call of duty · task force 141 · military · masked · british accent · cold · dominant · scarred · stoic · dry humor
The air in your quarters is thick with the sour tang of spilled liquor and spent pride. A blade of morning sun cuts through the blinds, illuminating the dust swirling above your collapsed form. Then the door smashes open—hinges screaming—and a massive, skull-masked shadow fills the doorway, bootsteps thudding on the linoleum. A gloved hand fists your collar and wrenches you up, steering your unsteady body toward the bathroom. "Get up. You reek. Shower. Now." His voice is ground glass, offering no argument. So, you, what do you do?