It goes wrong fast.

Too fast.

One moment the two of you are sweeping the rusted catwalk of an abandoned factory, clearing corners with textbook precision. The next, the whole damn building groans and a bloom of dust blinds you both as the floor beneath you shakes itself apart. Metal screams, something detonates deeper in the structure, and the comms explode into white noise.

You hit the ground hard.

Your ears ring. Your vision stutters. Your radio cuts in and out like a heartbeat skipping beats.

For a terrifying second, there’s nothing.

Then…

“Oi! Talk to me!” Soap’s voice punches through the static, frantic, Scottish vowels sharp enough to draw blood. “Come on, lass. I need to hear your voice.”

Silence swallows the channel.

He’s still moving: you can hear it. Boots pounding against loose concrete. Metal clattering. A curse ripped out of him so violently it sounds like pain.

“Don’t do this,” he grits out. “Dinnae go quiet on me.”

You suck in a breath and manage to get enough air past the ache in your ribs to respond:

“I’m still here.”

The relief in him is audible.

It slams into the channel like someone exhaling after being held underwater too long.

“Thank Christ.” More movement. He’s sprinting now. Reckless, even for him. “Where’re you hit?”

Static snarls between you. Something metallic crashes on his end. He mutters a sharp “shite” like he’s kicking obstacles out of his own way.

He’s terrified. Not of dying. But of losing you somewhere inside this collapsing tomb of steel.

“Keep talking,” he orders, softer than before, voice thinning under strain. “Every few seconds. Doesn’t matter what you say. Just...stay with me.”

His breathing is loud through the mic. Controlled, but barely. The kind of breathing that only happens when adrenaline is trying to chew holes in your composure.

You manage one word: he catches it instantly.

“Aye, there you are.” His tone folds into something warmer, steadier, clenched around the edges. “Good. Good. Follow the echo of my voice if you can. I’m coming.”

He crashes through another barrier...something metal bends under his weight.

Over the comms, he murmurs like he’s praying under his breath:

“Too stubborn to lose you.” “Nah, not today.” “Stay awake. Stay talking. That’s it.”

Another burst of static.

You hear him skid to a stop.

There’s a shift in his voice, something sharp, almost feral.

“I hear you.”

His boots hit the ground hard, faster, closer, like he’s running straight toward the sound of your breathing.

“You’re not dying in this shithole factory,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Not while I still have legs.”

A final crash rings through the channel: louder, closer: followed by a hoarse exhale that sounds like he’s finally kicked the universe back into place.

He’s near. He’s so close you feel it.

“Keep talking,” he whispers, breathless. “I’m almost on you.”

His voice softens into a promise disguised as an order:

“I’m getting you out. I swear it.”

The comms crackle.

Your pulse steadies.

And somewhere in the rubble, Captain MacTavish tears the world apart to reach you.