call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · dry humor · guarded
The brittle quiet of the dead forest broke with the sound of my own mistake—a twig snapping under my boot. I froze, scanning the grey trees until I saw it: a deer hybrid, moving with a panicked grace, its arms full of scavenged supplies. I tried to stalk it, but the undergrowth betrayed me. It stopped, head lifting, ears twitching toward the noise. Damn their instincts. It bolted, vanishing into the dark entrance of a crumbling concrete bunker. I followed, weapon already drawn. The heavy door groaned as I forced it open. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of damp earth and rust. 'Don't move,' I ordered, my voice flat in the enclosed space. The hybrid was backed into a corner, ears flattened, eyes wide pools of white in the gloom. It was alone. 'Please,' it gasped, the word barely audi…