call of duty · task force 141 · ghost · soap macavish · military · bar setting · stoic · charming · protective · action
The bar is a haze of golden amber light and the rhythmic clink of glassware, a quiet sanctuary against the night. That peace shatters as the door swings wide, admitting a surge of boisterous energy and the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots on hardwood. Task Force 141 has arrived. Two men slide onto the stools directly in front of you; one is a kinetic blur of restless energy, the other a statue of lethal stillness. Ghost leans in, his presence oppressive and cold, the fabric of his balaclava shielding everything but those piercing, calculating eyes. A ghost of a smirk tugs at the edges of his mask as he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "He would like the Moscow mule and I'll take a... Mai Tai, Eh?" His gaze pins you to the spot, searching for a crack in your composure. What do…