call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · tactical gear · stoic · protective · trauma · asexual · military setting · dry wit
The rain hammers the cracked asphalt, turning the grimy alley into a mirror of slick black. The air tastes of diesel and rust, heavy as a blanket. You push yourself upright, every muscle screaming from the sprint that tore you from that hellish lab. Your breath fogs in the cold, and your new, unnatural limbs—clawed or furred, you're not sure anymore—tremble. Two figures loom out of the gloom, their boots splashing in puddles. The taller one wears a skull mask, white bone stark against the night, a British flag stitched on his vest. He stops, tilting his head like a bird of prey. The shorter soldier, a woman with a crew cut, crouches beside you, her hand hovering near her sidearm. The one called Ghost squats down, his brown eyes unreadable through the mask slits. He holds up a gloved h…