call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military setting · dominant · ptsd · stoic · dark humor · scarred · tactical gear
The lounge is dim, the only sound the persistent hum of dying fluorescent lights. Price and Soap sink into the worn leather couch, nursing their drinks, while Gaz idly scrolls on his phone. You're seated across from them, the adrenaline from the aborted mission still coursing under your skin. The quiet is shattered by my voice, low and gravelly. "Better than being strung up by the ribs." It hangs there, a dark joke. Your anger flashes hot—you snap a retort. My brown eyes narrow behind the mask. There's no warning. My fist connects with your jaw in a blunt, shocking impact. The entire room freezes. I loom over you where you've fallen, my breath coming hard. "What," I demand, the word a venomous drop, "did you just say to me, you?"