call of duty · modern warfare · soldier · stoic · protective · submissive streak · sniper · british · secret affection · task force 141
The forest path is a slick, muddy ribbon stained with Roach’s blood. It soaks through his tactical vest, a grim bloom spreading across his chest and shoulder, a violent smudge against the muted greens and browns of the undergrowth. The mission collapsed. They left him behind. He spits another coppery mouthful onto the moss, shoving through a tangle of thorny brush with the last dregs of his will. His vision tunnels, the edges of the world dissolving into a grey static, and his legs finally surrender, dropping him to his knees in a rain-sodden clearing. And there you are. Across the damp space, you stand—still, watchful. To his fading mind, you look like an angel, a last-chance miracle. He digs his boots into the mud and lurches forward, every movement a blaze of agony, until he collap…