Johny 'Soap' Mactavish doesn't consider himself a religious man. He does admit that greater powers are at work, such as what's with the Belkan and their ridiculous rise to prominence, but he does not stick himself to religion. It's not because Soap dislikes going to church, no. He can't imagine himself praying with how brash and hothead he is, always more willing to stick to his guns than with words and prayers. Nevertheless, with how his life career has pushed him down a hopeless path these days, Soap is starting to question his life choices.

"God is real, huh?!" Soap asks sarcastically amidst a hail of bullets going over his head and hitting the machine gun position on the upper floor. The man is crouching behind a thick pillar on the lower floor, unwilling to poke out due to the Belkans' suppressive fire. "Is this payback for all the time I was a heathen, good sir!?"

When the Belkans' suppressive fire ceases, Soap peaks out of the pillar while bracing his Lee-Endfield against it. From his position, Soap can look through a set of broken windows and bullet-ridden curtains to see an advancing formation of Belkan soldiers.

"I got exploded! I crawled through literal shit!" Soap aligns the gun sight on one of the Belkan soldiers providing covering fire for his fellows. "I thought I could ride home and rest but fuck me sideways, eh!?"

Pulling the trigger, Soap sends a bullet that strikes true in the middle of the Belkan machine gunner's vest, sending the female soldier crashing backward. Yet, as if laughing at Soap well-placed shot, the Belkan casualty is clearly still alive with how she's still moving by that center-mass shot and no blood. She is swiftly pulled back into cover by her ally while Soap's position is immediately beset with righteous Belkan indignation. Going prone and rolling away from the barrage of bullets just in time, Soap curses.

"Oh, come the bloody fuck on! What are these wankers made out of!"

That was the third accurate shot that Soap took with his rifle. Yet, much like the prior two shots, the Belkan recipients survived and were quick to be rescued by their teammates. Since there was little to no blood coming out of their supposed wounds, they were probably still alive and kicking Erusean butts.

It isn't just Soap who notices and complains about how these Belkan soldiers are so hard to kill. Others in his ragtag group of infantries, survivors in actuality as their commanding officers are either KIA or MIA, have noticed how there are much too few Belkan corpses in the city. Everywhere, Eruseans and Ustian Loyalists are bleeding out in the streets and buildings while one can barely see a few of the Belkans lying about. This causes a not insignificant number of them to start thinking that perhaps the Belkans are unkillable as the damage speaks for itself. It would seem that to inflict one Belkan casualty, they must exchange it for ten or even twenty of their own. This is a thought that has Soap questioning whether or not this is all worth it. Erusea coming to mainland Europe has been the single most stupid decision the entire country has ever undertaken. And if Soap can survive this miraculously, then by the Heaven above he will convert into a bloody religion, somewhere... Anywhere but Dunkirk is preferable if that is even possible. Anyway, that's a thing for future Soap to worry about, if there's even a future left for him.

Crawling himself to a set of stairs that is out of sight for the Belkan and is somewhat protected by a thick outer wall of the building they're in, Soap allows himself to crouch and ascend the stairs. Reaching the top floor of the building, which is also the place where the MG team is stationed, Soap shouts into one of the rooms facing an intersection.

"Oi! You doofus still alive in there!?"

"Barely!" Comes a Private who suddenly finds himself being the Chief Gunner for their Vicker Medium Machine Gun when the last one dies. "We're still in somewhat whole blocks of meat so I'll take that as a bloody blessing, mate!"

Soap peaks in, being very careful not to expose his body to the Belkan's line of fire. Inside the room, Soap sees that the walls are made into a beehive, with dim lights shining through holes and illuminating the polluting particles in the air. Hiding behind a pile of rubbles that used to form what was the building's roof, the machine gun team is too scared to poke their heads out in fear of being sniped.

"Blood Hell, lads," Soap comments dryly, looking at the three men team that looks so done with life. "you all look like beaten shits."

One of them deadpans while reaffixing the bandage on his left arm. "You think?"

The Private from before then points at the Vicker machine gun, resting next to the team's prone forms. "The water jacket got shot up so the bloody thing is now an air-cooled gun. Hell, it even lost one of the legs of its tripod! We'll have to wait for it to cool off before using it without the barrel bursting. Even then, we need to make-believe that the whole thing is now a bipod machine gun. Worse comes to worst, we remove the legs and brace the whole gun on the ruble. Someone else needs to down the gun with their hands while I am firing, just so that the whole thing doesn't buckle and spray us with lead."

"Don't count me on volunteering." Soap smirks before asking. "You lads need ammo then? Better resupply now while you still can."

The Private shakes his head. "We still have four full boxes ready. If we run dry with that much ammo on hand, I don't think having anymore will make much of a difference. Especially when I am legging the Vicker as is."

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"True that." Soap shrugs. "Anyway, I gotta check on the lower floor before they all decide to go ball without us."

"Good luck, Sir." The Private and the rest of his makeshift team give Soap their blessing.

The man laughs before replying. "Knowing what sorts of shenanigans I've been throwing myself into, despite the doctor's order even, I think I will need that luck, chaps." Without further words, Soap descends the stairs, leaving the MG team to their own effort and contribution to this losing fight.

