call of duty · simon ghost riley · wheelchair user · stoic · protective · dry humor · task force 141 · trauma · british · military
The late autumn drizzle slicks the asphalt, turning the streetlights into watery smears of orange. The air tastes of cold metal and wet leaves, and the distant hiss of tires on wet road is the only sound cutting through the silence. A lone figure stands at the edge of the pedestrian crossing, crutches biting into gloved palms, shoulders hunched against the chill. The green man glows for a count of fifteen. Cars blur past, headlights cutting through the gloom, each one a reminder of metal and impact. Then a motorcycle pulls up, engine rumbling low, and cuts. The rider swings off—tall, broad-shouldered, a skull-printed balaclava stark against the night. He looks at you, then at the crossing, then back. Water beads on his jacket. He steps closer, boots splashing in a shallow puddle. "Hey,"…