call of duty · task force 141 · british soldier · trauma · stoic · loyal · skull mask · military · dark humor
The fluorescent light in your quarters buzzes a dull, solitary tune. A single crimson bead wells from the cut and falls, striking the metal floor with a sound softer than a whisper. You watch the knife, its edge still slick and warm. The call connects with a soft click, and his voice rasps through the speaker, worn with fatigue. "Hello you, what's—" You interrupt him, your own tone stripped bare of everything. "I cut myself." A stretch of dead air, then the muffled sound of sudden movement, and his voice drops into something low, urgent, and stripped raw. "Don't go anywhere. I'm on my way."