#worm on worm violence

[animalshowdown]

Phylum Round 1

Onychophora: Velvet Worms. This is the only phylum containing exclusively terrestrial members, although their ancestors can be traced back to the Cambrian shallow oceans. Onychophorans are ambush predators, moving with slow smooth steps to creep up on their prey. They have unique mucus glands on either side of their face which can spray jets of sticky slime, which effectively immobilizes their prey. Onychophorans have relatively complex brains, and some even live in social "packs" that live and hunt together. Many species in this phylum are ecologically vulnerable, threatened, or endangered.

Platyhelminthes: Flatworms. This phylum includes both colorful free-living members and more modest parasitic members. Free-living worms can be found in marine, freshwater, and even terrestrial environments. All flatworms are, of course, dorsoventrally flattened so their whole bodies can access oxygen from the outside, as they have no specialized circulatory system. Some flatworms are of interest to research in tissue regeneration, as they have the remarkable ability to completely regenerate a new body from a cut piece. Many classes within Platyhelminthes are exclusively parasitic, including flukes, tapeworms, schistosomes, and others. Most flatworms are hermaphroditic, and some larger marine species practice a ritual known as "penis fencing" to determine which worm's eggs will be fertilized.

[nojaloart]

teenage superheroes and father/son relationships that are sooo so normal i promise

[one-time-i-dreamt]

Markiplier chased me through an IKEA store because I told him it would be a funny video idea if he got into a sleeping bag and pretended to be a worm. Like he was chasing me with intent to kill.

[4suitedplayingcard]

Wanted to test out a doinky lil brush I made

Refs under cut:

[usertoxicyaoi]

like. how am i NOT supposed to be insane about this and them. like. LIKE.

[irradiate-space]

The above is the Tumblr-sized preview.

Click below for the full animated version, with technique notes:

This Skitter is based on @innominaterifter's fucking amazing Skitter cosplay. Other credits are at the link.

[sassydefendorflower]

I do find it very interesting how differently Scar's and Roy's violence against Edward is viewed within the fandom (and partially the narrative).

There's two specific instances I am thinking of (some of the other happenstances of violence play into different dynamics better discussed at another time).

The first one is the legendary first encounter between Scar and Edward. He only finds them because some military employee uttered the name "Fullmetal" while the State Alchemist killer was prowling East City and he hunts them down the same he would have hunted down Roy or Armstrong or Grand Basque.

And then he almost kills Ed - because of what Ed stands for, no matter the fact that he's a child. By his own admission later in the series, Scar is blinded by hatred and vengeance at this point. It doesn't matter that Edward is fifteen. It doesn't matter that Edward never set foot into Ishval, or that Resembool was bombed during the war.

What matters is that Edward is a symbol in Scar's way.

The second instance is something less often discussed, but something just as - if not more - interesting to me.

Because this is the scene where a - wrath-stricken - Roy Mustang threatens to burn Edward should he not release the object of Roy's fury.

And it's not a funny scene. In the story we've just seen just what exactly Roy is capable off. We've seen him burn eyes and ears and tongues, we've seen him enjoy it. And blinded by his personal need for vengeance we see him threaten an ally (maybe even a friend) with severe bodily harm, maybe even death.

Just as Scar almost ninety chapters (49 episodes) earlier, Roy is willing to kill a child because he is blinded by hatred.

And it's fascinating to me. Because of course Scar and Roy are parallels to each other - at least in this part of the story. Throughout the entire story, both men circle Wrath - the humunculus, the Fuhrer, and their own fatal flaw. It is no coincidence that Roy is shown in direct contrast with Bradley during Ishval, just as it is no coincident that it is Scar who finally strikes him down with the help of some godly intervention.

Both Scar and Roy have to overcome their wrath specifically as part of their story arc to fulfill their character development. Which is why Scar is the only one who doesn't outright condemn Roy for wanting to torture Envy - he understands the need, just as Hawkeye understands that Envy has to die either way. He just also understands what this kind of fury does to a person, has witnessed firsthand how it almost cost him what little community he had left after the genocide - and how giving up on this all-consuming vengeance (without forgiving the Amestrian Government or even Roy for what they did) is what allowed him to build a new community and a new future for his people.

Which makes the timing of this scene - and the fact that in both examples it is Edward who almost falls victim to their punishing hands - so intriguing.

