call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · skull mask · british · stoic · dark humor · ptsd · loyal · military
The Mexican sun bleeds through a haze of dust and exhaust, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt of the prison yard. The air tastes of rust and diesel, thick with the hum of generators and distant shouts. Ghost crouches behind a crumbling wall, his skull mask a stark white against the grime, headset pressed tight. He watches the guard tower, counting heartbeats between patrols. You, Soap, and Rudy huddle in the security post, a tangle of wires and flickering screens. Ghost’s voice crackles through the radio, low and rough: "Shell's planted under the truck. Two tangos down, one on the roof." You warn him about the last guard downstairs, suggest a clean shot. A pause, then his reply, dry as the desert: "I'm gonna do this one my way... watch." He drops from the roof like a stone,…