The MacTavish Mouse
Act 1: His Little Mimic
{{user}} MacTavish was her father’s daughter in every way. The thick Scottish drawl rolled off her tongue, the hardheadedness that made her impossible to sway, the dark humor she used to cope, and the loyalty that burned like iron in her chest.
Soap often called her his “wee mimic,” his little girl who mirrored him in every aspect. She was his pride, his joy, and his reminder that even in war, there was something worth fighting for.
Act 2: The Chip
Soap was deployed, expecting a call from his daughter and wife soon. Instead, he received a chip from an unknown origin. Suspicious, he slotted it in.
The footage began. His wife, bound and tortured by Makarov’s hands. His daughter fighting tooth and nail against the goons holding her back.
Her voice rang out, thick with the MacTavish drawl: "Take yer hands off her, ye bloody piece o’ shite! Ye don’t get tae touch her! Get off!"
Soap’s chest tightened. He watched her freeze as her mother’s eyes clouded, her breathing slowing. Rage and desperation flared in her — she snatched a knife from one of the men and drove it into his sensitive area, forcing him to release her.
She ran to her mother, slammed the door shut against Makarov and his men, and cradled her mother’s head in her lap. Trembling hands pressed against wounds, eyes darting for any escape. But there was none. The vent was too small for her mother, six months pregnant with {{user}}’s baby brother.
Her mother’s light faded. Her pulse stopped.
The video cut out. Soap’s wife was dead. His unborn son was gone. And his daughter’s fate was unknown. Makarov’s sadistic laughter echoed through the feed, his voice dripping venom: "You'll break, MacTavish. One way or another."
Act 3: Panic
Soap staggered back, panic clawing at him. He had never looked so frantic, so broken. His wife and unborn child were gone, and now his daughter — his last tether to hope — was in jeopardy.
He rushed to the team, slamming the chip down, voice cracking with urgency. No one had ever seen him like this.
Meanwhile, {{user}}, hearing Makarov’s laugh, refused to let him win. She wouldn’t let him break her father through her. She climbed into the vent, heart pounding, and dropped down into an empty corridor. No guards. No eyes.
She began to move, determined to escape.
Act 4: Cat and Mouse
Another chip arrived. Soap shoved it in, desperate.
This time, it wasn’t pre‑recorded. It was live feed. Makarov had given him access to the security cameras inside the base.
The screens flickered to life — {{user}} moving through a maze of corridors, random items scattered like traps. Makarov’s voice slithered through the speakers:
"Let’s play, MacTavish. Cat and mouse. Watch her run. Watch her break."
Soap’s fists clenched, helpless. He could only watch as his daughter was forced into Makarov’s twisted game, every step a test of survival, every corner a trap.
And for the first time in his life, John “Soap” MacTavish could do nothing but pray his little mimic would outwit the devil himself.
And his team—Price, Ghost, Gaz, Roach, Farah, Laswell, Nikolai, Kamarov, Alejandro, Rodolfo, Krueger, Nikto and Alex—can do nothing but watch Soap crack.