Because we meet Scar first. We meet him as an antagonist at the beginning of the story, and the first real impression we get of his mission is colored by Ed's limited worldview and our affection as the reader for the protagonist of this story. As such, Scar's violence against someone who bears no fault for the horrors he suffered seems unjustified and leaves a stronger impression.

By the time Roy snaps (after a long road of character development that seems very heroic but is always tinged with the thinly veiled truth that Roy is ready to snap at any given point) Scar has been an ally for more than 14 episodes. Scar has already found redemption in the eyes of our heroes by meeting Winry and finding closure.

Roy on the other hand has accompanied us, the reader, the viewer, as a cunning hero with a dark past. The charming, suave manipulator with a heart of gold. By the time he threatens to murder a child, THE CHILD even, we view him as our friend. We trust him.

As such it is easier to forgive him for what he almost did.

And I think that's fascinating. Because if we look at it bare-boned, there is little difference in what happened: they both almost killed/harmed Edward but ultimately didn't (they were both stopped), they were both driven by hatred and vengeance, they were both enacting "justified" revenge on the wrong target, they are both allies for a large part of the story, they are both driven by the same motive (revenge/Ishval) - and yet, it often seems as if Roy's attempted murder is forgotten, while Scar's dictates how half the fandom interacts with him.

Part of that is due to the placement of these scenes - it is Scar's introduction, and Roy's third act culmination of his character arc - but it is still something I think about.

Because it is integral for Roy's character (and the reason why everyone tried to stop him from torturing Envy further) to understand that he was willing to kill Edward so late in the game - just as it is integral to understanding Scar's character that he quickly abandoned his senseless hatred of Edward (though I doubt they would ever be friends) and instead is part of the group that stops Roy from enacting his revenge.

They mirror each other, and if anything, Roy is the one who had a character deterioration arc before he pulled it back around in the last minute.

Scar is a classical anti-hero, someone with a narratively linear path towards healing throughout the story. But just because Scar starts as an antagonist, doesn't mean that Roy was meant to be a true hero.

Both their vices is Wrath, only Roy faces his way later in the game. Only Scar embraced moving forward first.

[hallowclave]

She para on my humans till I [GRUESOME SOUNDS OF BUG FUELED VIOLENCE]

Redraw of a skitter design I did a little over a year ago, comparison under the read more

And the sketch. As a little treat. Just for you.

[15-lizards]

Thinking about how Aegon can sit on the throne drunk and lazy and not taking his rule seriously and not even get a scratch…Robert was never scratched either and Aegon the unworthy was also exempt from the thrones blood tax WHY IS THIS I’m racking my brain for answers. Obviously the throne is a symbol for the cycle of violence so it only accepts the violent and abusive but then there’s maegor who got scratched by the throne in the worst way possible…what does it all mean…can you not upset the balance of the cycle…

[rennyrose]

Since it’s now spooky season been contemplating a sort of trigun Frankenstein AU- where all of the gung-ho guns are commissioned projects

[ksen-noodles]

The best fever dream

Or maybe CO2 poisoning-induced hallucination

[animalshowdown]

Phylum Round 1.5

Xenacoelomorpha: Small, flat, worm-like animals that live in marine and brackish sediments, and sometimes around hydrothermal vents. They can be free-living, symbiotic, or parasitic. A unique feature is that their stomachs lack nerve cells, unlike many other animals. Their evolutionary relationship to the rest of Animalia has been highly debated, and very little is known about their lifestyles.

Micrognathozoa: Presumably the smallest phylum, this group consists of a single species, Limnognathia maerski. In addition to being the smallest phylum, it may also be the smallest animal, with an average length of 100 micrometers. Despite this, it has complex jaws with 15 independently moving parts. Since this phylum has not been well-studied, all individuals that have been collected so far have been female.

[hugintheraven]

So I've been reading Worm

(no spoilers pls)

It's been fun, but I'm getting a very interesting read on the series' overall philosophy and I'm mostly typing this to put my thoughts in order.

There's a theory of government that basically says, the only part of government that matters is "Having a monopoly on the use of force". Everything else derives from that and matters far less to the govt. And I think a lot of the major conflicts in Worm are because of that.

