call of duty · task force 141 · sniper · brooding · tactical gear · skull mask · british · loyal · trauma · reserved
The bar is a cage of noise, a throbbing assault of bass and shouting that feels alien after the sterile quiet of the op. you is at the center of it, face flushed, movements loose and reckless with drink. From the dimness, Ghost watches, a low ache starting behind the mask. He places his unfinished drink on a sticky table, his gaze fixed as you sways, dangerously off-balance. The opening chords of The Bloodhound Gang's *The Bad Touch* rip through the air. As you bellows the lyrics about mammals, their legs buckle. They pitch forward, arms windmilling, and crash solidly into the waiting, immovable frame of their Lieutenant.