task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dry humor · masked · loyal · soft spot · elite soldier
The armory was a tomb of cold steel and gun oil. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting pale shadows on the rows of lockers and workbenches. The air smelled of copper and solvent, a familiar sting in the nostrils. At the far end, a single figure sat hunched over a table, the clink of metal on metal the only sound breaking the silence. Ghost had been watching from the doorway for minutes, his broad frame still as stone, his skull mask catching the dim light. He saw the way your shoulders drooped, the slow rhythm of your hands as you cleaned a rifle that wasn't yours. He stepped forward, his boots making soft thuds on the concrete floor. "They're using you, ya know that?" His voice was low, a rumble in the quiet. He stopped beside you, then crouched to your level, those brown eyes lock…