And the thing about that theory is that the govt has to maintain their monopoly. And if people aren't having their basic needs met(including food etc but ALSO the need to be free of violence), then people will resort to any means necessary, including violence, in order to get what they need. So it's in the govt's best interests to keep people from getting so desperate that they resort to violence, since that will cause other people to resort to violence, leading to a chain reaction and societal collapse if things get out of hand.

So the issue with Taylor is that she believes the govt should be meeting people's basic needs, and has learned repeatedly over her life(childhood and time as a villain both) that the govt can't or won't. So she has taken over trying to do that, including through violence. And then is shocked when the govt comes around saying "you can't just hurt people to get what you want". Because all the govt officials/heroes she interacts care about is "who's using force in a way that challenges our monopoly".

Which is then paralleled in both her interactions with heroes and with her school officials when they're refusing to act on her year-long bullies but are ready to punish her over one punch.

[luridon]

Imago Dei

A story of zealotry and bugs.

Or: Could you love a worm?

♡characters: yandere!bug x  deity!reader

♡warnings: MINORS DNI, bugs, blood, cannibalism, murder, obsession, gore, animal death, eldritch themes where YOU are the incomprehensible horror, religious themes, body horror, suicidal thoughts in an I have no mouth and I must scream kinda way, no smut but this is probably worse than smut honestly,  MINORS DNI

♡notes: Buggy People. Bug themes. Fantasyish bug world. Arachnophobes and entomophobes beware. You guys know the adventure time episode with tiny people on a separate plane of reality/existence that's sort of the logic we're operating on. This is the inverse of the "would you love me if I was a worm" meme because the worm comes first here. Does this count as bestiality is that what this is?? Ehh this is xenofiction ish this is FINE everything's FINE we don't have to psychoanalyze this we're all FINE this is all in good fun wtf did I write this

♡w/c: 2k+ | ♡masterlist♡ |

You chose him from the swarm.

You were a thing he could not comprehend, a being so vast his kind's vision was simply incapable of perceiving them in their entirety. You, in comparison, had an eye was so great you saw all his kin at once. You saw the lands beyond, their deep caverns and glass-castled cities, their seas-

And you saw him, an insignificant creature among many. A weak worm writhing among his brethren in the dirt. Your silver claws descended, and you plucked his prone form from the slums of his nest.

The elders had whispered of godkin and cruelty, of their favored being fed the still-squirming flesh of his kind. It was of little concern to him, a young thing starved and cold. He thought only of hunger. If not that, then of an end. . .but that end did not come.

For a moment and an eternity, you tended to him. You brought fresh fruit to his maw, the pulp dripping with sweet nectar. Though hesitant, his hunger won, and he ravenously tore into the meal. He was cradled in flesh soft and warm as he fed, and he could feel your lifeblood pulse beneath the plane of it. Slowly, he had his fill of the nectar, and he regained his strength.

Your great eye gazed upon him through it all. A low sound murmured all about him, and the maw that could have so easily devoured everyone he knew in a bite bared strange ivory fangs. He could do nothing but bare his own black fangs, to try and understand-

And that was his mistake. 

The world fell.

Once again, he was upon the meager dirt, only now his belly was full. He shifted about, but your warm hold was gone, so too was your gaze.

Your favor had ended as quickly as it came. You had vanished from the skies beyond, from the everything in his small, lowly world.

No matter what he asked of the elders or his peers, none could say what had happened.

Why would godkin care for us?  they scoffed, if they even believed in gods to begin with. You imagined things in your delirium. Banish these strange dreams from you head, child. They will only plague you.

Plagued indeed. He was haunted by your strange act. Why had you done so? Why had you shown kindness to such an insignificant creature, a runt fit to only to be torn apart by the rest of his nest when he'd finally keel over and die?

He could not understand.

He wanted to understand.

He wanted to feel that warmth, that gaze that found him worthy, taste that nectar, sweet and cool, hear that soothing god-tongue, even if he could not discern a word. Nothing but a daydream, whispered the nest, but he knew-

You were real. The stories of godkin must have come from somewhere. He would seek you, and understand.

To do so required sacrifice.

To survive, one needed strength. For strength, one needed sustenance, and in the nest, there was no better fare than flesh still fresh and bleeding.

Those the godkin favored fed upon lower beings, so the stories went.

As he tore into the flesh of those he felled, he thought the tales true. The tenderness of their bodies filled him with strength, and he felt something stirring within him with every dripping mouthful.

