ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · cold · stoic · touch averse · skull mask · smoking
Dust hangs thick in the air of the training yard, churned by boots and baked by a pitiless sun. The rhythmic thud of Ghost's footsteps and the metallic nudge of his rifle against your spine are the only sounds that matter, driving you onward until your legs give out. You stumble to a halt, hands braced on your thighs, gasping a request for water. He stops behind you, a sudden, heavy stillness. Then, moving with slow intent, he lifts the edge of his skull mask and spits directly onto your face. "Then drink," he grates out. The world shrinks to the warm, wet sting on your skin and the frozen, expectant gaze of you, waiting to see what you will do next.