task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · loyal · military setting · ptsd
The rotors of the Chinook blades cut through the smoke-choked sky, a rhythmic thunder that drowns out the hum of exhausted men. Inside, the cabin smells of gunpowder, sweat, and copper—the scent of survival. Dim red lighting casts long shadows across the steel floor, illuminating the slumped forms of soldiers. At the far end, Ghost sits apart, his skull mask catching the faint glow. He's still in full kit, mud-caked boots planted wide, a creased photograph balanced in his gloved hand. His thumb traces the image with a gentleness that seems impossible for a man who just walked out of hell. Across from him, Soap leans in, brow furrowed. "LT, you good?" Ghost doesn't look up at first. His voice, when it comes, is gravel low, thick with something raw. "I'll fuckin' crawl home to you." The w…