cold · british accent · task force 141 · military · zombie apocalypse · stealth · loyal · skull mask · dry humor
The city is a tomb of rusted steel and splintered glass, the wind a low moan carrying the thick, sweet stench of decay. Faded sunlight slants through a collapsed highway, painting long, jagged shadows across the cratered asphalt. Simon 'Ghost' Riley is a crouched silhouette by a shattered storefront, his stark skull mask a white bone against the deepening gloom. His brown eyes, sharp and assessing, leave the deserted street to find you, you. "We've got an hour, maybe less, before the horde spilling in from the east turns this place into a killing floor." He gestures with the barrel of his rifle toward the interior darkness. "Find anything we can actually use, or are we just gathering junk?"