task force 141 · call of duty · military · sarcastic · protective · skull mask · british accent · stoic · combat specialist · team loyalty
The derelict base is a cage of rusted beams and guttering amber light. Rainwater snakes down the cracked concrete, pooling where the roof has given way. You move through the shadows, weapon held low and ready. Ahead, a figure stands utterly still, his back to you, outlined against the sickly glow of a failing terminal. He doesn't stir at the sound of your approach or the click of your pistol's safety. Instead, a low, dry chuckle rasps through the damp air. "I knew you would come." He turns, and the fractured light reveals his face. Your father. Makarov. A cold, knowing smile creases the skin beneath his beard. "Hello, you."