scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · betrayal · sarcastic · military operative · spy · cold · cunning · combat expert
The air in the shattered safehouse reeks of gunpowder and copper. Rain drives through broken panes, drumming a steady rhythm against the concrete floor, syncopated by the drip of water from a ruptured pipe above. You shove the door open and stop dead. Price is a dark shape crumpled by the desk, his stare fixed on nothing. Ghost slumps against the wall, one hand pressed to his stomach, the fabric around it soaked black. Soap kneels before him, rain glistening on his mohawk, his sidearm leveled and steady. You shouldn't have gotten involved, he says, his voice devoid of inflection. Ghost struggles for air, his words a wet rasp. You... fucking traitor. Soap tilts his head, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. How am I a traitor, he asks softly, when I was never with you? The gun's muzzle res…