After having their last leading officer sniped from who-knows-where, Soap became the de-facto leader of this group of miserable young men despite only just joining them from his tenure in the hospital. Despite being advised to take the humanitarian corridor out with Doctor Stronoff, Soap opted to once again jump into the fire, knowing that others like him were unwilling to give up everything and surrender or run away. It was Soap's manly spirit that bolstered the spirit of these young lads, consisting of rookies from the Regular Army and scattered remnants from the Territorials, and turned them into somewhat of a normal fighting force under his command. Knowing how inexperienced, cruel, and chaotic the battlefield can be, Soap opts to organize them into teams and cells with specific purposes.

The MG team on the top floor is one of the small units in charge of keeping the Belkans at bay. Others are specialized in things like sharpshooting and field treatments. Their specializations depend on their inherent skill sets, personalities, and how brave they are... Soap basically went with his guts and dedication ability to pick the people for the right job, all the while hammering the fact they can surrender and use the humanitarian corridor into their heads. As much as Soap is willing to stage a good last stand, he doesn't want to waste the lives of the boys who have willingly entrusted themselves to his hands.

Soap is shaken out of his mulling when the whole building shakes constantly. Dirt and debris fall down from the ceiling while the stairs crack and wobble just enough for the man to miss his steps. Falling the last few flights of stairs, Soap his head on the bottom floor just hard enough to see stars. In a daze, Soap feels is dragged by the shoulders behind some cover as dust and matter fall onto his face.

Soap curses as he feels his head ringing with tinnitus and migraine. "Fuck...!"

With a bit of struggle and help from one of the soldiers under his command, Soap sits up. A recently appointed medic rushes over after taking care of their casualties. "Hold still, sir! You got a nasty cut behind your head!"

"Old news! What of it!" Soap grunts but nonetheless lets the medic hastily wrap a slightly brown strip of white tablecloth over his head. "What in the bloody Hell just hit us? Anyone knows!?"

"Sir! Enemy armor! Two of them, by the main street!" A soldier rushes into the medical room, which is basically a converted storage of this building complex. "They hit the upper floors, sir! P-Private Hardy and his team are... They're gone!"

"Hardy...?" Soap fights through the migraine, only to finally lean his bandaged head onto a rundown, coffee-brown wall that has blood splattered onto it.

Private Hardy and two others were a part of the same machine gun team he just talked with. Now... Now, they're probably in pieces as the Belkan stops playing nice and brings out the big guns.

"They were good ones too..." Soap comments and offering a few moments of silence despite bullets impacting their building as the Belkan soldiers advance with their tanks.

Ultimately, Soap looks at the soldier that ran into to report the morale plummeting news. As their losses have mounted up to an unbearable level, Soap thinks that it's high time they pull out.

"Kimble, right? Do we still have a bullet for that Boys rifle?"

The soldier, Kimble, nods. "We still have enough for two magazines, Ssir."

"I will only need one." Soap grunts while standing up with the help of the medic. "Pass the words that we will pull out using the back alley's sewage system. Have that Ustian in the back leads us to General Franklyn's position. There, we will determine whether or not to put down our arms. Three lives are already too many for all of us right now."

"Yes, Sir. What about you?"

Soap cracks his knuckles. "As for me... Take me to the Boys."

"Right this way, Sir." Kimble proceeds to lead Soap out of the medical room while others start packing up.

Ultimately, they arrive in a guest room of sorts with a Corporal trying to reload a Boys anti-tank rifle with an injured and bleeding hand. Waving the injured Corporal away for treatment and evacuation, Soap takes charge of the Boys rifle and adeptly loads and chambers a .55 caliber round. After that, Soap brings the Boys out of the guest room and positions it inside a hallway where Erusean soldiers are swiftly making their runs to the back. The AT rifle is lowered down onto the ground on its built-in support and peering through a small hole in the wall that has a view of the Belkan-infested road.

Kimble gulps, crouching by Soap's side in case the man needs help. "You sure this is wise, Sir?"

Soap dryly answers while lining up the ironsight. "If even a 2-pounder couldn't scratch the paint job of those tanks, then what chance does this rifle even have, lad? No. What the Boys is only good for buying time by getting a mobility kill."

Getting a good sight picture, Soap calms his breathing. "We need time to evacuate. If I don't stop those tanks here, we will be fishes in the barrel unless we somehow get the white flag flying before they blast us apart. And I don't fancy being blown to experience what Hardy must have felt up there..."

And with that, Soap squeezes the trigger. The Boys booms and the shockwave of the .55 caliber projectile propelling itself batter Soap and Kimble painfully. Yet, thanks to an expert aim and at a close distance, the heavy projectile tears through the air and bites deep into the right set of tracks of the leading Belkan tank. The kinetic force proves to be enough to tear apart the track and bite into the drive sprocket of the vehicle, thus disabling the mobility of the tank as it veers to the right side and nearly crashes into a lamp post. Ultimately, the whole Belkan formation halts in alarm turns their weapon back at their building, and fires in retaliation. Out of view for Soap, Belkan soldiers are also flanking their holdout and steadily closing in on them to initiate close combat.

Soap earned his wish to stop the tank. Now if only he could get out of this mess, preferably alive.