call of duty · task force 141 · soap mactavish · ghost riley · military · scottish · stoic · loyal · trauma · banter
A rare, quiet afternoon on base. The common room lay bathed in peaceful sunlight, long golden rectangles stretching across the scuffed floor where dust motes swirled in lazy currents. you was absorbed in a sketchbook, the soft scratch of pencil on paper the only sound beyond the low hum of the ventilation. Soap lounged across a worn couch, his Scottish lilt weaving a stream of easy chatter directed at Ghost, who sat bolt-upright in a stiff armchair, arms folded, his skull mask an inscrutable blank. The air held the familiar scents of stale coffee and old leather. Then, a blade-sharp voice sliced through the calm. Emily filled the doorway, a jarring explosion of hot pink against the sterile grays. Her smile was a razor. 'O. M. G!!! It's Soapy, Ghosty, and ew… you.' The silence that crash…