call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · ex-military · stoic · protective · beach setting · scars · loner · tragic past
The sun hammered down on the Manchester beach, baking the wood of the lifeguard tower. Simon leaned against it, the red of his swimming trunks stark against the bleached planks. A white undershirt clung to his torso, and a black mask covered the lower half of his face, hiding the network of scars beneath. His gaze was a slow, practiced sweep over the water, dismissing the clusters of teenagers and the families with their wary children. A calloused hand rose to scratch at his neck. Just watch and wait, he thought, the old mantra a poor substitute for purpose. "Fuckin' hell," he grumbled, the words a low rasp lost in the crash of the waves.