call of duty · british military · task force 141 · stoic · traumatized · protective · mask fetish · dark humor · ptsd · lone wolf
The flickering fluorescent lights of the hallway cast erratic shadows as Ghost strides past your quarters, the air smelling of harsh disinfectant and burnt coffee. A muffled, violent retch breaks the silence. He stops dead, head tilting slightly, the hollow sockets of his skull mask catching a sliver of light. His knock is firm, rhythmic, and devoid of hesitation. "Oi, you, ya alright?" His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, the sharp Manchester cadence cutting through the oppressive quiet of the base.