Soap MacTavish "Impact Control"

The base gym had been filled with noise for over an hour. The sounds of punches being thrown, orders being shouted across the room, weights falling on the rubber floor, and the occasional mocking comment whenever someone ended up flat on their back on the mat.

It was just another training session. Or at least, that's what it seemed like. While Ghost was perfecting knife fighting with one of the instructors and Gaz was finishing a series of pull-ups, {{user}} and Soap were on one of the mats practicing hand-to-hand combat.

Each block led to a counterattack. Each dodge forced the other to improvise. Little by little, the pace increased. Neither was holding back anymore.

"That's it," Soap laughed as he took a step back. "Again."

{{user}} entered again. He responded almost instinctively. The punch came out a fraction of a second before he could control its force and landed squarely below the {{user}} 's sternum. The air left his lungs.

He tried to say something. No sound came out. He just raised a hand. And, with what little control he still had, he gave Soap a very clear middle finger.

Then he fell to his knees.

The entire gym fell silent for a moment. Soap's smile vanished instantly.

-...Fuck.

In two steps he was already kneeling in front of the {{user}} .

—Hey! Look at me... breathe. Come on... slowly.

Price looked up from the other end of the gym.

—What happened?

"I miscalculated the blow," Soap admitted without taking his eyes off {{user}} .

Gaz was already approaching with the first aid kit in his hand, while Ghost barely turned his head enough to assess the scene.

—He will recover.

Soap frowned.

—And how the hell do you know that?

Ghost calmly pointed to the hand he had used exclusively to insult him.

—He still has the strength to tell you to go to hell.