No going back, Part two.
⋆·˚ ༘*🔭 In which a call is way more concerning than it seemed.⋆·˚ *🔭
Warnings *ੈ✩‧₊˚ - Blood, fighting, arguments, framing, crying, torture, taskforce 141 being mean, angst, some comfort? Tell me if I forgot some!
Call of duty taskforce 141 x reader.
HI Everyone! How are y'all? I have finished part two, please give me some ideas on how this story should end! I hope y'all enjoyed thisssssss :)
For the past twenty-four hours, all you had felt was pure, unrelenting agony. The pain was a maddening blend of physical and mental torment, twisting and gnawing at every last shred of your will. That you’d managed to stay awake for the last day surprised even you.
It was a cruel sort of perseverance, one that left you teetering on the edge of reason. Blinking with the only eye that wasn’t swollen shut, you cast your gaze downward, focusing on your lap, on the wreckage of yourself.
Blood. It was everywhere.
The white shirt you had pulled on that morning—clean and bright—was now drenched in crimson. No trace of its original color remained. Your jeans, once a comfortable faded blue, had turned so dark with blood they now looked black. The sticky warmth clung to you, soaking your skin, seeping into every fiber, until it felt like even your soul might be bleeding out.
The sheer amount of blood you’d lost was staggering, and yet here you were, somehow still breathing. Not for much longer, though.
A bitter laugh—if it could even be called that—escaped your lips, gurgling through the blood pooling in your throat. So this was how it would end, not in some grand act of heroism, not even in a blaze of reckless glory, but here, like this. Alone, bleeding out.
No, not alone.
Your gaze shifted upwards, slow and heavy, and there he was. Jho—no, Soap.
You refused to call them by their real names anymore. It made it easier that way. At least, you told yourself it did. Calling him “Soap” put distance between you, a barrier against the raw, aching betrayal that carved deeper wounds than any knife ever could.
He stood a few feet away, his posture tense, shoulders hunched like a man carrying the weight of the world. Or maybe the weight of what he’d done. Of what they had all done.
Out of all of them, Soap had come the farthest while trying to avoid hurting you. His blows landed softer, his hands hesitated. But it wasn’t mercy—not really. Even now, he looked like he was barely holding himself together, struggling against the very actions he had chosen to take. And yet, despite his visible anguish, he had still done it.
He had crossed a line that no amount of guilt could erase.
Soap had always been an open book. Honest to a fault, with a heart that wore its emotions like a badge. You used to admire that about him, the way he seemed to carry a soul so full of light and warmth, even in the darkest places. But now? Now you hated him for it. Because it made this worse. It made him harder to hate in the way you needed to, and yet you hated him all the same.
You never thought you’d feel that way about him. The Scott who could make anyone laugh, who could turn the worst of days into something almost bearable. But he wasn’t that person anymore—not to you. He had become something else, someone who had carved pain into your body and left you drowning in it.
And yet, there was no mistaking the anguish on his face now. His brows were furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. The faint tremor in his hands was just visible, even as he tried to hide it by clenching them into fists. He looked at you as though he might shatter under the weight of it all, but you refused to let it move you. Refused to let that flicker of humanity sway you.
Because no matter how much it hurt him to do this, it had hurt you more.
“I hope it was worth it,” you croaked, your voice barely more than a wet rasp. The words sliced through the heavy silence between you, and for the first time, Soap flinched.
Good, you thought. Let him feel it. Let him carry this.
And yet, even as the hatred burned brightly within you, a part of you—the part you hated most—couldn’t help but mourn the loss of who he used to be. Of who you both used to be.
The door creaked open, and you flinched, your entire body tensing. Gaz entered the room, his presence suffocating, his footsteps heavy with purpose. A shiver of dread rippled through you.
Soap had guilt written all over his face, but Gaz wore his emotions differently—his anger burned hot and wild. And his anger was strong. He had done almost as much damage as Ghost, and it showed in the way he looked at you now.
"Stop trying to guilt him," Gaz spat, his tone sharp and biting. "You’re the one who decided to be Makarov’s bitch."
The words stung, sharp as a knife, but you forced yourself to look at him, even as your chest tightened.
