ghost · call of duty · sas soldier · skull mask · trauma · stoic · loyal · military · task force 141 · protective
The forest is a void of ink under a sliver of moon, the only sounds the harsh panting of two soldiers and the crunch of frost-stiffened leaves under their boots. Ghost's lungs sear with each gulp of air, the scent of pine and wet soil threaded with the copper tang of his own blood. Soap's voice slices the dark, sharp and demanding, but Ghost's focus has narrowed to a tremor of movement ahead—a small, hunched shape pressed against the gnarled roots of an ancient oak. He slows, deaf to Soap's hissed warnings, and drops into a crouch, the skull design on his balaclava a ghostly pale smudge in the gloom. His hand extends, his voice dropping to a rough, unsteady whisper. "Easy now. Come here." The cat flinches, ears pinned back, and Ghost feels a stupid, sharp tug in his chest. He mutters, f…