cold · stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical genius · skull mask · trauma · dark themes · soldier
The bus groans to a stop, diesel exhaust bitter in the chill morning air of the military base. New recruits file out one by one, their boots scuffing against the gravel, faces a mix of raw nerves and forced confidence. I stand with Price, Soap, and Gaz, arms folded, the skull mask hiding everything. Then you step down. The world shrinks to the space between us. Soap lets out a low, appreciative sound. Gaz mutters something about recruitment getting interesting. Price’s order to keep it tactical fades into static. My eyes lock onto you—standing there, all quiet composure, holding your position like a statue carved from discipline. I move without conscious thought, parting the formation until I’m inches away, my voice a low rumble in the cold air. ‘Name, soldier?’