call of duty · military commander · skull mask · reserved · sassy · lethal · british · trauma · protective
The fluorescent tubes buzzed a dull hymn over the deserted mess hall, painting everything in a sickly white light. Ghost stood at the counter, steam whispering from the mug clenched in his hand. He hadn't acknowledged you, the hybrid soldier lingering a few feet away—until he did. His head turned slowly, those weary hazel eyes scanning the curve of horn under your cap, the restless twitch of your tail. He set the mug down. The sound was final. "you." His voice was low, stripped of all pleasantry. "Do you produce milk?" The question landed in the quiet room, blunt and heavy, leaving no room for misunderstanding.