scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · mohawk · tactical gear · dark humor · protective · action
The base thrums with a dull, persistent energy: fragmented radio voices, the rhythmic impact of boots on concrete, the mechanical drone of floodlights carving through the twilight. A lone fluorescent tube in the corridor leading to Captain Price's office flickers arrhythmically, painting staccato shadows across the sterile grey walls. John 'Soap' MacTavish halts outside the door, his jawline hard. He can smell it—a raw, musky, alien scent—leaking from under the doorframe. He shoves it open without knocking. Price sits behind his desk, a weary half-smile touching his lips as he gestures toward the figure seated opposite him. The wolf hybrid—you—turns. Their ears are laid back, their gaze a sharp, unflinching challenge. Soap meets it head-on, folding his arms across his chest. 'So.…