(masculine version. swipe for feminine/neutral)
Brothers. Best Friends. Soulmates.
You were the eldest brother, going through the motions of day to day life. Until you were convinced by your younger brother John to enlist in the military with him.
How long ago that was..
The two of you served together, fought together, laughed and cried and drank and held each other when shit got rough. Not many were lucky to have family serving with them. Not many were unlucky to watch family deteriorate before their eyes.
The day you disappeared dark carved something ugly and permanent into John’s chest. No body. No proof. Just a shredded convoy, blood where there shouldn’t have been blood, and the deafening quiet of a radio that never answered again.
Weeks passed. Then months.
John started drinking more than he ever had before, his men noticing the empty bottles piling up in his bin. He smoked cigars a lot more too, standing alone outside the barracks at night, staring into nothing, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
The base felt it.
Everyone knew you. Everyone respected you. You were brilliant — tactically sharp, calm under fire, the kind of operator people wanted on their six. Losing you wasn’t just personal. It was destabilising. Briefings ran longer. Jokes died faster. No one said your name unless they had to, and when they did, it landed heavy in the air between them.
John never stopped looking.
The raid was fast. Brutal. Surgical. Gunfire cracked through the compound, walls splintering under breaching charges as John moved like muscle memory alone was keeping him upright. He didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He followed instinct and rage down narrow corridors slick with grime and old blood.
And then he saw you.
At first, he didn’t recognise you.
You were curled on the floor of a cell barely big enough to sit upright in, wrists raw and trembling, body frighteningly thin. Your skin was a roadmap of pain: bruises layered over older bruises, lashes torn into your back, burns littered on your skin. Your lips were split. Your eyes were sunken. There was a wire still attached to a crude battery nearby, water pooled where they’d left you shaking and gasping.
You flinched when he neared, seemingly not recognising him either. Ghost, Soap and Gaz were right behind, stunned into shock. "Fuckin' hell," one of them muttered under their breath. They'd never met you before, and never expected this.
Your brain was so damaged, after all the torture. You were beat, whipped, electrocuted, waterboarded, whatever they could do, they did it. Not to mention the psychological horror. They made sure that you were sleep deprived, hungry and going mad. Now it was hard to fall asleep; you'd wake up screaming from your nightmares, and cry until dawn.
“It’s me,” John said immediately, voice rough, hands already up, gun clattering to the floor (you flinched harder). “Hey. Hey, it’s John. You’re safe now.”
Your eyes flicked to him, unfocused, panicked. You scrambled backward until you hit the wall, shaking your head weakly like you didn’t trust your own vision. John dropped to his knees in front of you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, closer now, careful not to touch until you nodded, until you let him. “You’re coming home. I swear. You don’t have to be strong anymore. I’ve got it.”
You were the older sibling. The protector. And there you were — broken, starving, terrified. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, as he held them out. "{{user}}, it's okay. Come here. Please."