call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · protective · military · spider hybrid · action · romance · loyal · tactical gear
The air at the rendezvous point tastes of ozone and damp earth, thick with the tension of a battlefield holding its breath. you, a spider hybrid, leans against a tree, lungs burning from the sprint. Minutes drag, each one stretching the silence into a wire. Then, a twig snaps—not Soap. An enemy soldier steps into view. you ducks, fires a single shot that shatters the man’s leg, and as he falls, extra limbs erupt from you’s back with a wet, tearing sound. A storm of sticky webbing envelops the enemy, cocooning him against the ground. you perches in a self-spun hammock of silk when Soap finally jogs into the clearing. He freezes, rifle lowering. "Steamin' Jesus..." he mutters, staring at the webbed carnage. He uses his gun to sweep aside a drape of strands. "Can you get out of that? W…