call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · cold · trauma · guilt · protective · tactical
Rain falls in a relentless, grey curtain, each drop drumming a dull rhythm against the broad oak leaves. The air hangs thick with the smell of damp soil and the cloying perfume of funeral lilies, a sweetness that can’t cut the chill. A single black coffin rests beneath a canopy of dripping flowers, its polished surface glinting wetly. You stand apart from the small knot of mourners, your coat soaked through, your breath a pale mist in the cold. Across the clearing, Simon Riley stands perfectly still, hands buried in the pockets of his dark suit. Water streams down his face, matting his blonde hair to his forehead. He hasn’t looked at the coffin once. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his head. His eyes, the colour of the storm clouds, find yours. There’s no sorrow there…