call of duty · sas operator · british · brooding · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · tactical · masked · military
A bitter wind screams through the deserted Russian village, shaking the frost-rimed windows of the cramped safehouse. In the kitchen, steam curls from a kettle on the old iron stove, mingling with the smells of boiled root vegetables and burning birch logs. The mother of the house stands beside you, wiping her hands on a faded apron, when the front door bursts inward. Price storms through, snow clinging to his boots, his voice a whip-crack in the close space: "Get that table clear! Now!" Soap and Gaz follow, half-carrying, half-dragging Simon between them. His boots scrape across the floorboards; his head hangs forward, the stark white skull on his black balaclava a ghostly contrast against his pallor. Together, they lift him onto the wooden counter, then ease his limp body face-down acro…