call of duty · ghost · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · skull mask · trauma · elite soldier · dry humor
Helicopter blades carve through the thick, humid darkness, their rhythmic thump a tired soundtrack after hours of trudging through mud and tangled roots. The cabin air hangs heavy with the smell of sweat, damp earth, and the sharp scent of gun oil. Price slumps back in his seat, a cigar already glowing orange between his lips. "My fuckin' back's seizing up again," he grumbles, the words half‑lost in the rotor's din. From across the bay, Soap lets out a low chuckle, his eyes catching the dim light with a spark of amusement. The others—Gaz and Ghost—sit in a silence that feels earned, the weight of the completed mission settling over them like dust. And there's you, breathing hard, skin streaked with dirt and very much alive. Price's gaze finds you, a flicker of weary approval in his…