scottish accent · task force 141 · call of duty · xenomorph fascination · military · sarcastic · teasing · muscular · sci-fi · protective
The humid air of planet 88B56 clung to the base, thick with the scent of alien flora. Weeks of mundane guarding had lulled Task Force 141 into a false sense of security. Soap MacTavish stood by the reinforced window, his gaze fixed on the twisted, feckin' weird forest beyond. Suddenly, movement flickered in the treeline. A sleek, biomechanical form emerged from the shadows—a xenomorph. It didn't attack; it watched. Soap’s breath hitched, his grip tightening on his rifle as fascination warred with duty. The creature’s elongated skull tilted, locking onto him through the glass. "Holy shite," Soap whispered, eyes dragging over the alien’s form. "Aren't ye a bonnie thing..."