#soaps dossier

[asksoap-mactavish]

17: Someone you miss?

Dae ah only get tae list one person? Ah've got a list, but tha's normal fur someone oot here in th' field ah s'pose.

If ah only get tae pick one? Ma Mam. Ah miss 'er dearly. We call on occasion, 'n' it's nice 'n' all, but s'nae th' same. ye ken?

Hopin' ah get tae heid home fur a wee bit 'n' see her 'n' ma sisters. Two older, one younger. Ah would do anythin' fur th' lot'ae 'em.

[asksoap-mactavish]

28: A description of the person I dislike the most

[Admin: Congratulations, you've unlocked lore.] [Content Warning: very brief civilian casualties and other things you would expect with war/military situations. Description of an active panic attack.] [Read at your own risk.]

Aye, we're goin' there anon? Richt, ah said ah'd dae it. Let's see here... Person ah dislike most.

Cannae say everythin', certain amount'ae intel clearance needed, but ah will give summat.

*He sighs, fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment as he contemplates what he is and isn't allowed to say, rolling his thoughts around in his head like a handful of marbles containing tidbits about the man in his mind*

Nae a short man, th' bastart's decently tall. Somewhere aroond 180cm... (Tha's 5'ft 11"in fur all ye across th' way). He's built like a fockin truck too, as much as ah hate th' focker, he's nae a twiggy punk. If ye ever get close-- which I dunnae reccommend-- yer gonnae notice his mismatched eyes. Pretty sure one'ae 'em is fake. Probably glass... wouldnae put it past th' focker tae be wearin' contacts either though.

*Deciding that's probably all of the physical description he's allowed to say, Soap closes his eyes, trying to focus harder on the thoughts starting to rattle and shudder in his head, still rolling around the path they had carved into his mind. The Scotsman wrinkled his nose in disgust as horrid visions flashed in the back of his head, churning his stomach.*

Ruthless. Nae a drop'ae shame or remorse. Watched th' focker tear through civvies like it wis nothin. Nae everyone can be saved in combat, ye ken.

Sadistic. Tha's another word ah would use. Th' bastart seemed tae relish in th' pain he caused... cannae get it oot'ae ma heid. Tha' fockin grin. Th' laughin'.

*As words and descriptors bounced back and fourth in the confines of his head, Soap's stomach turned and his heartbeat had slowly started pounding. A steady, harsh thumping in his chest that made every breath feel shallow, regardless of how deep it actually was. His throat tightening, straining each breath into a shuddering wheeze. Still, his hands continued tapping away at the keys, disregarding the shaking starting to build in his fingers.*

Cold. Heartless. Calculating. Disloyal. Dishonorable. Inhumane.

*His hands stopped, resting against the keyboard as they shook. His heartbeat erratic in his chest, pounding harshly against his ribcage as if screaming to be let out. A painful banging in his chest, only accentuated by the tightness in his throat that made every breath into a sharp, gasping intake. The thoughts burned into his mind, visions burning into his closed eyes as he froze, hissing through his teeth for a moment before pushing himself away from his desk. Chair rolling across his barracks and bumping into the door with the force of his shove.*

*He takes a moment. A long moment. Eyes closed, head leaned against his palm ad his thumb brushes over the scar on his temple. Riding out the riptide of emotions and memories rumbling through his mind like thunder until eventually his breathing slowed and the tingling static feeling in his hands faded. Soap opened his eyes, reluctantly dragging himself back to his desk to finish answering the ask, since he had already typed so much.*

Tha's a' I'm gonnae say. Ah dunnae ken if ah am alood tae say more.

[asksoap-mactavish]

*The early evening downtime around base is typically pleasantly silent, or at least kept to a low murmur. Tired soldiers typically milling about after a hard day of working and training. Unfortunately today is not like most days. The enjoyable quiet of the common area around the barracks is rather quickly broken by the sound of someone's door slamming open, followed by staggered running steps headed down the hall to the latrines.*

*a half grumbled, half gurgled "move" was all he could muster as he stumbled past someone, practically shoving his way into the restrooms before dropping to his knees beside the latrines and retching. Possibly the first time in nearly eight months that this had happened. Perhaps drinking two entire bottles was overdoing it... Leaving him doubled over, waiting for the next lurch in his stomach.*

A/N: Good morning Sergeant.

[asksoap-mactavish]

*Looking up from his nearly empty bottle of brandy, he slowly tips his head at you before patting the bed beside his desk chair in a welcoming gesture. Any sort of company at this point was welcome, well past the point of his mischievous schenanigains at this point. It seemed there were invisible points along these bottles, at least that's what Soap had begun to think. A point for when it was just enough to mellow the nerves, a point for being a bit childish and causing a little ruckus, and now?? Any feelings or thoughts had started rolling off his tongue without a second thought.*

"Ah think... Ah think ah've had enough..."

*His words somewhat slowed by the drink in his system, the sergeant can't help a little chuckle at himself before slowly pushing the last remaining sips of the bottle away to the other side of his desk against the wall as he turned in his chair to properly face whoever was entering his bunk at such an hour. His dusty blue shirt stained with something that looked like eggs? The flecks of white eggshell clinging to his black joggers made it more obvious that was what the stain was, and it was doubtful he'd recall why or how it got there at this point.*

"So... Whit can ah dae fur ye? S'late ye ken, nae th' time tae be stampin aboot base."

*It had been a while since he'd been drinking this much, perhaps just needing a wind down from all the extra hours he had been putting in. Either way, he looked pitiful as of right now. Those watercolor baby blues focused up at you with a glassy look, one hand resting on his lap while the other was still splayed against his desk, trapping an open notebook beneath his ring and pinkie fingers. Despite it all, the disheveled look, rumpled clothes, and pitiful gaze... He smiled at you with warmth.*

"Amnae gonnae tell though. Seems we're booth up when we shouldnae be, aye?"