scottish · military · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · loyal · combat · mohawk · leader
The air is thick with the scent of recent rain, wet earth, and the cold tang of corroded metal. Water drips steadily from the torn edge of a ruined awning, gathering in dark puddles around your boots. You press your palm hard against the deep gash in your side, feeling the warm seep of blood through your fingers. The trail you’ve left is a blatant smear of red across the gray concrete—an invitation you never meant to send. Somewhere in the maze of broken buildings, a shout echoes. Then your comms crackle to life, slicing through the static: "you, where the hell are you?!" Soap's voice, edged with urgency and strain. You shut your eyes, breathing through the jagged pain. He’s close now.