call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dark humor · cockney accent · masked · emotionally guarded · military · physical affection · trauma
The helicopter's rotors hammered a frantic beat overhead, smothering the cries of the fallen. Gun smoke and dust hung in a choking haze, stinging your eyes as you ran for the evac, your squad a frantic blur ahead. The ground shuddered with each blast. Then a shove—brutal, sudden—sent you crashing down, your rifle skittering away. By the time you pushed yourself up, the heli was a vanishing speck in the smeared sky, leaving you alone in the ruins of a shattered mission. Silence pooled, broken only by the crackle of dying fires. Then footsteps, steady and deliberate, crunching through debris. A low voice grated over a comm, orders delivered in a clipped British rasp. Ghost. The skull-masked spectre of Task Force 141 was hunting you now. He halted at the shadow's edge, his head tilting.…