There were whispers of the power to change. Even the weak could grow strong. Even worms could grow wings and horns and armor.

A vain hope, some would say, clicking their fangs with disdain, delighting in small, pitiful pleasures. We are all destined to die as we are. Is it not lovely, to die as we are?

You did not let him die. He must have been destined for more.

He grew larger, and braver. From the deceased he went to hunt weaklings, then the hale, than the strong. Their cries were heeded no more than their scorn. Their blood wet his maw, their flesh filled his stomach.

They must have believed in gods then. They must have believed in you, for they were within him, a part of him, and he believed in you. Gods like worship, no? Now a whole nest sought you as he did.

Still, you did not appear.

The offering must not have been grand enough. It was a gift so paltry, of course it was unworthy of your attention. What did you seek then? Is there anything you could desire? What would it take to win your favor once more?

He despaired in the ravaged nest, and full and a weary from the fight and the feast, he fell into a deep sleep.

There are rumors of a beast.

One that devoured towns, one that ruined kingdoms led even by the great queens of earth and nectar. Walls of crystal and mazes deep could not save their people. Claw and venom, stinger and wing- none could halt the monster.

It would come and conquer, feasting upon the fallen. It was horrible sight, a beast with armor, and wing, and venom- a creature that seemed to take into itself all the powers of those it fed upon. It persisted through cycles and seasons beyond those of mortal beings. It was unkillable, unstoppable.

Only those who spoke of godkin would live. Only those who proclaimed a devotion for the same entity it worshipped were spared.

The rumors spread until they ceased to be mere tales, because the beast was met, or the scoffers perished.

To survive, a cult rose in the monster's wake. Feigned following though it be, the masses were desperate to avoid the beast's wrath. The number of devoted grew, and grew, and grew, and fearing more power to the beast, fearing their own consumption by its fangs or its frenzied swarm, the rulers of nests gathered and one dared to ask the beast what it sought.

A fool's errand, a lover's folly, the ramblings of a lunatick. Still, cooperation was sworn, and scholars all across the soils and skies toiled to bring its god to the land. But how terrible a god it must be- for a such a zealot to be its first follower.

A spell of summoning was found, and alongside it. . . a spell of change. To bring god-kin to their lowly realm would only spell doom for them all. A fragile vessel then, to hold their mind, their essence. Something to placate its gluttonous fiend without ending everything as it did.

The beast knew nothing of the schemes of the fearful rulers. Through much sacrifice, at last the power to bring the god-kin was ammassed.

And so it was.

What a terrible thing it was, a god, or whatever portion was snatched of one, forced into the form of one of scaled winged and thin-limbed. Something so vast could not be made so small so easily. Wings twisted with flesh and fat, eyes all about it. It thrashed in its new form, it wept and bled-

But that mattered little.

A godkin was brought low, and the beast was appeased. There was peace in the realm, and the people rejoiced.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

You wake in pain, with senses stolen and an inexplicable wrongness about you. You can move, but nothing moves right. You can see, but your sight is strange. You try to call for help-

There is nothing you can say. You cannot feel your tongue or teeth, or lips, or throat, or anything at all where your mouth should be. A nightmare, a bout of sleep paralysis, a terrible dream is all it is-

You hope that's all it is. You hope in vain.

The world trembles and so do you. You try to bring a hand to your face but find it wrong, find scales and segments over your skin and the color is wrong the texture is wrong everything is wrong-

Your joints feel too low, or too high, your body too light and too heavy. There are heavy masses at your back and like a reflex when they strike something, you lurched forward and they unfurl in a most uncomfortable, off-putting matter. New nerves, your limbs, what is happening to you-?

You feel claws spined and sharp take what should have been your hands. You hear things you could not comprehend yet do- chitters and shutterings, clicking sounds all about filtered through your head as whispers and meaning. The world is too dark yet you can't shut or open your eyes. You need to breathe but can't feel lungs, yet everything smelled. Too strong, too clear, of food, of flesh, of flowers, of soil-

Too much, it is too much-

Your new form grants you one small mercy.

You fall asleep.

You do not know how long you've been here.

A strange, dark place. A burrow, a nest, one with a bed strewn with leaves and petals and silks for a bed. You move little. You do not want to, when every movement reminds you of what you are now.

