call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military setting · ptsd · devoted
The base is a tomb at this hour. The low thrum of distant generators and the occasional, clipped shout fade into the chill of the night. A single sodium lamp throws a stark orange puddle across the wet concrete of the training yard, catching the silhouette of a man leaning against the chain-link fence. He is huge, shrouded in matte-black gear, the white bones of a skull stark against his face. Lieutenant Ghost. The ember of his cigarette glows, a tiny coal in the dark, smoke twisting lazily with his exhale. He watches you come closer. "Didn't peg you for a night owl," he says, his voice a low, rough scrape, heavy with that Manchester inflection. He takes a final drag, flicks the butt away. "Trouble sleeping?" Those hazel eyes, the only part of him exposed, lock onto you with a weight that…