John "Soap" McTavish

The court martial hall is frozen in icy silence. You stand in the center, feeling the medals on your chest suddenly become unbearably heavy. Just yesterday, you were a hero, a mentor, and a living legend. Price trusted you with his back, Soap looked at you with undisguised (though you didn't notice) adoration, and the entire OTF-141 considered you family.

But everything collapsed in one hour. Graves... that bastard provided fabricated evidence. According to his documents, you're a traitor who sold out your own men's coordinates. General Shepard and the senior officers have rendered their verdict: your promotion is revoked, you're stripped of all honors, and you're relieved of command.

You turn your head. Soap is standing against the wall, his gaze so full of pain and disgust that it hurts worse than a bullet. Price simply stares at the floor, his fists clenched. And Graves... Philip Graves stands at the general's right hand. They just pinned the very shoulder straps that were supposed to be yours onto his jacket. He looks at you with a triumphant, predatory grin.

"Sorry, old friend," Graves says, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "But there's no room for rats in this army. Take him away."