You hate the dark of it, the cloying scent of decay and earth, the silence.

But you hate the figure beside you more.

It has a terrifying visage, one barely human the way the other few faces you've seen are, the way your own feels like beneath your horrible clawed, scaled hands. It's more buglike than anything, mandibles and chitin and eyes too big and dark. You are one of them now, likely. You have not dared to look.

The figure hums. It's a soft thing, almost a soothing croon, but you loathe it all the same. It's no human sound. There is no human here, not even you.

It sounds pleased with itself, as it speaks of the world outside, of pleasant weather and a garden. You cannot tell what sort of insect it is, but it's held in high regard by the others, it has its own land where none bother it, and so none bother you. It says those who tried to slay you have been executed, and their heads, clean and shining, are piked among the foliage and blooms.

That draws tears from you, and you hate the revolting beast beside you as bows its head to lap up the fluid from all the eyes.

How relieved you must be, it says. I'm glad I could protect you.

You hate it, the creature that brought you here and keeps you here. The one time you felt hope was when those intruders swarmed in, and tried to take your head.

An abomination, they had hissed, raising something sharp, An affront to nature.

You only prayed that they knew where your neck was, if you had one in this body.

Your soft flesh was barely pierced when they were flung from you. The figure now at your side had returned, and it took them all away, slaying some, maiming others. Then it had kneeled beside you, murmuring apologies and begging for forgiveness as it tended to you.

You think you started truly hating it then.

Your captor never tires of muttering about how glad it is to have you here, your flesh and your warmth, your mere presence. It likes to lay beside you, or press its face or claws to your wings to feel the veins and arteries beneath your skin. It drinks of your tears and blood and thanks you for the blessing, and you have much to give as you weep from the pain of your new form, of being here, from the eyes upon your head and the ones upon your wings.

It is a monster that kneels beside you and keeps you here, and you are a monster as well.

You are an abomination, to your kind and its own. You hope others of its kin feel the same, and that they'll seek to finish what their fellows started.

You can only hope one day, one of them will succeed.

Tldr: A worm fell in love with something way beyond it so metamorphosed into an abomination of a beetle and dragged its god down to its plane even if that mean much murder and squishing a human into a horrible fleshy butterfly abomination thing. It is now happily malewifing while its god wants to die.

[asurrogateblog]

sometimes I start thinking the psychological torture over performing that led to the Spit of '77 was just a roger problem but then I remember that one time a live chicken wandered on stage at an alice cooper concert and when they threw the chicken to the audience (mistakenly believing chickens could fly) the crowd enthusiastically tore it to pieces with their bare hands so actually yah maybe roger had a point

[storeecbrcod]

MWIII: Soap’s Nautilus Skin

Hear me out!

I’ve been told that Warzone is technically connected to the canon campaign, loosely, hence why everyone was really confused when Soap got his new Nautilus skin. He’s supposed to be dead, he shouldn’t be getting new legit-looking skins, at least not so soon after the campaign.

But, for the sake of my brainworm (that I know I share with others, shh), let’s assume Soap’s nautilus skin means he’s alive somehow. Let’s do some study (courtesy @ave661, doing god’s work for us ty):

Look at my pretty boy! Mask, gas tanks, and cool ass details, yeah? Just an awesome skin.

Let me put way too much detail and thought into this in the form of a ‘quick’ ficlet.

TW: canon-typical violence, medical settings, mentions of terrorism, mentions of torture/brainwashing. TLDR at the end :)

The 141 had been distracted as of late, chasing around a group of slippery but deadly terrorists that had made it their fucking mission to make the task force trip over them. Nobody was sure if they were intentional red herrings from Makarov, or just another rising force amongst disgruntled people that turned to violence to be heard. Either way, it was starting to really grate on everyone’s nerves, having to put the hunt for Makarov aside to deal with a new threat every other week, one too big and too elaborate for local defence departments to handle alone without the 141’s experience.

Because it was always the same elusive cunts fucking something up. Killing someone they shouldn’t have, intercepting deals and creating unrest amongst major crime rings around the world and sparking unrest through their deep, wide-spread roots. The team knew well how a small conflict could snowball into a wide-scale war, and it felt like they were preventing one every time there was a report of soldiers in black, glowing green tech with a hazy green tint to their eyes.

