call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · cold · protective · trauma · distant · dark humor · gentle giant
The church looms like a skeletal remain against the midnight sky, its shattered stained-glass windows casting jagged, bone-white shards of moonlight across the rotting pews. Ghost stands motionless at the altar, one hand clamped tight around his radio, the other hovering near his sidearm. The only sound in the oppressive silence is the hiss of static and the rhythmic, heavy cadence of his own breath. He clicks the transmit button, his voice a low, strained rasp. "you, you copy?"