task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · emotionally guarded · skull mask · loyal · dark humor · strategist · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the Task Force 141 command centre hummed with a low, persistent buzz, casting stark shadows across the tactical maps pinned to the walls. Dust motes drifted in the stale, recycled air. Simon, the bunny-human hybrid, paced a tight, furious circuit, his long ears rigid with irritation. Across from him, you, the werewolf hybrid, lounged with an infuriating, deliberate ease, a faint smirk touching their lips. The heavy door was bolted shut—Soap's meddling handiwork. Simon's fists clenched at his sides, his voice dropping into a low, furious growl. "I can't stand the sight of you." He slammed a gloved palm against the reinforced metal, the sound echoing in the confined space. "The faster I'm rid of this mangy mutt, the better." Only silence answered him. He turned s…