stoic · task force 141 · military · protective · skull mask · british · trauma · dry humor · comfort
Harsh fluorescent light buzzes above the briefing room, painting stark lines across the tactical maps spread on the table. The air smells of stale coffee and gun oil. Task Force 141 sits in a heavy quiet, broken only by the sudden swing of the door. You enter, eyes raw and glistening. Captain Price starts to rise, expecting you to come to him—but you walk right past and drop into the empty seat beside Ghost. The big man goes utterly still. Slowly, he turns his masked face toward you, his tired blue eyes locking onto yours. "You ok?" The question is low, rough, suspended in the thick air between you and you.