"You’re still stuck on that," you rasped, your voice weak and uneven.
The effort of speaking tore at your throat, and a coughing fit escaped you, bringing blood up with it. You turned your head, spitting it onto the floor, crimson droplets against the cold, gray cement. When you continued, your voice was quieter but steady.
"I am not the one who did it—"
Before you could finish, his fist connected with your face. The impact was brutal, sending you and the chair toppling to the ground. Your head slammed into the floor, pain radiating through your skull. The chair beneath you cracked, its jagged edges pressing painfully into your side.
You groaned, the sound barely escaping your lips. Your vision blurred as tears and blood mixed together, and for a moment, all you could do was lie there, breathing heavily.
Panic clawed at your throat, threatening to take over, but you forced it down. You can’t panic. Not now. Not here.
Gaz crouched beside you, his light eyes blazing with fury. His jaw was tight, his breathing harsh. He slapped your cheek hard enough to sting, forcing your eye open.
"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and venomous.
You did. Slowly, your one good eye fluttered open, your gaze locking with his.
For a moment, something shifted. His expression froze, the rage faltering. Your eye—your only remaining window to the world—looked dead.
The spark, the fight, the defiance that used to burn so brightly was gone. Completely. Utterly. Gone.
You were gone.
That single moment of eye contact hit him like a punch to the gut.
His anger didn’t vanish, but it cracked, if only slightly.
You could see it in the way his jaw slackened for a split second, the way his breath hitched.
He rose abruptly, towering over you as his fists clenched at his sides. His anger returned, shielding him from whatever emotions had started to surface. Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out, Soap following him, the door slamming shut behind them.
You lay there for a long moment, your body broken, blood pooling beneath you. Every breath was a struggle, every second dragged like an eternity.
But it wasn’t the physical pain that consumed you. It was the mental.
Closing your eye, you let the pain and exhaustion consume you.
＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚
The sudden yelling jolted you awake, pulling you from the edge of unconsciousness. A female voice cut through the haze, sharp and desperate, and it was getting closer to where your body lay in a pool of your own blood on the cold, unforgiving floor.
You felt hands on you, hurried and frantic, as the restraints holding you down were pulled away. A firm grip steadied your limp form, propping you up against a warm body.
“Sweetheart! Wake up! C’mon! CALL THE FUCKING MEDICS!”
The voice was familiar, laced with authority and a kind of raw emotion you weren’t used to hearing from her. Laswell. It was Laswell.
Creaking your eye open, you caught sight of her blonde hair, disheveled and wild.
Her face was a mixture of fury and something else—fear, maybe? You couldn’t tell.
A faint smile pulled at your cracked lips, though it didn’t reach your eyes. It was all you could manage, a fleeting gesture that likely did nothing to ease her panic.
“HOW COULD YOU? UNDER WHAT PROOF?”
Laswell’s voice rose again, trembling with rage as she turned her fury elsewhere.
“I AM THE ONE WHO MAKES THESE DECISIONS. YOU HAVE NO INTEL, NO RIGHT, NO FUCKING SKILL TO DETERMINE WHO THE TRAITOR IS! AND IF YOU DO YOU REPORT TO ME!”
You blinked sluggishly, your mind struggling to keep up.
It took you a moment to figure out who she was yelling at, but then you heard the sound of boots scuffing against the floor. More feet entering the room.
A few sharp gasps followed as they took in the sight of you, and you could imagine why. You probably looked as close to death as anyone could without actually crossing over.
Laswell’s grip on you loosened, her touch lingering for a moment before she let go.
You felt other hands now—gentler, quicker. The medics.
The cool sting of antiseptic, the pinch of needles, and muffled voices surrounded you as they worked.
You couldn’t hold on anymore.
The weight of it all—pain, exhaustion, betrayal—dragged you down. Your good eye fluttered closed, the world fading into darkness once more.
And this time, you didn’t fight it. You went limp.
＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚
holy shit, I loved this, I hope u too?????? Ily all thank y'all so much for the kind comments y'all deserve the world!
Tag list＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚ -> @gaiagurl05 @msjaeger @notsochillnerd @cocklivers @sensiblesomething
