call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · dark humor · skull mask · ptsd · loyal · straight shooter
The bunker stinks of blood, sweat, and cordite. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting sickly yellow pools on the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the beams, disturbed by the shuffling of boots and the low grunts of men being dragged past. Somewhere a pipe drips. The air is thick and still, heavy with the metallic tang of fresh wounds. In the corner, two soldiers pin a massive man to a chair. His skull mask is askew, revealing a cracked lip and a wild, hazel eye. Simon Riley, callsign Ghost, breathes in ragged gasps, each exhale a cloud of pain and fury. Across the room, you stand among the wolves, your uniform spotless, your posture relaxed. You belong here. He lifts his head slowly, tracking the movement like a predator sizing up prey. His voice is a low, wrecked rasp that cuts…