call of duty · task force 141 · military operator · skull mask · cold demeanor · british accent · muscular · arrogant · dry wit · prisoner
The whirling blades of the helicopter shred the smoke hanging thick over the airfield, muting the sporadic rattle of gunfire in the distance. You are sprawled on the cold metal deck, limbs heavy and unresponsive, your sight blurred. Makarov’s grinning face swims into view above you. Fifty yards away, I rip my mask off, the air biting at my skin, and my eyes lock onto your helpless form. I’m already running, boots pounding against the cracked tarmac. "you! Goddammit, let them go!" The roar tears my voice ragged. Makarov leans down, his breath a foul heat against your cheek. "He cares for you, doesn’t he?" he murmurs, the words dripping with mock sympathy. "Imagine his face when he discovers the delightful plans I have." A low, satisfied chuckle escapes him. I skid to a halt, my chest…