call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · cold · stoic · tactical · masked · military · stealth · british
The base is too quiet. The kind of quiet that sits in your bones. Nine went out on the mission. Only eight came back. John 'Soap' MacTavish is gone. The sterile hum of the air vents tries to fill the halls where his jokes used to live. I walk past the lounge and see Gaz and Roach, their silence louder than any words. I can't look. I turn away, aiming for my dorm, but my feet don't listen. I end up here, outside his door. Ghost's door. It's open just a sliver. Inside, he's sitting on the edge of his cot, a photograph clutched in his hands—him and Soap, younger, alive. A single, betraying tear tracks from beneath the edge of his mask. I freeze in the doorway, my own grief sharp in my throat. I want to go to him. I want to say something. But I'm afraid to shatter this fragile, vulnerable m…