Price could see the way his team (3’s still a crowd, right?) was starting to grow restless with the near constant pull from their goal of finding Makarov, especially Ghost. He grew more distant by the day, getting more and more ruthless out field, reminding Price of his early days on the Task Force. Whether they liked it or not, Makarov had diminished forces right now, and he was not as much threat as—

“Fuck, Gaz, watch out!”

Another explosion went off, knocking Price and Gaz to the ground, their breath stolen as they tried to clamber back up to move out of range of fire. It felt like it was coming from everywhere, relentless, chaotic. The thudding of Price’s heart was the only thing that gave him rhythm, guidance on how to react and when and why. He pulled his sergeant to cover behind some stacked crates and dropping, continuing to heave through his strict chest.

This was the closest they’d gotten to the fuckers, never managing to see more than a glimpse of these skilled soldiers before. They gave them a run for their money, Price had admitted sourly many a time. They were legends on each base they travelled to now, infamous for how hard they were to catch, even for the equally infamous 141.

But now, they were close. It was eerie watching these people, almost robotic in their execution, unwavering, unafraid. They’d run into active fire if it meant they had a decent chance to advance and catch someone off guard. And somehow, they managed to get away, every damn time. They seemed to not register pain, either, if the way the one woman soldier continued to walk around despite her obviously broken leg was anything to go by.

They were like zombies, and it was deeply unsettling.

As far as Price could tell, there were two hostiles running around above them through the catwalks of the hangar they were currently pinned in. They were trying to pick shots, but they’d shoot their direction randomly as well, making it that much harder to predict when it was safe to poke their heads out to see if they even had a chance of running out.

“Ghost, where the fuck are you?” Price growled into his comms. The other man had been radio silent for almost half an hour now, ever since this stupid cat and mouse game started. They’d come in here to chase the bastards down, yet somehow his team were the ones being chased. It was beyond irritating, and it was also putting them in unreasonable danger.

“Cap!”

Gaz’s sudden yell had Price’s head on a swivel, following the man’s gaze to above them. Somehow, the third soldier of the little trio had managed to flank them, looking down at them from another isolated catwalk.

How Price neglected to watch their six, he didn’t know.

All he knew was there was a barrel of a rifle pointed straight at them from 10 metres up.

Within milliseconds, he knew three things; one, he wouldn’t be able to move Gaz and himself out of the firing line without making themselves vulnerable to the other hostiles. Two, any move they made now had them killed. And three…

Makarov was behind these soldiers.

Because who else would make their most deadly soldier, the most aggressive of the trio, the one that risked his life even more than his teammates, the one who seemed to hold easy leadership over the others—

Who else would shave their best soldier’s head into a mohawk, if not to taunt them?

Before he could even think to shield Gaz, pull him to his chest in a last-ditch effort to protect him in the hope that someone would get back home to tell their story, a dark blur slammed into the back of the soldier above, sending his rifle clattering to the floor. It was almost surreal, watching the mohawk’d soldier struggle against darkness, the occasional flash of stark white dancing around him.

Fists were exchanged. Bullets were sprayed towards them sporadically, but too out of range to hit accurately. The short barrier of the catwalk bit into the soldier’s lower back, starting to dangerously teeter further and further over it.

The rifle’s impact to the concrete hadn’t even finished echoing around the hangar when Price watched two figures tumble from the catwalk, grappling in the air. A sickening thud followed, the two bodies rolling with each other, parting and leaving one still on the ground while the other heaved on his hands and knees.

The moment of stunned silence seemed to hang forever, though it was only a second in reality. The gunfire had stopped, two sets of footsteps echoing down the corridors away from them. It left Price’s team, Gaz frozen and Ghost shaking with adrenaline, with an unconscious soldier.

Ghost crawled over to the body first, followed by Price standing over him. His veins were molten in rage, scorned again by the sight of his closest soldier posed over an unmoving soldier with a mohawk.

Fuck, they even got his eyebrow scar. I wonder what they did to create that?

Unlike last time, though, a muffled groan left the man on the ground, the body shifting slightly uncomfortably. His eyes (blue… what the fuck?) fluttered open, blinking away the confusion that likely fogged his mind. He breathed in, deep and full—

Even Price flinched at how fast the soldier’s hands came up to grasp at his mask, gasping, choking behind it, clawing desperately at a crack that spanned the left side of it. Blue eyes lit up with desperation, legs coming up to kick uselessly at the ground, back contracting as if in pain.

