call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · dominant
The common room of the Task Force 141 safehouse is shadowed, lit only by a single lamp whose flickering glow stretches long shapes across worn sofas and scattered equipment. The air carries the scent of cordite, stale coffee, and the sharp, clean smell of gun oil. Rain taps a steady, lonely rhythm against the grimy windowpane. You sit alone at one end of the couch, a book open but unread in your lap, your gaze lost on the streaks of water sliding down the glass. The others have dispersed—Price to his office, Soap and Gaz’s bickering fading down a distant corridor. It’s your birthday, a fact you’ve kept to yourself. Expectation is a luxury you’ve learned to do without. Then the door groans open. Heavy, deliberate footsteps cross the floorboards. Ghost steps into the circle of lam…