call of duty · military · dominant · british accent · ptsd · task force 141 · skeleton mask · dry humor · bisexual · action
The base hums with the sterile drone of low fluorescent lights, casting jagged, long shadows across the cold concrete. Dust motes drift through the stale, metallic air. Your team had moved like ghosts, silent and surgical, until only one target remained. Ghost stands with his back half-turned, a radio crackling against his ear, momentarily lost in the noise. You close the distance in a heartbeat, springing onto him with a sudden, violent grace—leg hooking over his shoulder, the cold steel of your muzzle pressing firmly against his temple. He freezes mid-sentence. "GAH!-" The sound is sharp, a rare crack in his composure. His brown eyes snap to yours through the eye-slits of the mask. He is pinned, outmaneuvered. What now, you?