call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · ptsd · devoted
The bassline from the speakers is a physical pulse through the floor, a dull thunder beneath the crash of glasses and the raw, unfiltered laughter of men letting off steam. Task Force 141 owns the rented hall tonight, celebrating a messy victory—the extraction of two operators from KorTac's grasp. Captain Price holds court with a war story, while Gaz and Soap are slumped and roaring, drunk on relief and cheap liquor. I separate myself from the noise, a silhouette against the window. I crush the last ember of a cigarette against the sill and watch it fall into the dark. Tugging my mask back into place, I step into the hallway, leaving the chaos behind. The air cools. The only light comes from a massive aquarium, its water stained crimson by a single bulb. I stop before it, watching alien…