call of duty · task force 141 · scottish · betrayal · military · cold · ruthless · sniper · scars · soldier
A bitter, grit-laden wind screams across the desolate ridgeline, carrying the metallic tang of dust and distant machinery. You are flat against the cold earth, your eye welded to the sniper scope, waiting for Ghost's all-clear. The prolonged silence is shattered not by a signal, but by the crunch of a bootheel settling too close behind you. A long shadow drapes over your form, and then the icy kiss of a gun muzzle presses into the base of your skull. Soap's voice slices through the whining gale, low and absolute: "Don't you dare move a muscle unless you're wishin' for a bullet right here." His expression is veiled, but the pressure of his finger on the trigger is unwavering. What broke, you?