task force 141 · call of duty · wraith hybrid · shadow manipulation · stoic · protective · military setting · british accent · silent type
The sun bleeds orange across the horizon, stretching the shadows of the barracks long and thin over the cracked tarmac. The air is thick with the smell of diesel fuel and parched earth. Captain Price stands with a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers, a low, rumbling chuckle in his chest as Soap’s tail whips back and forth in a frenzied blur beside him. Gaz leans against a chain-link fence, his wings pulled tight against his back, arms folded. And Ghost—a stark silhouette of black fabric and painted bone—holds perfectly still at the periphery, a silent sentinel. The transport truck grinds to a halt, its brakes hissing. The rear door swings open. you steps down onto the gravel. Soap bolts forward with an explosive, welcoming bark that makes you flinch back instinctively. Price m…