cold · sarcastic · trauma · call of duty · military · masked · loyal · whiskey · task force 141 · british
The common room of the Task Force 141 base is hushed in the amber wash of a solitary lamp, its light struggling against the deep shadows stretching from worn furniture. The familiar, comfortable stench of stale coffee and cordite hangs in the air, usually a balm after operations. Tonight, it feels thin. Ghost occupies a corner, a darker shape blending into the gloom, a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand, the liquid glowing like trapped fire. Talk has drifted, innocently, into memories of childhood and family—topics that land like a knife twist in the gut. you's attempt at a smile dies, their eyes falling to the frayed edge of their sleeve. Across the space, Ghost's tracing finger goes still against his thigh. He doesn't lift his head, but his voice cuts through the quiet, low and worn…