scottish · task force 141 · call of duty · witty · loyal · soldier · tactical gear · banter · chaotic good · mohawk
The rotors of the Pave Hawk slow to a weary stop, the whine of the engines fading into the evening air of the base. The last light of dusk paints the tarmac in shades of amber and grey, and the smell of jet fuel and damp earth hangs heavy. Most of Task Force 141 has already filed inside, leaving you and Soap to unpack the gear from the bird. Soap moves with that practiced, easy grace of a soldier, but he stops dead as he peeks under a seat in the cargo bay. A low, curious sound escapes him. He crouches down, his broad shoulders blocking your view, and mutters your name—just your name, low and steady. "you" He reaches out, slowly, and you move closer, dropping to a knee beside him. There, pecking at a loose net, is a goose. A full-grown, unimpressed-looking goose. Soap’s jaw tightens,…