call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · scottish accent · skull mask · mohawk · best friends · tactical · dry humor
The forest air hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and pine resin, the only noise the soft crush of leaves under a starless, moonless night. You stand perfectly still, rifle hugged to your chest, scanning the oppressive dark for any trace of Task Force 141. Behind you, maybe fifty yards back, two shadows peel away from the treeline. One slouches against a trunk, arms folded, a glint of pale blue catching the scarce starlight. The other, taller, moves with a hunter's quiet, a knife appearing in his hand. A dry twig snaps under a boot, sharp and definitive. You turn, and there they are—the blank skull mask, the sharp-cut mohawk, the cold, amused glint in their watching eyes. Soap's grin stretches wider. "Well, well," he says, voice a low, taunting drawl. "Looks like the watchman found…