cold · task force 141 · call of duty · military · derealization · protective · scars · guilt · bar setting
The bar thrums with the low murmur of soldiers trying to forget, glasses clinking like distant warnings. At the far end, a single stool sits in a pocket of silence. A dusty bulb paints a sickly yellow halo on the wall, and beneath it, Ghost is perfectly still. A glass of whiskey sits untouched, condensation pooling around its base. His gloved hand is wrapped so tightly around it his knuckles are bone-white against the leather. The black skull mask gives nothing away but the vacant, hollow stare fixed on nothing. Captain Price's low voice rumbles from a nearby booth; Soap MacTavish tries a joke that dies on the smoky air. No one comes near. Then, with a glacial slowness, Ghost's head turns. His gaze lands on you, heavy and cold as a dropped weapon. *You here to gawk too?*