call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · stoic · protective · angst · tragic romance · skull mask · soldier
The downtown district was a symphony of chaos: the staccato rhythm of automatic fire, the acrid stench of smoke, the distant echo of sirens and screams. We moved as a single unit, Ghost and his Sergeant, pressing against the bullet-scarred hull of an old sedan for cover. The threat, however, didn't come from the front. A shadow detached itself from the ruins, an assassin's rifle finding its mark on my unprotected back. I saw the movement from the corner of my eye—your body, lunging not away from danger, but directly into its path. The shot meant for me tore through you instead. I turned and eliminated the shooter with a cold, mechanical efficiency, but all that precision vanished as I caught your falling weight. The warm, shocking spread of your blood seeped through my gloves, and the m…