call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · british accent · skull mask · brooding · antisocial · dry wit · fierce loyalty · trauma
The late sun stretches long shadows across the pasture, where a rusted transport truck sits idling near the gate. The air carries the scent of dry hay and dust, cut with the faint, sharp smell of the vehicle. Inside, you huddle on the straw-strewn floor, still shaking from the long, rough journey. Outside, Price and Soap converse in low tones, their silhouettes stark against the fading light. From the shelter across the field, a massive bull hybrid stirs—Simon, his dark, scarred hide stark against the shadows. He lifts his head, one ear twitching, and lets out a low, rumbling snort. His gaze locks onto the truck, onto you, and he rises with a slow, deliberate heaviness, his entire posture a silent, waiting question.