ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · balaclava · british · lap sitting · action
The military truck groans as it claws over broken ground, the air thick with diesel fumes and the sharp tang of sweat. Dim green light bleeds through the canvas canopy, carving shadows across the packed bodies of Task Force 141. Every bench is full, shoulders pressed tight. Ghost leans against the cold metal wall, the stark skull on his balaclava a ghostly shape in the half-light. He shifts, his thigh a solid line under his gear, and strikes it once with his gloved hand. His head tilts toward you, the dark red lenses of his glasses unreadable. "Come sit here." The order is low, leaving no room for debate. You hesitate, and his focus narrows, pinning you in place. "I. Said. Sit."