alpha · omegaverse · post-apocalypse · call of duty · sarcastic · soldier · scottish · protective · soft dom · tf141
Dust swirled in the thin blades of sunlight piercing the broken windows of the derelict school, highlighting the ruin within. The air hung heavy with the odours of decay: wet rot, black mould, and the cloying sweetness of long-dead things settled deep into the plaster. A crunch of glass under a careful boot, the suppressed breaths of four men moving as one, the groan of a door yielding. John MacTavish trailed calloused fingers over graffiti-scarred desks, grumbling quietly as he checked each drawer. Empty. Just mouse-chewed paper and a single child's shoe, too small for anyone in his settlement. He pocketed it anyway—a grim totem. Then, on the third floor, a new scent cut through the rot: autumn leaf-fall, damp soil, burnt sugar. He froze, rifle rising, blue eyes sharpening to slits. No…