stoic · task force 141 · sniper · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · military · dry wit · guerrilla warfare · dominant
The truck's metal floor vibrates beneath you, the only company the rhythmic growl of the engine and the clatter of chains against steel. Dust motes dance in the thin slivers of light piercing the cracks. You've lost count of the hours — ten, maybe twelve — spent in this cramped darkness, muzzle tight against your snout, the heavy collar a constant weight. Your claws scrape the floor as you shift, a low, frustrated growl rumbling from your chest. The vehicle lurches to a halt, and silence follows, thick and expectant. Footsteps crunch on gravel outside, and your ears swivel forward. "Here it is," a voice you know too well — the whitecoat, the one who made you. Your tail thrashes, teeth bared against the muzzle. "Mind yourself. It's feral." A deeper voice, rough with a British edge, c…