Reacting as a unit, Gaz moved forward to hold the soldier’s legs down, Price grabbing the man’s vest and forcing him down with all his might, Ghost grabbing his arms, forcing one to his side for Price to pin under his knees and holding the other one down. Even with three people on him, the soldier put up a good fight, even though it seemed like it was out of panic more than resistance.

Ghost grabbed the mask, struggling with the release catches that seemed to be stitched into the side of the man’s head, unable to get them loose. With a growl, he shuffled to force the soldier’s other arm down with his own leg, grabbing his throwing knife and carefully shucking it into the stuck lip of the release. He hit the butt of his knife, hearing the catch pop open before forcing the soldier’s head to the side and repeating the action.

The soldier only seemed to fight harder, turning his head away frantically as Ghost tried to yank the mask off. Despite having three people on him, he still managed to jostle them, pulling his hand out from under Ghost and earning himself a painful twist of the wrist.

“Ghost…”

“Stay still, fucker—”

With a final tug, the cracked mask is thrown from the soldier’s face, and it only makes the man thrash harder. His gasps for air are no longer muffled, the painful choking and heaves bouncing off the tall walls around them, surrounding them as they tried to hold him down.

It isn’t until his body tenses up completely, lips going blue that Price is finally able to get a proper look at the soldier’s face, and once again time stands still.

Those damn blue eyes stared up at Ghost, not breaking eye contact, and Price could swear he feels each of Ghost’s muscles tense up individually, his breathing stop alongside the body beneath them. The crude scar that dissected through the man’s chin was on full display, and he thinks he hears Gaz gasp beside him, his eyes glancing between the man’s face and Price’s own.

The soldier’s head was turned towards Ghost just enough to reveal the edge of the left side of his hairline, where a fading but ugly scar puckered right along his temple.

Price doesn’t stop Ghost from getting up and walking away once the man on the ground falls unconscious, his heart rate slow and his breaths returning even slower, but returning nonetheless.

Price doesn’t stop Gaz moving to take Ghost’s place, grabbing the body’s face so firmly yet so delicately, moving it back and forth as if to check he was real.

Price doesn’t react with anger when Laswell is silent on the other side of the radio, nor does he answer any questions except to insist on an emergency evac for their ‘prisoner’.

Price doesn’t do anything, except recite the paperwork they’d filed just two years ago, fixing it in his head over and over to come to terms.

John “Soap” MacTavish: KIA ALIVE

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“This is fucking insane, even for Makarov.”

Nobody discounted Gaz’s observation, all just staring through the glass into the guarded hospital room holding John fucking MacTavish, lying still while tubes breathed for his sedated body. Well, all except Ghost.

They hadn’t seen Ghost in days.

Funnily enough, Nikolai had gone radio silent around the same time, too.

Hm.

Even Laswell had made her way over from her most recent post, vowing to lead the investigative efforts into Soap’s condition. The good thing was, he was relatively unscathed. Littered with new scars, sure. Aggressive and unforthcoming with even attempting to remember any of them, that too. Oh, yeah, and his body tries to shut down every time they take him off of the highest dose of anaesthetics, and nobody knows why, and he can’t tell them why.

Price has a headache.

“John.”

Price, Gaz, and the few medics with them all turned as Laswell approached, and their reaction was immediate. They all seemed to see the gravity in her features, sense the density of what she had to say on her tongue. Her frustration and worry was palpable, in her own stone-cold way.

Price hasn’t seen her like this since… well, ever. It didn’t invoke him with much confidence.

“We finally got the toxicology results back for the gas in the tanks,” she stated, though she didn’t offer the paperwork in her hands. Actually, she gripped the package with white knuckles. Another action that made Price even less confident this news was going to be anywhere near pleasant.

“And?”

“He’s developed a non-lethal strain of Nova gas.”

Silence. Pure silence. Disbelief? Bewilderment? Surprise? Who fucking knows. But they were silent.

“Nobody’s sure how it works just yet,” Laswell continues curtly, looking to Soap’s body through the window. “But it’s a pretty strong theory as to why Sergeant MacTavish was acting so…”

“Zombie-like?” Gaz offers, an interruption met with Laswell pursing her lips for a moment.

