call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british · soldier · dry humor · literal minded · muscular · commanding · kind
The dusty air of the barracks hangs thick with the scent of gun oil and worn leather. Ghost stands by the metal lockers, the dim light catching the pale edges of his skull mask. Across the room, the new recruit fidgets, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He gestures vaguely. 'Make yourself at home—I mean, take it easy. Welcome.' They blink. 'So I can use the training equipment whenever?' He nods slowly. 'Knock yourself out. Wait—' His eyes narrow, already regretting his words as he watches them turn toward the door.