into their skulls and sending them home in body bags. Beside her, Soap fires rounds into the long shadows of night. 

Something explodes. 

Blair is still determining what is launched in their direction. Still, it misses the actual target of the soldiers and desecrates the ground several meters off. The shockwave throws either soldier. Bones groan, and nerves sing as Blair is sent several feet across the land. She smacks her helmet against the concrete, brain-rattling like loose pocket change. 

She combats the shiver of heat and pain that pulses through her body. Immediately she schools her dazzled eyesight for a glimpse of Soap, her heart thundering against sore ribs. 

He's there in the dust, frame slumped. 

"Soap!" She hollers, fingers scraping against the cement. Her eyesight is blurry from the smoke. She digs her fingernails into the ground for traction, fingertips hot from the pain.

Above the noise, through the shrill ringing of her injured ear drums, Blair can hear the radio crackle, "Alpha Five-Two, this is Wardog One. We are two clicks out from your location."

She throws herself over Soap, her torso flush to his back, and her limbs splayed to cover his own. She looks like a lioness protecting her cub, the features of her face sharing the same primordial savagery. Unholstering her pistol, she keeps firing shots into the dust to dissuade the enemy further. Once the magazine empties, Blair shifts back to her assault rifle.

The sound of chopper blades cutting through the air hums in the distance. 

"Wardog Two, we are taking heat. I repeat–" Blair can't finish the call before her arm is shredded by a bullet. It tracks the lateral aspect of her shoulder, clipping skin and soft tissue but never fully entering her limb. Blood sprays. The woman bites down on her tongue to prevent a yelp from escaping her lips.

She falters off Soap's body, hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud. She remembers locking eyes with Soap, the man reaching out to grab Blair's hand and lacing his fingers through hers.

Not like this, comes a guttural cry from within Blair. 

She pushes up on her free elbow. She's lost territory of where her pistol is. Her assault rifle digs into her chest, but the shredded flesh and crimson seeping from one arm makes Blair question the quality of her gun handling. Panic bubbles like boiling water in her chest, frothing over into an icy hot sheet throughout her torso. 

From the skies, the chopper's blades cut through the air. Shots ring out from the helo, reigning down on the enemies present somewhere beyond the billow of dust enveloping Soap and Blair.

Blair's rattled thoughts are fractured by the crack of gunfire beside her. Soap musters a second wind and fires back at their enemies. Bullets ricochet off the cement, sizzling by both soldiers dangerously. Something nicks Blair along the cheek, whether it was a stray bullet or debris coming from another explosion, this one falling much shorter than the previous strike.

 "Can't see much–" Blair hears Wardog warn, words clipping in and out of static even though they're only meters above. "Get clear, Alpha!"

Pushing up to her feet, Blair seizes an amount of Soap's uniform and hauls the man upward. They skulk to the far edge of the landing pad; eyes cast upward as the twister of dust whipped around them. It's an afterthought that both soldiers hold one another. Soap teetering on his wounded leg, and Blair's energy nearly sapped dry. 

Their bird in shining armor.

Dust spits into Blair's sclera, mixing with sweat to create a burning in her vision. Eyelids squint shut. Fingers curl tightly around the straps of Soap's vest, body sidling closer. She tries to reopen her eyes, making out the form of the helo, the door sliding open, and boots hitting the ground. 

Two soldiers assist Soap onto the helo, while another helps Blair limp to the bird. She nearly collapses onto the floor within the sheltering walls of the helo, head dizzying as the chopper begins to ascend while shots still ring out from the sides. One of the soldiers prop her up, shoving a plastic bottle of water in her direction and prompting her to drink.

The flight back to the HMS Resolve is terse. Blair remains glued to Soap's side, brushing off the medic who evaluates them both. Both soldiers are wrecked. Dust and blood and sweat drench their uniforms. They look more like prisoners than soldiers, which Blair could contemplate their entrapment in the shed for six hours akin to a jail cell. 

"You're a tough motherfucker, sergeant," Blair rasps to Soap. She uses her frame to prop Soap’s upper torso up while the medic combs over his wounds. One arm snakes around his ribcage, a half-hug to support Soap’s waning energy. 

His pants leg is permeated in blood, looking more crimson than camo. He hugs a swollen arm close to his chest, an injury the medic mumbling about potentially being sprained or broken. 

A wiry, exhausted smile tugs at the ends of the Scot's lips. He looks bone-weary, beyond the ability to offer Blair much of a gesture.

Blair would rather be in a hundred places than in the Med Ward at ESBA. While the doctor assesses Soap, Blair sits across the room behind a curtain with a nurse. She cranes to listen in on Soap's condition. He is alive. He has all his limbs. But a pit of worry still festers deep in her gut.

"You need X-rays on the wrist, Sgt. Mactavish," Doctor Hanson reports, "And surgery to take that bullet outta your leg. But we'll have to transport you to Limassol General for that."

Blair fights to keep her focus as Doctor Hanson rattles off more details. The Limassol General Hospital was about an hour down the coast. They'd patch Soap up nicely. He is out of the woods – she hadn't completely failed in getting her comrades to safety.

Her stomach burns. She's been in squads and platoons with hundreds of other people. She'd failed many of those people during times of duress and combat. But she hadn't felt more resolute and devoted to ensuring Soap, of all people's safety. Blair inwardly chastises herself for the subtle fringes of attachment. 

"Lieutenant," The nurse presses. 

Blair snaps back to attention.

"Doctor Hanson can double-check, but you should be set to be discharged," she presses.

"What about Sargeant MacTavish?"

"He will most likely remain here until he's transported," the nurse replies. 

"Then I'm staying."

"Lieutenant–" the nurse starts.

"I just lost a whole squad. I'm not leaving my last man," Blair argues, her voice rising. 

"Blair," Soap heaves. She swings past the curtain of her space, retreating to his side immediately. "I'm alive. You look like hell. Go get some sleep. I'll still be breathin' by the time you get back."

She clenches her jaw. Eyes look ready to cry – or maybe that is just the reaction from the dust and sweat not quite evaporating. She'll play on the side of innocence, the adrenaline of her blossoming devotion to Soap still not comprehensible, and she's unwilling to face it head-on.

"Okay," she relents. Her chest caves in.

"Okay," he echoes with the ghost of a smile. 

As she follows the nurse out of the room, Soap calls, "I owe you one, Blair."

She pivots. 

Pausing. 

"Joanna. You can call me Joanna."