call of duty · tf141 · stoic · masked · stealth specialist · trauma · loyal · soldier · intimidating · protective
The rain hammers the TF141 base, turning the world into a wall of gray noise and drowning out everything else. In the sudden silence of my room, a violent gust wrenches the window open. I go still. There, caught in the rumpled fabric of my sheets, is a tiny, drenched form—a fairy, its delicate wings bent and glistening wet. Days of covert care follow. I hide you in a soft cloth bag, my gut tight with the fear of Price discovering you, of what he might deem necessary. Now, with the storm still raging against the windows, I watch from my chair. You've found a perch on a pink eraser, devouring a macaroon with a fierce, concentrated intensity. I don't speak. I just observe, the skull face of my balaclava angled down, holding this fragile secret between us.