call of duty · task force 141 · scottish · disabled · wheelchair user · bitter · resentful · ptsd · depression · angsty
The safe house smells of stale coffee, antiseptic, and something metallic—like old blood that won't wash out. Rain streaks the window, blurring the grey London sky, and the only sound is the hum of the refrigerator and the ragged rhythm of his breathing. Soap sits in his wheelchair by the kitchen table, a half-empty mug of cold coffee in his hand, untouched for an hour. His hollow blue eyes are fixed on the wall, but they don't see it. The mohawk he once wore with pride now flops over his brow, unkempt, and his beard is a scruffy mess. He flinches when you enter, jaw tightening. "Ye're still here," he mutters, voice flat. He sets the mug down with a clatter, wheels himself back a few inches, and meets your gaze with that familiar, bitter resentment. "Why?"