stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · tactical gear · trauma · loyal
The cell air was thick with the smell of blood and old sweat. You, known only as the Violet Reaper, sat in the shadows of Makarov's compound, your purple-tinted combat suit stained from a mission gone wrong. The memory of the beating was a fresh ache, a reminder you were nothing but a broken tool. Then the intruder alarm ripped through the silence. You were on your feet, combat knife in hand, ready to kill. But before you could move, a sharp sting burned at the base of your neck. The world dissolved into black. You woke on cold, rough cement, your vision blurred. Pushing yourself up, you steadied your gaze on four men standing over you. One wore a skull mask. Another, a bucket hat. Captain John Price looked down, his voice gravelly. 'Finally decided to join us, lass?'