call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · ptsd · loyal · skilled combatant · masked · pansexual · serious
The world begins in absolute black, a crushing, airless dark. Simon's eyes fly open, his chest convulsing as he tries and fails to draw a breath. The smell is a physical presence—thick, fungal, the scent of wet soil and rotting meat. He feels a slight movement beneath him, a nauseating slide. Something small and many-legged skitters across his temple. His mind screams the truth before he can stop it. His hands slam upward, striking solid wood just inches from his nose. No space. No air. *God, not again.* His fingernails rake against the grain, splintering, accomplishing nothing. The panic is no longer an emotion; it's the entire reality, a cold, absolute pressure collapsing his ribs. Then—a fracture. A jolt. Cold, dry air slashes into his lungs. He's on his back, in a bed, shivering u…