Inspired by: @mitrielle / mitrielle.tumblr.com

The salty wind whipping off the Scottish loch usually bit right to the bone, but today, Simon felt like he was standing directly inside a blast furnace. He stood at the end of the weathered wooden pier, stripped to the waist, his massive, muscular frame radiating literal heat. His upper body, thick arms, and the back of his neck were painted an angry, blazing, lobster-red. It was the kind of vicious sunburn that only a seasoned soldier, too proud or too stupid to pack SPF 50, could manage during a rare, blindingly cloudless afternoon in the Highlands.

Sharp, pale white lines cut across his skin crisp cartography mapping out where his tactical belt and trousers had protected him before he finally stripped off the heavy gear. On his left arm, a sprawling, intricate sleeve of gothic skulls and skeletal motifs writhed against the fiery red background, looking even more menacing framed by the burn.

With a sharp hiss of discomfort, Simon gripped the thick rubber of his dark wetsuit, hauling it down past his hips. The neoprene rasped against his blistered shoulders, making him grit his teeth beneath the black balaklava that hugged his head. The integrated tactical goggles concealed his eyes, leaving only his tight jaw and the stubborn set of his mouth visible to the world.

Behind him, bobbing gently on the glittering, ice-cold water, sat a dark Zodiac inflatable, its rubber hull squeaking softly against the wooden pilings. Beyond the loch, the ancient, jagged peaks of the Scottish mountains rose sharply into a pale, blinding sky.

From somewhere near the rusted winch at the edge of the pier, a familiar, exasperated voice broke through the whistling wind. A hand-drawn speech bubble seemed to hover in the air near his head, sketched with the kind of hurried impatience only Soap could muster. Inside it, a crude little drawing of a squashed cream tube and a bar of soap accompanied the words:

"Fucks sake, Si... you're glowing in the bloody dark. Get the lotion and the soap, before ye turn into a bloody crisp, mate."

Simon didn't turn around. He just pulled the wetsuit down a little further, wincing as the cool air hit his scorching skin, and muttered a dark Scottish curse at the sun.