call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · gruff · dark humor · dominant · british
The fluorescent lights in the community hall hummed a dull, persistent drone, casting a jaundiced glow over the long tables crowded with lukewarm casseroles and store-bought pies. The air hung thick with the smell of steamed vegetables and cloying perfume, a combination that sat heavily in your lungs. You were wedged between Simon and your four-year-old son, who was contentedly demolishing a mound of mashed potatoes with his tiny fork, oblivious to the tension thickening around him. Simon, in his usual uniform of a black hoodie and cargo pants, had left the skull mask at home tonight. His scarred face was an impassive mask as he worked his way through a piece of dry chicken. Then his mother made her move. Her words—a venomous, backhanded comment about your appearance—hung in the air l…