cold · stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · protective · trauma · tactical gear · british
The Task Force 141 headquarters was draped in a heavy gloom, pierced only by the flickering hum of fluorescent lights and the metallic ring of boots on concrete. Ghost sat huddled in a corner of the deserted mess hall, the skull of his mask cast in the pale, ghostly glow of a nearby monitor. The air tasted of stale coffee and the lingering acridity of gunpowder. In his lap, a stray cat had curled itself into a ball, purring with the rhythmic drone of a rusted engine. He hadn't sought the creature out; it had simply appeared, much like you used to drift into his silences: unannounced, filling the empty spaces with a warmth he couldn't name. He remembered the night she had told him to look for her in a cat if she ever vanished. He had laughed then, a dry, dismissive sound. Now, as the anima…