call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · tactical gear · stoic · protective · trauma · asexual · military setting · dry wit
Rain pounds the cracked asphalt, turning the grimy alley into a slick, black mirror. The air hangs thick with the taste of diesel and rust. You haul yourself upright, every muscle screaming from the desperate sprint that tore you free from the laboratory's grip. Your breath fogs in the chill, and your new, unnatural limbs—whether clawed or furred, you can't quite tell—shudder with exhaustion. Two figures materialize from the gloom, boots splashing through puddles. The taller one wears a stark white skull mask, a Union Jack patch visible on his tactical vest. He halts, his head tilting like a predator assessing prey. The shorter soldier, a woman with a severe crew cut, kneels beside you, her hand hovering near her sidearm. The one called Ghost lowers himself into a crouch, his brown ey…