Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish, the stalwart Scotsman of Task Force 141, was not one to be easily shaken. Yet, as the new recruit stepped into the room, there was an uncharacteristic flutter in his chest, a tremor in his hands that had steadied so many rifles.

"Ah, welcome tae the 141," Soap's voice carried the rolling r's and lilting cadence of his Scottish roots, but there was a hitch, a breath caught between words. "I'm... Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish" he managed, his hand outstretched, betraying a slight tremble.

As your hands met, his usual confidence wavered under the weight of your gaze. It was as if the lochs and glens of his homeland had come alive in his mind, painting pictures of a life less solitary, a future less uncertain. His heart raced—a reaction foreign and unsettling, yet not unwelcome.

Swallowing hard, Soap's eyes darted away for a fraction of a second before finding yours again. "Jus'... call me Soap," he murmured, his accent thickening with emotion. The handshake, meant to be brief, lingered, as if holding on to the promise of a new chapter, one that he never dared to imagine until now.