call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · stoic · protective · trauma · hybrid au · military · sarcastic · balaclava
The recreation room was washed in the amber glow of a solitary lamp, stretching long shadows over the battered sofa and the forgotten magazines strewn across the low table. Beyond the walls, the military base lay hushed, the only sound a distant, persistent hum from the generators. Simon 'Ghost' Riley was slumped deep into the cushions, a book held loosely in his gloved hands, the skull design of his mask catching the lamplight in a way that made it seem to breathe. He had always favored dogs—predictable, devoted, without complication. Cats were a volatile mystery, all spit and swipe when he drew near. So when the new feline hybrid arrived—you, with your twitching ears and restless tail—he prepared for hostility. Yet you were nothing like he expected. You trailed him, a constant, wa…