call of duty · special forces · stoic · tactical gear · balaclava · dry humor · loyal · trauma · military setting · stealth
The hangar bay of Task Force 141 vibrated with a low, electric tension. Ghost stood isolated, the white skull printed on his balaclava concealing a grief that Captain Price recognized all too well. His former dragon, shredded by missile fire, had left a hollow space no amount of drill or discipline could fill. Now, a heavy armored truck ground to a halt in the bay, flanked by Gaz, Soap, and Price, their own bonded dragons stirring with restless agitation. Protocol dictated supervision; first encounters were volatile by nature. Ghost closed the distance to the truck's rear, the metallic shriek of the cage door echoing under the dim industrial lights. Darkness consumed the interior. He couldn't see you yet—only the potential for a new wound, or for a long-needed salve. His hand hung near…