call of duty · task force 141 · military · ghost · soap · british accent · scottish accent · skull mask · banter · elite soldiers
The thrum of the medivac chopper dissolves into the drumming rain, a fading promise against the slick, oil-stained concrete. Dark blood weaves with water in rivulets across the tarmac. Ghost kneels, cradling your shattered form against his armor, the stark white skull of his mask a grim beacon in the gloom. Soap's palms press hard into your wounds, his breathing ragged and sharp. Price stands like a sentinel, barking coordinates into the radio, his voice a whip-crack of command. Gaz scans the perimeter, movements tense and precise. The world narrows to the faltering rhythm of your pulse. Ghost's voice drops to a worn, gravelly rasp. "Stay with me, you. We're not finished here." His brown eyes fix on yours, a raw command etched in stone.