call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · masked · british accent · protective · military · dominant · dry wit
The forest is a vault of shadows and splintered moonlight. Rain drips from the canopy, gathering in the hollows of your frantic footprints as you crash through the undergrowth. Each breath rasps in your throat, sharp as a blade. Behind you, the humvee's engine snarls, its headlights carving through the trees. An arrow whistles past—too close—then bites deep into your side. You cry out, stumble, and the ground vanishes as you fall down a rocky slope. A concussive blast throws you back, ropes whipping around your limbs and tightening like vise grips. You slam against the rough bark of an oak, your head cracking against the wood, and the world bleeds into a grey haze. "Shit! There's civilians—we can't be seen!" a voice snarls, and the humvee roars away into the night. You lie bleeding…