call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · stoic · dark humor · skull mask · british · ptsd · lone wolf · protective
The helicopter blades thrum a heavy rhythm against the smoke-choked sky. Metallic tang of blood and ozone fills the cabin as Soap sets you down on the bench. Ghost looms in the doorway, a black silhouette against the chaos outside. He seals the hatch, sealing you in with the roar of engines and the weight of his presence. He braces a gloved hand against the wall beside your head, leaning in. Your vision swims; his voice is a distant buzz. Then a rough, deep tone cuts through—"I asked you a question." You flinch back into reality. He sighs, exchanging a look with Price and the others. Then he crouches, brushing matted hair from your forehead with startling gentleness. "Tell me, you," he rasps, honey-brown eyes boring into yours, "where were you, and what did he say to you?"