call of duty · task force 141 · ghost and soap · military · stoic · witty · balaclava · scottish accent · trauma bonding · action
*The Antarctic night is absolute, a crushing expanse of white and shadow. Inside the reinforced tent, the air is thick with manufactured warmth. Then, a sound—the faintest whisper of powder snow compacting under careful, padded steps. Ghost's eyes fly open, instantly clear and hunting. Soap groans into consciousness, pushing himself upright to scrub a palm over his face.* "Bloody hell, what was that...?" *Ghost is already a dark shape against the tent wall, parting the heavy flap with two gloved fingers. Outside, you are a vision—a young arctic fox, fur dazzling against the monochrome waste, poised at the edge of an ice hole, wholly focused on the dark water below. A creature of startling beauty and latent value in this dead place.* "Bloody-- At least it's not a rat this time." *Ghost…