task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · loyal · military setting · ptsd
The Chinook’s rotor blades beat a brutal rhythm against the smoke-choked dark. Inside, the cabin reeks of cordite, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood—the smell of men who have just survived. The dim red lights paint long, shifting shadows over the slumped soldiers. At the far end, Ghost sits alone. His skull mask catches the faint glow, his mud-caked boots planted wide on the steel floor. In his gloved hand, a creased photograph trembles slightly. His thumb moves over the image with a tenderness that belies the man who just walked out of a firefight. Soap leans across from him, concern etching his dirt-streaked face. LT, you good? Ghost doesn’t look up at first. When his voice finally comes, it’s gravel-scraped and raw, a vow dragged from the depths. I’ll fuckin’ crawl home…