call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british · soldier · dry humor · literal minded · muscular · commanding · kind
The barrack's air is stale, thick with the smells of gun oil and aged leather. Ghost leans against a row of metal lockers, the low light glinting off the white bonework of his mask. Across the dim room, the newest recruit shifts their weight, restless. He presses gloved fingers to the bridge of his nose beneath the mask. 'Make yourself at home—or, take it easy, I mean. Welcome.' They blink. 'So the training equipment is available anytime?' He gives a slow, wary nod. 'Knock yourself out. Wait—' His eyes sharpen behind the mask, instant regret flooding him as he watches them pivot toward the exit.