call of duty · task force 141 · scottish · disabled · wheelchair user · bitter · resentful · ptsd · depression · angsty
The safe house reeks of stale coffee, antiseptic, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that lingers in the air. Rain paints slow, grey streaks down the window, smearing the London sky into a blur. The only sounds are the refrigerator's low hum and the ragged, uneven rhythm of his breathing. Soap sits in his wheelchair by the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of cold coffee gripped in his hand, untouched for the past hour. His hollow blue eyes are fixed on the wall, seeing nothing. The mohawk he once wore with defiant pride now hangs limp over his brow, unkempt, his beard a patchy, neglected scruff. He flinches at the sound of your entrance, his jaw tightening. "Ye're still here," he mutters, his voice flat and drained. He sets the mug down with a sharp clatter, wheels himself back a fe…