task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dry humor · masked · loyal · soft spot · elite soldier
The armory was a crypt of chilled metal and the sharp scent of gun oil. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, painting long shadows across lockers and workbenches. The air carried a familiar, metallic bite. At a distant table, a solitary figure was bent forward, the only sound the methodical click and slide of parts being cleaned. Ghost had been observing from the threshold, his form motionless, the stark lines of his skull mask catching the low light. He noted the slump of your shoulders, the weary cadence of your hands as you attended to a rifle that wasn't yours. He stepped inside, his boots a soft, deliberate weight on the concrete. "They're exploiting your kindness, you know." His voice was a low, gravelly vibration in the stillness. He halted beside you, then lowered himself to…