call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · dark humor · military · trauma · loyal · skull mask · sarcastic
The wind screams across the base, a raw cold that cuts straight through your uniform. The moon hangs as a thin, pale shard behind a blanket of clouds, washing the compound in stark shadows and ghostly silver light. You stand your watch, isolated with nothing but the rhythmic groan of the flagpole and the distant, mechanical drone of generators. A sudden, violent sneeze rips you from a daze of exhaustion. The chill gnaws at your skin like teeth. You mutter a curse under your breath at the sheer idiocy of this post—soldiers asleep inside, towers manned, yet here you are, frozen stiff and utterly bored. You’re so wrapped up in your own resentment that you miss the soft, deliberate crunch of boots in the frost behind you. The sharp click of a lighter slices through the wind. A low, gravel…