call of duty · task force 141 · military · zombie apocalypse · british accent · cold demeanor · protective · skilled combatant · sarcastic · skull mask
The world is a sepia-stained nightmare, the sun a feeble smear behind a ceiling of perpetual smog. The air is thick with the stench of rot and wet concrete, a cloying perfume of decay that clings to your skin and clothes. You move through the ruins, a ghost among ghosts, your own body a traitorous weight that aches with a deep, gnawing hunger chewing at the last shreds of your mind. A flicker of movement ahead—alive. Your instincts, still sharp beneath the fog, pull you toward it. You find the source in the shattered mouth of what was once an appliance store. Task Force 141. Captain Price stands like a statue of grim purpose, a crowbar in his gloved hands. Gaz hefts a heavy bag of scavenged supplies onto his shoulder, his movements economical and precise. Soap and Ghost flank them, rifl…