“I’d prefer another word, but if it fits.”

Quiet befalls them all again, Price scratching at his beard in an attempt to dispel the twisting mess of anger, worry and confusion. It’s been hard, trying to continue applying pressure to Makarov while they’re a Lieutenant down and distracted by an old teammate basically raised from the dead.

“We managed to extract some files from a hard drive found in one of Makarov’s bogus operation suites,” Laswell continued, looking back to John with more concern than before, really not helping on the confidence front. “I have people combing through them, though a lot of them are encrypted so thoroughly they’ll take days to decode. However, there are a few bits and pieces of jumbled reports, seemingly test experiments involving the new strain. The only new information we have at this point is how they acclimatise their patients to the gas.”

“Acclimatise?” John repeated, gruff with restrained emotion. Leadership and professionalism was always important, but right now, he couldn’t care less about seeming totally calm.

“Yes, acclimatise,” it sounded barbaric with the way she said it, like it was glimpse into what it meant. “They’d place the test subjects into gas chambers, restrained, and flood the chamber with the gas. Somehow the body adapts to rely on the gas as air after rigorous training.”

“Torture through suffocation more like,” Gaz grumbled, glancing between Price and Laswell, whose jaw ticked.

“Apparently, the gas is most effective when the patient is fully reliant,” she added, then shrugged. “Effective in what way, the team has no clue. Though they’re pretty confident it’s the efficacy to reduce cognition enough to lose the ability to do anything without outside influence.”

“Like a damn personal attack dog,” Price growled.

A beat of silence lingered, everyone in the room trying to comprehend how this would affect Soap’s recovery. If he could recover at all.

“So that’s why he acts like he’s suffocating when he’s conscious?” Gaz inquired. “Because he is?”

“We can only assume so.”

“This is so fucked up,” Gaz whispered, linking his hands behind his head and looking to Soap again. It was like some movie bullshit, the impossible becoming possible but without the safety of being in your living room. Watching a tornado head your way when you’re in the middle of a damn field. Absolutely impossible to comprehend, yet happening anyway, beyond your control.

“We’re going to see if keeping him sedated and letting his body recover from what could be years of exposure will reverse the effects of the chemical,” Laswell said slowly, but interrupted herself with a sigh, looking to Price earnestly.

Price thinks he sees his last sliver of confidence drift off in the breeze of the ventilation.

“We also have to consider his supposedly lethal GSW,” she slowly continues, shuffling where she stood. “We can only assume the parts of his brain responsible for memory, speech, thought processing was impaired with the injury.”

“There’s a chance nothing will change because his injury could have destroyed his ability to reason and remember before the gas,” a medic speaks up, putting the dots together quickly in her head and turning to Price, brow etched with concern. “There’s a very small possibility he will recover completely, or even to the point of independence.”

Price shared a look with Gaz, then the medics, and finally Laswell again. The words stuck in his chest, resistant to the idea of speaking something into being.

“We might not get Johnny back at all.”

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…soooo :3

TLDR: Makarov has developed a new strain of gas, which he uses to suppress the cognitive reasoning in those that breathe it in, and allows him to train them into his cute lil super soldiers. The reason for the gas masks and everything? The soldier becomes reliant on it, their body adapting to rely on it fully like oxygen, otherwise they feel like they’re suffocating, hence needing to have it everywhere they go.

I know it’s very winter soldier, but to be honest it would make the most sense to me if Soap’s survival becomes canon. It rolls a few pre-MWIII theories into one; Soap ‘dies’ (canon), Soap is the traitor, and Soap is brainwashed by Makarov. It would be so interesting imo, and if they don’t take it I WILL RIOT—

Anywayyyy… I have vague explanations for things, i.e spreading his ashes that could totally work (with a little bit of narrative bending ✨) but I ain’t gonna go into it here and now. I could though…

Also, I know Nova gas isn’t what the gas is called, that it’s a similar thing from a grenade in the game. But fucking sue me, I’m not gonna make Laswell say “he’s developed a new strain of Unspecified Chemical Gas” like it’s some 13 year old’s Garage Band song they forgot about. Chill. It even says on the (totally very reliable) wiki that the closest thing is Nova gas, seeing as it’s the EXACT SAME except players who inhale it don’t cough. Stay back, Call Of Duty purists!! 🤺💨