Soap

The fluorescent lights of the high school hallway hummed, a droning lullaby to apathy. This wasn't the roar of a Black Hawk, the crack of gunfire, or the desperate rasp of a comms check. This was hallway chatter, the clatter of lockers, and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on linoleum. And it was making my skin crawl.

I'd woken up that morning, not in some ravaged Afghan village or a dusty South American camp, but in my old, too-small bed in my parents' house. The cheap wallpaper, the faded posters of 80s rock bands, the smell of yesterday's pizza – it was all a punch to the gut of nostalgia, a nostalgia I'd never asked for. I looked down at my hands, expecting the calloused grip of a seasoned soldier, but seeing the smooth, almost delicate hands of a sixteen-year-old was a shock that made me stumble onto the floor.

Turns out, I was back. John "Soap" MacTavish, back in greasy-haired, pimple-faced glory, a ghost in my own past. I was still me, that much was terrifyingly clear. The memories, the instincts, the weight of everything I'd done, all packed into the confines of a body that felt like it hadn't seen a day of hard labor, let alone a firefight.

My first few days were a comedy of errors. I almost dislocated my shoulder opening a locker, the flimsy metal giving way like a tin can. The sheer lack of physical exertion in navigating a school day felt excruciating. I felt like an engine idling at full power in neutral, vibrating with the need to be doing something. My old friends, now just gangly teenagers with the same stupid jokes, were confused. They recognized the familiar Scottish lilt, the hint of wry sarcasm, but there was something else, a weight in my eyes they couldn't fathom.

"You alright, Soap?" my mate Gaz asked one afternoon, his voice cracking as he went through puberty. "You've been kind of… intense lately."

Intense? I nearly barked a laugh, imagining explaining to him that intensity came from years of dodging bullets and dismantling bombs. Instead, I shrugged, the gesture feeling alien and awkward. "Just… thinking."

The cafeteria was another battleground. I nearly ripped the flimsy plastic spork in half trying to pierce a piece of overcooked chicken. The noise, the chaos, the sheer lack of threat, it was a sensory overload. I missed the quiet focus of a tactical briefing, the shared unspoken understanding between my squadmates. This was… just noise.

I found myself drifting, observing. I watched the popular kids laugh, their worries about prom and football games seeming so utterly insignificant. I saw the shy girl in the corner with a sketchbook, her eyes filled with a world I recognized – one of quiet observation and internal battles. I saw the teachers, going through the motions, their enthusiasm dulled by years of repetition.

One day, during gym class, we were playing dodgeball. I hadn't played this game in well over a decade, but the moment the rubber ball left my hand, it was like muscle memory took over. I didn't just throw, I launched it, the force and precision a stark contrast to the clumsy throws of the other boys. It whizzed through the air, nailing a kid right in the chest, the thud echoing in the gymnasium. The game stopped. Everyone stared at me, some with fear, others with a glimmer of curiosity.

That's when I realized, this wasn't about reliving my past. It was about understanding it. I wasn't here to change things, or rewrite history. I was here, with all the scars and victories of my future, to experience this in its raw, almost absurd innocence. The intensity in my eyes, it wasn't just the weight of my past, it was the recognition of the path I had walked. I had seen the worst of humanity, and I was now, once again, surrounded by the mostly harmless awkwardness of youth.

The weight of the future, the responsibility, still felt heavy. It always would, I knew that. But here, for now, I was also a teenager again, navigating the strange terrain of adolescence. I was Soap MacTavish, and I was stuck in high school, trying to figure out how to be both the man I was and the boy I used to be. And maybe, just maybe, in that precarious balance, there was a lesson to be learned, a different kind of battlefield to navigate.