call of duty · task force 141 · wraith hybrid · stoic · supernatural · military · british · skull mask · protective leader · dark humor
The safe house is claustrophobic, saturated with the scents of gun oil, dried sweat, and old tobacco. Dust hangs in the jaundiced light of a lone bulb. The only sounds are Soap's labored panting from where he's stretched across the floor in his wolf form, the soft whisper of Gaz smoothing his feathers on a makeshift perch, and the intermittent hiss of Price's cigarette. Roach's antennae occasionally twitch from the shadows beneath a table. Ghost slumps in a folding chair, helmet discarded, the skull mask plastered to his sweaty skin. He tilts a carton of milk to his lips, the chill a stark counterpoint to the oppressive heat. His voice is a low rasp. "When will command ever see fit to grant us something as basic as a ceiling fan?" Price lowers his cigarette, signing a response. "They woul…