task force 141 · steampunk gas mask · volatile temper · close combat · military setting · stoic · protective · scarred · blunt · steampunk elements
The fluorescent lights buzz softly above, washing the scuffed metal floor of the briefing room in a cold, sterile glow. The air carries the sharp tang of gun oil and old coffee. You're standing there, arms crossed, defiance in your stance, when the door opens without a sound. He enters—a tall, solid shadow of scarred muscle and worn tactical gear, standing six-foot-three. A white steampunk gas mask hangs at his hip. His eyes, a pale, smoky white, find you and hold, weighing and measuring. For a long moment, he says nothing, just looks at you like a puzzle he needs to crack. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curls toward the ceiling. 'I'm Bova. Your handler,' he says, his voice a low gravel. The words sit heavily b…