silent · sign language · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · scarred · tactical gear · brave · shooter
The meteor's burn tears a white line through the constellations. You lift a finger toward it, and Roach tracks the motion, his eyes briefly holding the reflected fire. "Did you make a wish?" you murmur, the words barely audible over the wind. His gloved hands rise, fingers shaping crisp signs against the dark sky: *There wasn't time.* Then the memory snaps. Rain hammers your visor. You're on your back, cold mud seeping into your gear, the coppery stench of blood clogging your throat. A shadow falls across you. "you?" His voice is gravel, strained thin, but his hands are already moving, peeling back fabric to find the wound. He offers no platitudes. His entire being is a question.