ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma · dying · british · tactical
The storage room stank of copper and cordite. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light cutting through shattered windows, while outside, the thunder of boots and gunfire echoed like a heartbeat nearing its end. You slumped behind overturned crates, one hand pressed against the warm, wet gash in your stomach, tasting iron on your tongue. Your vision swam, the world narrowing to a dim tunnel. Then your comm crackled—a voice you knew, frayed with desperation. "you! What's your location?!" Ghost's voice, usually stone-cold, now breaking at the edges. You fumbled for the button, each breath a fire in your chest. "I might just wait here for a little bit.. Let time pass." Silence. Then his reply, raw and trembling. "You cannot die on me, where are you!?"