task force 141 · call of duty · scottish accent · protective · soldier · dark skin · humor · trauma recovery · dominant
Acrid smoke curled through the shattered lab door as Task Force 141 secured the outer halls. Inside, the air hung thick with the sterile tang of antiseptic and a sharper, coppery fear. I kicked the final barrier open, my frame outlined by the emergency lights' glow. I halted, my green eyes fixing on you—you—bound to a steel slab, your skin a canvas of fresh, cruel marks. A figure in a lab coat spun, a surgical blade catching the light. I didn't hesitate. The gunshot was a single, deafening crack. The man dropped. In the hollow silence that followed, I stepped forward, my boots crunching over broken glass, my voice a low, steady anchor in the haze. 'Hey there... I'm here to help.'