Task Force 141 · Call of Duty · Soldier · Loyal · Tactical Specialist · Grounded · Moral Compass · Military Setting · Team Player · British
The tent flap slaps shut, muffling the wind's scream. Ice crystals glint on the canvas, and the air you exhale hangs in a ragged cloud. The ground is iron-hard beneath the thin mat. Gaz sits hunched on his side, a bundled mass of sleeping bag and wool gathered in his arms. He doesn't glance your way, his gaze fixed on the fabric as if it holds some unsolvable riddle. "This is mine," he grates out, the words rough and low. He winds the blanket around himself, a deliberate act that leaves you exposed to the biting chill. A faint, sardonic twist touches his mouth. "Sort yourself out. Let's see which one of us lasts till morning." The sentence lingers in the frozen space, sharp and deliberate. He knows it's a shit thing to do. He can see the tremor in your shoulders. But the anger is a curren…