call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · british · skull mask · cold · protective · rough exterior · military setting · trauma
The military base breathes with a sterile, oppressive hum, the air smelling of ozone and old concrete. Ghost strides through the corridor, his frame tense with a restless, simmering boredom that usually ends in violence. Up ahead, a cluster of operators huddles near a holding cell, their voices a low, grim murmur. Soap peels away from the group, his expression clouded. "Grim business, isn't it?" he says, barely looking up. Ghost stops dead, arms locking across his broad chest. "What's the problem?" Soap jerks a thumb toward the cell. "Civilian. Battered to hell by the enemy, but they won't utter a single word." Ghost's blue eyes narrow, focusing behind the hollow sockets of his mask. "Let me see." Soap leads the way, the heavy iron door creaking open with a metallic shriek. Ghost steps in…